Last week I saw an interesting post on Facebook titled: “Seeking Kelowna, BC Firefighter named Brent.”

The 300 word post was written by a man named Tom Argall from Brampton, Ontario. He explained that his mother had just been visiting Kelowna and had tripped on a bit of raised sidewalk, falling hard, breaking her arm and bruising her face. Luckily an off-duty firefighter was driving by, stopped and came to her rescue.

Tom ended his post with this:

“I want to thank Brent. I’m over two thousand miles away and I don’t know his last name, but I’m appealing to the six degrees of Facebook to send the message. If you are reading this and you know a Kelowna, B.C. firefighter named Brent, please thank him for me. Shake his hand, hug him, buy him a beer, whatever your preferred expression of gratitude may be. Last Wednesday, wherever he was going, whatever he had planned for the day, whatever was happening in his own life was suddenly irrelevant and secondary to him because a total stranger needed help. We need more people like that in the world.”

He posted his two paragraphs on Facebook a week after the accident on May 1^st. Before going to bed that night he was pleasantly surprised it had already been shared by 99 people. When he awoke in the morning he was amazed it had been shared over 250 times. By May 3rd, his request had been shared by a whopping  2400 people, and within an hour of me sharing it, Brent’s last name was revealed as Beselt.

But Tom already knew that, because, by then, he’d received a message from the man he was looking for.

“I’m not on Facebook,” Brent said. “So I sent him a note through my wife’s account after being asked by so many people if it was me. Even friends from Spain and Saskatchewan contacted us about his post. It was crazy. I was just doing what anybody would have done.”

Tom was happy to hear from him. “I read his message to my mom and she cried,” he said. “In a good way.”

The 77 year old, now in a cast and recuperating nicely, was incredibly appreciative and touched by the kindness of a stranger. Not just one stranger, but many.

A nurse had also stopped to help, and then later visited her in the hospital. There were others that offered assistance too.  And now over 2700 people on Facebook have shared a simple request of a son wanting to thank a stranger for helping his beloved mother.

“Brent was a real hero,” Tom said. “ But so was everyone that helped. I’m very grateful to them all.”

Human decency is alive and well in the world, and there are millions of examples of it being displayed every day. Unfortunately It’s the crazy, negative and tragic stories that get most of the press, which can give the impression we shouldn’t expect kindness and compassion from strangers. We should.

The vast majority of us human beings are more loving than we think. Let’s open our eyes, and hearts, to that.

And if anyone knows the nurse named Kim from Kelowna General Hospital who helped Tom’s mom, please let me know. He’d really  like to say thanks.

Lori Welbourne is a syndicated columnist. She can be reached at LoriWelbourne.com

I struggle with depression and anxiety. Funny that someone with these issues would be writing a column called “On a Brighter Note,” right? Well, it’s ironic at least.

“What do you have to be depressed about?” I was asked in my youth. “Your life could be so much worse.”

Firstly, no kidding. Secondly, that sentiment is probably a big reason why most of us struggling with bouts of depression, or other similar conditions, tend to suppress our feelings rather than discuss or deal with them head-on.

When I was a child and I felt the black cloud of emotional gloom hovering over my head, I would try to shame myself out of those moods by comparing my life to the lives of starving children in third world countries. I rarely talked about my feelings and I learned that a smile, even a fake smile, was what the world wanted to see.

When I grew older I started writing out my feelings, particularly my darkest ones, since that seemed to help me escape my funk. I can’t tell you how often I’ve typed away with tears streaming down my face. Sometimes I could even envision the black cloud above me start to dissipate.

The other thing I’d do is people-watch. Who among us hasn’t felt joy and sorrow, love and loss, success and failure? Observing others and reminding myself of that fact has helped me to feel less alone in my own troubles. Even the smiling, happy faces that look like they haven’t got a care in the world obviously do, or will in the future. None of us gets out of this world unscathed.

I started writing this column because I wanted to share my experiences and life from a positive perspective. I believed that no matter what my circumstance, happiness is just a mindset, and I could either choose to be happy, or to be miserable, and it was a choice I’d have to make daily. I still believe that, and I’d like to be able to report that I’ve always chosen radiant sunshine, but I haven’t. On some days, I just let it rain.

Feelings are feelings and sometimes we can control them, and sometimes we can’t, even when we have loving friends and family to support us.

Recently I decided I needed some professional help. Even as I write this I feel slightly ashamed that I couldn’t just figure it out by myself. But I couldn’t, so I’m doing what I felt I needed to do. If that makes me seem weak, I’m okay with that.

