For all her bravado, Elsie has her insecurities.

Yesterday our neighbors decided to try out their four-wheelers: their whining, muffer-less, tear-up-the-ground, all-terrain machines (the ones they usually take to the mountains to ride).

Mind you, we live in the country, but not the country. Their yard, like ours contains only one-and-a-third acres of land. Running their ATVs means running big laps around their house. And it gets loud. Very loud.

Elsie has shown spunk and courage in the six months she's been with us. Even as a newly-arrived two-month-old she held her own with the boys. Thunderstorms and firecrackers didn't faze her (even while they drove Ridge crazy). We thought nothing would frighten or intimidate her. She's a fiesty little girl.

Then the ATVs arrived.

When the neighbors started up their ATVs yesterday, she high-tailed it home and bee-lined for my lap where she quivered and panted until she fell asleep. Our brave little squirt needed the safety and security of the "den." And we were only too willing to comply.

It's the same sometimes with our grown-up human kids. No, they don't bee-line for our laps (nor should they), but they do need to have a place to which they can run if life gets too hard or scarey. I want home to be a safe haven for them: a place where they can return for brief respite from the storms of life. I think it is (at least that's what they tell me), and for that I'm grateful.

We all need safe havens. I find mine in my husband, my friends, my God, and, yes, in my three canine kids. They provide a secure place for me, too.

Isn't that funny, we serve as mutual havens for each other: the dogs for me, and me for the dogs.

Maybe that's as it should be.

'Til next time,
Joan