The more I see of man, the more I like dogs. ~Mme. de Staël

Phoebe. Winston.

It's taken a little bit, but I think they finally like each other. Let me rephrase that, I think Winston is finally able to tolerate Phoebe.

We adopted Winston from the Humane Society in Reno, NV when he was just nine weeks old. He's five now, a bit of an old man.

Phoebe came to live with us in April of this year, she was 11 months old. She's just a big puppy - 130 some pounds of furry stupid.

Winston is well-mannered. He doesn't jump on people, he's completely house broken, he doesn't beg or bark too loudly, he gives paw and high fives.

Phoebe? Not so much. She drools copiusly and it took some time to teach her that she couldn't take food out of the kids' mouths. When she eats, bits and pieces get stuck in her jowls to later drop on poor Winston's unsuspecting head. She jumps up on strangers (that's what Bullmastiffs were bred to do - knock people down) and generally frightens all the neighborhood children. Though, everyone has learned she is harmless, she just wants to play.

Play. I've yet to find an indestructible toy for Phoebe. She loves stuffed animals. She rips their faces off, eyes first, and leaves them in the family room, lifeless shells of their former selves. She adores plastic bottles...anything from 2 liter soda bottles to the things that cranberry juice comes in.

She catches food. Unlike Winston who will calmly let any morsel slap him in the face before bending down to politely eat it, Phoebe catches things mid air. My dad found this out when he was tossing sausage casings into the trash the other day. It's to her advantage since I sometimes won't feed her directly for fear of her caustic saliva.