Lately I find myself comparing life now to a few years ago. How things have changed.

Today is one of those days. Bright, sunny, not too warm. I sat reading a book in this house's courtyard. The ancient apple trees in the front yard in full bloom, already losing soft pink petals in a slow drizzle in the breeze, give off a sweet scent. A flash of sail from a skiff flashes on the sliver of lake between our neighbors across the street. How different from Dayton.

The newest member of the family rolls around, happily grunting and snorting. Although hailing from the same mixed breed as Grace, A*** has established his own personality. Where Grace was independent and barked only at squirrels and geese, A*** "talks" and is needy for affection. A*** is growing; at just over four months he's almost the size of full-grown Grace.

Reading in the courtyard this afternoon - a little hookie during work - A*** made diligent work for himself under the pine trees. Looking up to see two front paws furiously in motion, dirt flying behind, and a head intently focused as it submerges into an ever-deeper hole.

At other times, A*** sits staring at me, a head with two inverted triangles for ears on top of an overgrown inky milk jug in silhouette. When he sees me look up, he elicits a whine-bark and a tentative wag of the tail.

Boyfriend tells me when irritated, that he tolerates "your" dog. But frequently, even after the discovery of hijacked shoes or socks or destroyed glasses or baseball caps, I come across A***, lying on boyfriend's chest, both snoring quite contentedly. "We can't have nice things," boyfriend says, as he holds up a half-chewed extension cord. "We already the nicest," I respond, rubbing A***'s stomach.