When I first started writing this column four years ago, my mother-in-law asked my husband why anyone would want to read about my life. She didn’t mean it in a negative way, she was genuinely perplexed as to why complete strangers would be interested.

But I guess it’s comparable to my affinity for people-watching. Most of us are naturally curious about other people and that’s why we read, watch or listen to stories about others. It can help us feel less alone in the world, it can help us figure out how to deal with the vast array of emotions we all have, and it can give us the courage to reach out for help when we need it.

On a brighter note, I’ll keep looking for the silver linings. All the clouds have them, as you know.

Lori Welbourne is a syndicated columnist. She can be reached at LoriWelbourne.com

Looking through old photos from when my kids were young, I’m hard-pressed to find very many of myself in there. The reason for this is because I was too busy being the photographer and I would forget to hand the camera over to someone else. The other reason is that I typically didn’t feel presentable and preferred being behind the lens rather than in front of it.

On the rare occasion that I thought I looked good enough, and I actually remembered to ask, my husband would snap a few. Unfortunately, I didn’t keep many of the pictures he took because I’d invariably find fault with my appearance and throw them out.

Good grief. I kick myself for that now. It shouldn’t have mattered how I looked. Photographs of me, especially with my children, are important.

“There’s hardly any of you,” Sam and Daisy have complained when looking through our scrapbooks and photo boxes. I know exactly how they feel since I’ve felt the same way about the lack of pictures of my mother.

But it’s our own fault. Like my grandmothers, we were too self-conscious to pose, and we probably didn’t want to waste money getting photos developed that would just wind up in the garbage.

When I first met my husband he’d attempt to take my picture, but he was rarely successful. Trying to get snapshots of someone who is uncooperative and camera-shy gets tiresome. Thank goodness for my mother-in-law who obviously didn’t care and knew better.

Perusing her photo albums is an entirely different experience because there aren’t just prints of my husband and our kids, there are actually some of me in there too.  Even pre-parenthood pictures, which Sam and Daisy love.

“Is that you?” my nine-year-old daughter asked, pointing to an image of me from 19 years earlier when I first started dating their daddy. “You look so young, Mama.”

I did look young. Young and thin. Ironically I didn’t want to get my picture taken back then because I felt too plump. What was I thinking?

It’s obvious looking through her album that my size fluctuated dramatically over time, particularly during the first few years after my kids were born and I wasn’t quick to lose the extra baby weight. But seeing photos of me with my children at various stages of their lives, no matter how I looked, isn’t just a treat for them, it’s a treat for me as well.

Since turning 40 I haven’t objected to getting my picture taken like I used to. It’s not that I think I’ve become more photogenic, I just care more about capturing moments and less about looking perfect.

I still feel like I should be doing way more of it though. My brother has always snapped a ton of his family, and I’ve noticed my dad doing the same as he’s become more sentimental. I need to follow their lead.

In this digital age we can take an unlimited number of pictures and not worry about getting rolls of photos developed and ending up with a bunch we don’t want. Now when we have images printed, we can hand-pick exactly what we want and save or trash the rest. There’s no such thing as taking too many pictures anymore.

There also should be no such thing as waiting to look perfect. That kind of attitude might work in the modeling world, but in the real world where memories matter, it doesn’t make sense.

Lori Welbourne is a syndicated columnist. She can be contacted at LoriWelbourne.com

My friend just invented a great little product that, at first glance, seems insignificant.

Handing me two tiny pieces of clear flexible plastic that looked like drinking glasses for Barbie and Ken, she demonstrated their actual purpose by slipping them onto the heels of her stilettos.

“Now Bob won’t insist we take our shoes off in the house,” she said, referring to her husband’s desire to protect their hardwood flooring. Smart. I can’t stand taking my shoes off and ruining my party outfit.

“They also solve the problem of walking on grass,” she said excitedly. “Like at a garden wedding.” Smart again. I’ve sunk into the soft ground a few times myself. It wasn’t graceful.

With a patent pending, Dana’s “Heelio Dealios” are quickly becoming a hit at wedding shows and shoe stores where their usefulness is recognized immediately.

“I’m pretty clutzy,” one fashionable young lady told me. “I wear them to keep from slipping.”

Armed with a little pair of my own, I went home and put them on the beautiful high heels I wore to my friend’s outdoor wedding last year. I first had to clean off some of the dried-up mucky grass still stuck to the bottom, but once I did, my new additions fit like a glove.

