Tom and Missie. I don't have too many memories of Tom, except that he wasn't around much. Mother would put his dish of food at the top of the basement stairs, and he'd find his way in. Forever after, that step had a permanent fragrant grease stain from slopped-over cat food. It was an occasion when he deigned to visit at other than dinnertime.

We must have just recently gotten Missie; she's still almost literally all ears. She was a foundling, rescued from a orphan's life on the beaches of the Russian River by family friend Mrs. Kelly.

As a newcomer, she got along OK with veteran Tom. Of course, this is probably because she quickly learned who's boss. Tom took no crap at all from our previous dog, who'd been named Nippy for a reason. In comparison, Missie was a complete pushover. Their expressions here are eloquent testimony to the acknowledged pecking order.

Click here for an example of their respectful, if not exactly affectionate, relationship.