If Gandhi had a dog: Juno's peaceful protest

It was with a strong stoicism that I wished my daughters a fond 'adieu' and encouraged them to start new, successful lives in sunny San Diego. Naturally, they begged to stay but I was firm in my resolve for them to achieve independence: To step out of the shadow of being 'Amy Mosiman's children.'

You can imagine how I partied it up while Brad and the girls were driving west. I was so busy having fun that I almost missed the tell-tale sign of trouble happening right under my nose.

"How's everything else going?" Brad wondered after I called to ask about the proper size metal bracket that could bear the weight of the disco ball I was installing in the kitchen. "Pretty good," I said, "although Juno seems to have developed other interests outside of flinging her dog kibble around the room."

By the time Brad got home, Juno had gone full-fledge fast; abstaining from both food and water. "She's not pooping," I cried. Usually I cry because she won't STOP pooping. Brad observed her trembling back legs and her marked lack of delight over discarded socks and made the call. We were on our way to the veterinarian's office within hours. Fear crept into my heart. My rottweiler typically turns into an obnoxious canine pogo stick the moment she spies her leash but her dull-eyed ambivalence had me convinced that this would be a one-way ride.

Our kind vet listened with astute attention as I listed the physical changes in my droopy-headed dog. He conducted a thorough investigation. No fever. No mass in the belly. Hips good. Lungs sound. With our permission, he did a blood test. And now, he too, was genuinely baffled. "I do have one more thing to tell you," I admitted, a bit embarrassed. I went on to explain how our twenty-two-year old daughter left home a week ago, relocating across the country. The doctor nodded, his gaze returning to the sad dog slouched on the examination room's floor. "I believe that you may have just diagnosed her," he said. Brad and I stared at each other in relieved disbelief. The Mosimans are more rub a little dirt on it people. Fractured wrist? Here's a bag of frozen peas. Sad is just a state of mind. We've quoted M*A*S*H's Colonial Potter's wisdom to the point that it should be embroidered onto a couch pillow: Don't worry. You'll have MUCH more worse days than this. Suck it up, Buttercup.

But now Brad and I had just shelled out $167.00 to discover we had a full-blown case of doggie-depression on our hands. And it broke our heart. We cradled our sweet baby and showered her with loving attention. Brad sat on the kitchen floor (under the newly-installed disco ball) and hand-fed Juno slices of the finest roast beef deli meat that our refrigerator had to offer. She was allowed a rare appearance on our bed. It was a long road to recovery. At least eight only slightly expired slices of roast beef deli meat. Two sleepless nights with an awkward orangutan splayed out on my bed (Juno missed the memo about how her early ancestors lay tightly curled, cave-side, by primordial fires.). But eventually, she fought her way back to us and was soon back to pooping, without reserve, all over our lawn. It was the best $167.00 that we've ever spent.