After trying the caps on a few other pairs, it became obvious that I owned a lot of shoes that I barely wore. Some of them still had price tags attached – yet a layer of dust over them. What a waste.

Grabbing a large bin, I started filling it with all the shoes I knew would be much better used and appreciated by someone other than me. It was hard to part with them initially, but anything that didn’t fit my feet comfortably or wasn’t something I had worn in the last year was thrown in the bin. My feelings of guilt over rarely wearing them were quickly replaced with feelings of relief than someone would.

I then asked my husband and kids to do the same with their shoes so we could donate them to the charity “Soles 4 Souls,” which has drop boxes all over BC, Canada and the United States.

I first heard about this organization through my friend Don Robichaud, who passed away suddenly five weeks ago. He was passionate about the project and became heavily involved when his friend Jim Belshaw, the owner of Roy’s Shoes, wanted to introduce “Soles 4 Souls” to Kelowna. Hoping to collect a couple of thousand pairs of shoes to donate after the earthquake in Haiti, they ended up collecting over 45,000 pairs their very first year. Since then their team has collected 300,000 pairs locally, and the organization’s goal is to now collect a million shoes per province all across Canada.

“People like this charity because anyone can participate,” Jim said. “And the local agencies get first crack at the donations before they’re shipped overseas, so we’re helping out at home as well.”

Catering to people who might not even own one pair of shoes, I felt hesitant about donating my frivolous high heels. But after learning that all types were needed, I knew they’d end up in good hands, and on good feet. That made me happy. Who knows – maybe someone will wear a pair of my pretty pumps to a job interview.

As a bonus I attached a pair of Heelio Deadlio’s inside the stilettos – just in case their new owner ends up walking on hardwood floors or soft green grass after they land a really great job.

Drop box locations and info: Soles4SoulsCanada.com. Info for stiletto caps: HeelioDealios.com

Lori Welbourne is a syndicated columnist. She can be contacted at LoriWelbourne.com

My nine-year-old daughter came home last week and said we needed to buy a baby gift for a teacher at her school.

“His name is Ikea,” Daisy said excitedly.

“Whose name is Ikea?” I asked, not knowing if she was referring to the teacher or the infant.

“Mr. Verstraete’s baby,” she said. “He’s a boy!”

“Ikea?” I asked. “Are you sure his name’s Ikea?”

“Yes, of course,” she responded, as though I was nuts for asking.

But I guess anything goes nowadays when it comes to names. I shouldn’t have been surprised about a child sharing the same moniker as a Swedish store, particularly after reading in the news that someone named their baby Hashtag, inspired by a commonly-used social media symbol.

And who am I to judge? Once upon a time I was considered weird for the name I had chosen for my firstborn.

“Buster is a dog’s name,” I was scolded countless times during my pregnancy when I made the mistake of sharing the name I’d picked out. So what, I thought. It was also the name of a famous actor and an even more famous shoe.

I absolutely loved the name Buster. It was fun and strong and it had character. I wasn’t about to let the opinions of others change my mind. Except there was one opinion that kind of mattered: that of Buster’s dear old dad.

“Let’s think of a few other options and pick one once he’s born,” Paul reasoned. Fine, I thought. He’ll fall in love with the name by then for sure.

But when our beautiful baby boy arrived with his spiky, blonde hair he didn’t look like a Buster to either of us. He looked like a Sam, so that’s what we called him.

“Buster would have been fine,” my friend, who’s a teacher, said about my original choice. “It’s all the purposely misspelled and hard-to-pronounce names that drive me crazy.”

Like Quvenzhane?

My daughter and I recently saw the movie Beasts of the Southern Wild with Quvenzhane Wallis, the youngest Oscar-nominated actor in history, and we immediately nicknamed her Q. It just seemed easier.

If anyone’s to blame for names getting stranger and more unique as the years go by, let’s blame the celebrities.  I mean, really – who was naming their kids anything all that bizarre before Frank Zappa introduced his children Dweezil, Moon Unit, Ahmet and Diva Thin Muffin to the world?

At the time, people were horrified. Since then, many celebrities have followed suit and it’s become the norm in Hollywood.

Names like Alcamy, Apple, Banjo, Bingham, Blue Angel, Blue Ivy, Destry, Exton, Fifi Trixibelle, Jermajesty, Kal-El, Kyd, Maddox, Memphis Eve, Moses, Ocean, Pilot Inspektor, Rocket, Rumer, Seargeoh and the list goes on. Heck, actor Rob Morrow named his child Tu. How would you like to have the name Tu Morrow?

