Carol Reiter: Memories as Moss turns one

I can't believe that next month Moss will be a year old.

Man, where did that year go? And where did that absolutely adorable little pup that I picked up on a sweet April day go?

How did I end up with a big, bumbling, blue-eyed terror who loves everyone and everything? I keep telling people that Moss isn't really a border collie, he's just a golden retriever in black and white disguise.

Moss came into this world believing that everyone loved him as much as he loved the world. When he meets new people, he's ecstatic, spinning and drooling and bumbling around like a big oaf, trying to convince everyone that they absolutely must pet him.

But even when people ignore Moss, he doesn't hold a grudge. He throws himself down at their feet, smiling up at them, and waits until they give in and pay some attention to the poor dog.

I have to give the blue-eyed dog some credit. He is the happiest dog I've ever known. Sometimes that's good, and sometimes it's bad.

When I come home in a bad mood, the last thing I want is a big dorky pup jumping around me, leaping as high as my face, trying to convince me that I am the only person for him.

But when I am in a bad mood, he can bring me out of it pretty darn quick. You can't watch Moss for more than a couple of minutes without smiling.

Last weekend, I went to one of those stores where everything costs a dollar. When I walked in, I saw that the store already had their Easter stuff out. There was a big display of stuffed animals, and I stopped to look at them.

That's when I saw a toy sheep. It had sweet eyes, soft curly wool and was the perfect size for Moss. And it only cost a buck, so I threw it in the basket.

That dollar toy made Moss' entire week. When I first gave the toy to him, he pounced on it and ran up and down the hall, throwing it in the air and jumping to catch it.

That toy kept my dog happy for hours. He chewed on it, carried it into his crate, buried it under the blankets on my bed, and just enjoyed the heck out of it.

By the third day, the sheep was looking a bit bedraggled. One eye was missing, one ear was completely gone and the other was pretty tattered, and that soft wool was stiff with Moss drool.

I don't let Moss take his toys outside, so every day when he came in, he would look for his sheep. On the fourth day, when I got ready for bed, he came in my room with that darn sheep in his mouth.

He wasn't his usual energetic self. He walked in with the sheep hanging out both sides of his mouth, and he put his feet up on my bed and dropped the sheep next to me.

I thought Moss wanted me to throw the sheep for him, so I picked it up and threw it down the hall. But he just sat down and looked at me.

I asked him what was wrong, I was worried that maybe he didn't feel too good. He just looked at me, and I started getting really worried. This wasn't my Moss, my psycho, toy-loving dog. Something had to be wrong.

I got up to check him out, and he ran down the hall to the sheep. He grabbed it and brought it back to me, and dropped it at my feet. I picked it up and asked Moss again if he was all right. He just looked at me and drooled.

I threw the sheep again, and he just watched it. But when I headed for it, he grabbed it and ran.

I couldn't figure it out. If I ignored Moss, he would just pick up the sheep and stare at me. If I tried to get the sheep away from him, he grabbed it and ran.

So I left him alone. He sat in the hall for a while, with that sheep in his mouth, looking like a bigger fool than he really is. I watched him, and tried to figure out what was going on.