No, you may not call me "Grandma"

What do a cross-eyed Chihuahua and a high-strung Schnoodle have in common? The same Gr-r-r-ma.

Seven years ago, a lucky puppy was born; he was adopted by a loving family who traveled more than 1,500 miles to collect him and take him home. My daughter's Schnoodle, Telford (called Telly for short) is adorable in a classic terrier kind of way--whiskery and bright-eyed, with the chronic look of old-man wisdom.

A year ago, along came the cross-eyed Toby, severely abused and deemed nearly unadoptable by the rescue group that was frantically trying to place him before his own personal doomsday arrived. Enter Daughter, a loving woman who was open to a new family dynamic, and a sucker for this needy, tiny whirlwind with--believe it or not--blue eyes that cross at the very moment he tries to look serious.

Telly and Toby dearly love each other, creating lots of laughter and dust, as they playfully romp through the house. I am a firsthand witness to their rough and tumble play today. Their style of play reminds me of my sons' play about forty years ago.

I refuse to be called "Grandma" by dogs--whether or not they belong to a child of mine, so soon after Telly's arrival, I coined "Gr-r-r-ma" as my dog-relation name. Hubby quickly became Gr-r-r-pa. Now my daughter can say, "Be good for Gr-r-r-ma and Gr-r-r-pa," when she leaves for work, and we all know what she means. Well, at least the Gr-r-r part. In a forthcoming post I will put pictures of the gr-r-r-pups on the blog, but today I am without camera.