With websites out there dedicated to listing all the strange names that babies are getting saddled with these days, it’s easy to see that this trend is growing. Am I complaining? Nah. Why not get creative and unique when naming our offspring? This certainly can’t be worse than giving them a name that they share with three other kids in the class.

Naming our children is a big responsibility, and everyone’s not going to like what we choose. But as long as we’re picking names we truly love and not just making up stuff so we can laugh at how hilarious we are, we should be okay. If the kid ends up hating their name, which some do, “normal” or not, they can always legally change it to something else later.

Ikea might do that. Except, his name’s not actually Ikea. Turns out it’s Atticus.

I guess I’ll be returning my gift of an Ikea train set and getting him a copy of “To Kill a Mockingbird” instead.

Lori Welbourne is a syndicated columnist. She can be contacted at LoriWelbourne.com 

I am a night owl still trying to be an early bird. Lately, though, I haven’t been trying hard at all. 

Over the Christmas holidays I allowed myself to stay up late and sleep in more. Because I was sleeping in more I was exercising less, and because I was exercising less I started eating crap again. A couple weeks of that and I’m now geared up for a self-imposed intervention.

Feeling crummy is not unfamiliar territory to me. I’ve written a few times about my long struggling battle of the bulge and how directly related the food I eat affects the way I feel. What may be unfamiliar is the potentially speedier recovery from my fall off the proverbial wagon.

“You’re skinny,” my friend said when she learned of my junk food relapse. “You should allow yourself the occasional treat.”

First of all, I’ve only ever been skinny once and that was 15 years ago and only lasted about four days, but thank you.

Secondly, an occasional cupcake will do to me what an occasional hit of heroine will do to a druggie. I’d really rather not spend the year ahead jonesing for junk food like so many years past.

So how do I jump back on the wagon and reverse my last two weeks of destruction? By waking up early for starters.

“The early bird gets the worm,” my dad used to say when I was a sleepy-head teen. Fine with me, I’d think to myself, it can have the worm.

Eventually I took him less literally and gave his early morning strategy a try.

Initially I disliked exercising before the sun was up, but after awhile I found that if I didn’t get it over with right away, I wouldn’t do it at all. I also discovered that once I went to the trouble of working up a sweat at the start of my day, I’d be more likely to eat healthy and get to bed at a decent hour later on.

My plan now is to return to that great habit for at least two weeks to put myself back where I was and feeling good again.

If it sounds like I’m embarking on a new years resolution, that’s okay. I am.

I’ve always liked the fresh start of a new year, a new month or a new week to make goals for myself.  And I’m experienced enough at failing miserably that I won’t abandon my resolutions for long periods of time anymore. I now cut myself some slack and keep trying until I finally find some success with whatever it is I’m attempting to achieve.

Of course, rising with the sun isn’t the only solution. It’s doing what works for us as individuals and our willingness to persist that makes the difference.

My dad was right about the early bird getting the worm, but there’s another equally correct saying about how it’s the second mouse that gets the cheese.

Personally, if I had to choose between a worm or cheese, I’d eat the latter. But I’d better compare their calorie counts before deciding for sure.

Lori Welbourne is a syndicated columnist. She can be contacted at LoriWelbourne.com

In 1975 my dad’s mother married a wonderful man named Karl. I was nine years old and all I really knew about him at the time was that he served his country in World War II, just like my mom’s beloved father had. One big difference between them was that one was in the Air Force and the other was in the Navy. The much bigger difference, though, was that Karl had fought for Germany, and not Canada.

Upon learning this fact, I immediately felt stress. What would happen the first time my new Opa met my old Papa? I feared for the worst.

With my young imagination running wild, I don’t know what I expected exactly, but I certainly didn’t envision what actually transpired.

When Karl Terweg met John Hetherington for the first time, they shook hands and smiled warmly at one another as my little brother and I watched nervously. In broken English Karl spoke to John about many things that night in our home, none of which involved the war they had both served in decades earlier.

Despite their peaceful introduction, I worried about any conflict between them in the future.

“Why don’t they hate each other?” I asked my grandmother. “Canada and Germany were enemies.”

“The war ended a long time ago,” my grandma explained. “They’re not enemies anymore. And neither Papa nor Opa ever wanted that war to happen.”

