Dearest Leo,
Yesterday marked the one year anniversary of the day you came home with us. It was slightly over-shadowed by Zoe's homecoming. (I forgot until about 10 pm.) I wanted to mark this occasion, not with urine, as you are so fond of doing, but with a letter.
You came home a three pound little peanut of a thing. I, frankly, doubted the longevity of your life in this family of graceless, klutzy people. In a year, you've tripled in size and learned to dodge and weave.
You steal my blankets, socks, and snacks.
You hog the bed.
You refuse to allow snuggles that don't place you smack in the middle. You bark at your 'dad' when he hugs me. You bite Zoe's feet and toes when she tries to lay down next to me.
You chew on shoes.
You sometimes get so busy harassing the cats that you forget to go to the bathroom when you're outside, until you've come back in and no one is looking.
You don't like rain, thunder, lightening, snow, or cold temperatures.
You chewed through TWO gates that were designed to keep you in the pantry. It's a four foot by six foot space of your very own. We've put sweaters and blankets and towels along with you, toys to keep you company, food and fresh water, and still, in some Shawshank Redemption-esque effort, you tunneled your way out of there.
You make every effort to knock over the garbage and eat it, despite your bowl of dog food and the seventeen different kinds of treats that we provide for you.
You sometimes chase birds out into the road. Last week, at 8am, you were a quarter of a mile from the house on your way into the cornfield across the road, and there I was, behind you, still in my pajamas, flip-flops on my feet, with my 'just out of bed' hair, trudging through the ditch while the whole of Saunders County drove by. You see, you were hidden, so all the passing cars could see was a disheveled looking woman, talking to herself and calling out to no one, "Let's go get a treat!" When you finally decided to follow me home, I was so angry, I blocked you in the pantry. Five minutes later, you jumped up on the bed next to me and promptly laid your head on my lap and fell asleep. I forgot about the holes in the gates.
You tore holes in the window blinds at the foot of the bed because you like to lay there and look out the window at the yard.
You bark in the middle of the night at things I can not see, and then you dive under the covers when I go to investigate. Remember the time you hid under the bathtub and it took me 15 minutes to convince you to come out? At 2am?
You sometimes have dreams in the middle of the night that wake me up. I don't know anything about dog dreams, but on the off chance that you're having a nightmare, I wake you up. And you act all haughty because *I* disturbed *you*.
You love to go for rides, but you're scared of the window being rolled down.
You develop a severe case of AD/HD when we have company.
At one point in time, every single member of this family has used the phrase, "I can't get up, the dog is sleeping on me".
You take my side in every argument that I have. Never questioning who is right or wrong, you just follow me around, making sure I understand that you're on my side.
You've laid next to me when I was sick, looking at me like you were just as miserable as I was.
You keep me from being lonely.
You are happy to see me when I come home, whether I've been gone five minutes or five hours.
The last year of our lives has been fuller, funnier, and more interesting because of you.
We (I) named you for Leonidas of Sparta, from the movie 300. At one point in the movie, the Spartan King Leonidas says, "In the end, a Spartan's true strength is the warrior next to him. So give respect and honor to him, and it will be returned to you." Respect and honor, Leo. I'd say we're about even.