For the first time, I pictured these important older men in my life as the young innocent lads they once were, bravely serving their countries in a gruesome battle of enormous magnitude. Grateful that they both survived, seemingly unharmed by the experience, I remember asking them years later, individually, what that time was like for them. Neither of them wanted to talk about it.

What I did learn about World War II, or any war at all, came from my parents, school or what I watched on television. The atrocities of war and the reasons for their eruptions were as confusing to me back then as they are today.

My daughter Daisy is now the exact same age I was when I met Opa. Unfortunately he and Papa passed away long before before she or her older brother Sam were born, so my children never had the opportunity to meet any courageous veterans from our family.

“That’s okay,” my daughter said. “I just hope all wars will stop. People shouldn’t fight, they should use their words. Right Mama?”

Right Daisy. If Karl Terweg and John Hetherington were alive today, I’m sure they would agree.

For all our veterans who didn’t have that option and fought for their country’s freedom, we will honour them on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month with two minutes of silence. What a small price to pay for the sacrifices they made for us.

Mahatma Gandhi one said: “If we are to teach real peace in the world, and if we are to carry on a real war against war, we shall have to begin with the children.”

I’m sure Karl and John would have agreed with that too.

More columns, blogs, cartoons and videos can be found at LoriWelbourne.com

Ask someone where they see themselves five years from now and you might get a blank stare. Ask them what their favourite sandwich is, and there’s a good chance you’ll get a passionate answer.

“Peanut butter and pickle!” my 12 year son said gleefully when asked that question.

“Me too!” his nine year old sister chimed in. “But the bread needs to be lightly toasted and the pickles need to be the garlic crunchy kind.”

I agree.

I was first introduced to this delightful treat when I was the same age my daughter is now. I was at a sleep-over and my best friend Jodi made it for breakfast. I remember looking at it quizzically as it sat in the middle of an avocado-green dinner plate. I was surprised at what I saw, but I wasn’t repulsed.

If my mother, who liked all sorts of disgusting foods, had been serving me that same sandwich, I probably wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with it. But coming from Jodi, I didn’t think she’d steer me wrong. She hated mushrooms, zucchini and escargot just as much as I did.

With total trust, I picked up half the sandwich, looked into the smiling eyes of my BFF (although we didn’t call them that way back when) and took a big healthy bite. Immediately, I was hooked.

Twenty years later, still in love with the sandwich, I introduced it to my boyfriend.  He was less trusting.

“It looks gross,” Paul Welbourne said skeptically. When I reassured him that it was unbelievably delicious, he took a reluctant nibble as though he were being pranked.

“Well, it’s not disgusting,” he said after a few seconds. “But it’s not unbelievably delicious either. “

I disagree.

Recently there was an article in the New York Times from an enthusiast of this wonderful underdog of a sandwich and I was delighted. Extolling the virtues of the sweet and vinegary combination, Dwight Garner shared his search for other people who loved it too. His efforts reminded me of my many unsuccessful attempts in encouraging people to just give the sandwich a try.

“How do you know you won’t like it?” I’ve heard myself asking so many times. “I can guarantee you’ll love it.” That’s the thing about people who really love the taste of something: they can’t imagine how anyone else might not.

To my surprise, I’ve been more successful at getting children to try it than adults, even thought they’re typically picky and less adventurous about food.

Like grown ups, they often aren’t keen on the idea initially. But since I still hate mushrooms, zucchini and escargot, I’m an adult they can trust, so they’re often willing to take a small bite. Almost always they like it, and sometimes they love it as much as my kids and I do.

If you ask me where I see myself five years from now I won’t give you a blank stare because I’ve given it some serious thought and have written a list of what I want. Are peanut butter and pickle sandwiches on that list? Of course not. That’s what shopping lists are for.

More columns, blogs, cartoons and videos can be found at LoriWelbourne.com

My American cartoonist, Jim Hunt, posted on Facebook his illustration you see here with this caption: “Why can’t the department stores let us enjoy each holiday like we used to? They’ve turned it into one big ‘Merry Hallowthanksmas!’”  Within days his funny cartoon was shared by 70,000 people.

To say Jim struck a nerve would be an understatement.

“It was still summer when all this Halloween stock was displayed,” my neighbor grumbled when I ran into her at the store. “Who would buy all this crap months ahead of time?”

Well, my nine-year-old daughter would if she could.

Eager to pick through the large assortment of get-ups and decorations, Daisy has been making a bee-line for this particular section of the store for the last couple of months. And since the Christmas merchandise is now on display as well, her attention has become divided between the two.

“It makes me mad the way these stores are always jumping ahead to the next holiday and selling it way too early,” my neighbor continued. “Sell, sell, sell, it’s all about money to them.”

How true. But if I owned one of these stores, I imagine I’d be doing the same.

The fact is, a lot of people tend to buy early. I think they’re called “organized” or “planners” or some other word that doesn’t apply to someone like me.

If a store doesn’t get their products out early enough, another one will, and that’s where the consumer will likely spend their money. This logic is the reason seasonal and holiday goods seem to come out earlier every year.

Yet if it weren’t for my kids, I doubt I’d even notice these displays at first. I’m one of those people who buys stuff on an as-needed basis, so unless Halloween’s in the next day or two, I’m not purchasing candies or costumes quite yet.

The downside to my strategy? The potential for a much smaller selection.

“What happened to you?” an old friend asked after finding out I had no idea what I was dressing up as, while she’d been ready for awhile. “You used to be Miss Halloween.”

I did. I even used to make my costumes from scratch. But I gave that up when I discovered how much easier it could be to just rent or buy one off the rack. They might not have been as fun or unique as my originals, but I sure liked the lesser commitment of time and money.

“Before kids I had all kinds of extra time,” I replied to my single, childless friend. “Now I’m lucky if I can find twenty minutes to vacuum out my car once a year.”

With pity in her eyes she offered me a creepy crawly spider bowl of mini chocolate bars that she’d bought for her trick or treaters.

“I’m going to have to buy more candies,” she said frowning down at it. “Everything I bought is almost gone.”

Another reason I don’t like to buy early.

The stores are obviously savvy to display their stock months in advance. If it didn’t work, they wouldn’t do it. The only thing that would prevent them from this practice is if more people were procrastinating, disorganized types like me.

In the spirit of Halloween, that’s a scary prospect indeed. If you don’t believe me, take a peek in my car.

More columns, blogs, cartoons and videos can be found at LoriWelbourne.com

On a beautiful walk around the lake last week I passed something that made me do a double take. It was a dog in a stroller.

“Excuse me,” I asked the lovely lady pushing the pup. “Is your dog unable to walk?”

“Oh he can walk just fine,” the lady giggled. “But his little leggies can’t keep up so I push him in a buggy or carry him in a poochy purse.”

“Is he a Chihuahua?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “His name is Sugar. He’s my baby.”

Clearly.

Dressed in sweet doggy duds, the sight of him reminded me of the day a few years ago when I came home to witness our two house-training puppies running around in circles trying to get out of the diapers they were wearing.

“Look Mom,” six-year-old Daisy had said excitedly. “Lola and Charlie don’t need the doggy door. They can just go in their diapers!” 

Charlie was the first to break free from his Pampers, and Lola quickly followed.

“That’s okay,” my 9 year-old-son said, consoling his sister. “It’s better if they go in the yard. Their fur could be hard to clean.”

Since then the kids have been periodically dressing them up in different items whenever they think of it.  They’ve never taken them for a walk in a stroller though. I’m sure they would if we actually owned one.

“How often do you walk him?” I asked the lady by the lake.

“Twice a day,” she said earnestly. “He becomes a real Grumpy Gus if he doesn’t get his fresh air and exercise.” 

Meeting Sugar and his doting “mother” had me reflecting on how many of us humanize our dogs in one way or another. If we didn’t, pet clothing and accessories wouldn’t have become the multi-billion dollar business that it now is.

Yet there are some who find the entire idea ludicrous.

“Anyone who lets their dog in the house is an idiot,” my older friend stated aggressively. “Dogs belong outside, not bringing nasty germs and parasites indoors.”

As one of those “idiots” who not only allows my dogs in the house but on the bed as well, I bristled at his harsh remark. But with his opinion of dogs as mere farm animals, my pups and I must look as extreme to him as Sugar and his owner did to me.

The way I see it, our pets are an important part of our family and we like having them around. If they were strictly back yard dogs I’d hardly ever see them.

Every home is different and what works in one family doesn’t necessarily work in another. Perhaps if my dogs weighed 100 pounds instead of 20,  I’d keep them outside too. And maybe if they were just two pounds each with little leggies, I’d be purchasing a stroller or poochy purse just like Sugar’s.

I’d insist on my husband walking them in that way though.  I’d pay top dollar for a picture of that. 

More columns, blogs, cartoons and videos can be found at LoriWelbourne.com