I felt a twinge of anxiety as I hit SEND on the e-mail that carried my edits on a story a newish writer had given me to critique. What she’d written was interesting and clever, but mired in the kinds of mistakes writers tend to make when they’re new to the craft.

I remember, when I was new to the game, how hard it was to show my stories to others. I remember how exposed I felt while awaiting their comments. Had my story come back covered in red, I might’ve felt like giving up altogether, but my earliest teachers were gentle and patient. They recognized the importance of the mistakes I was making and showed me how to learn from them, a bit at a time.

The woman whose story I’d read was a former president of a large organization. She was multilingual, well traveled, had a collection of prestigious honors and degrees. Yet her story had the same beginner’s mistakes that many new writers with a fraction of her schooling would have. They aren’t even mistakes so much as they are a part of the learning process. They have to do this to learn the reason or value of that.

If a person were to become fascinated with figure skating and read cover-to-cover every book that’s ever been written about the subject, no amount of what they’ve studied would make a lick of difference if they’ve never stepped on the ice. It’s only by doing it — and doing it wrong — that they can learn how and what to correct.

Same thing with construction or golf or business or a million other endeavors. You can read about it, study it, know it inside and out, but you aren’t going to be able to do a particular thing until you’re in that world and start making the mistakes that inevitably arise.

With writing, there’s too much to learn all at once, so you take on just a few of the most important issues at the start. Plotting. Point of view. Consistent verb tense. Learning not to ever, ever use any of the myriad ways to keep from saying “he said.”

Because I wanted badly to learn, those who took time to teach me paced their advice and recommendations so that I could keep up. I can’t recall a single time when I felt overwhelmed. And now, many years later, I’m where they used to be, trying to pay forward their benevolence by nudging new writers bent on improving their craft.

It’s been interesting to observe the way advice is received. Most who I’ve worked with genuinely welcome suggestions, while others bristle over anything less than gushing praise.

I wonder if, as we get older, we start investing more in being right than in what we can learn from the experience. If we get something wrong, we either try to hide it, blame someone else, or beat ourselves up.

Reporter Alina Tugend, in her New York Times column about the importance of mistakes, wrote, “as children we’re taught that everyone makes mistakes and that the great thinkers and inventors embraced them. Thomas Edison’s famous quote is often inscribed in schools and children’s museums: ‘I have not failed. I have just found ten thousand ways that won’t work.’”

Tugend continued: “But good grades are usually a reward for doing things right, not making errors. Compliments are given for having the correct answer and … the wrong one may elicit scorn from classmates. We grow up with a mixed message: making mistakes is a necessary learning tool, but we should avoid them.”

Stanley Gully, an associate professor at Rutgers University, performed studies that revealed that encouraging people to make mistakes works better than teaching them to avoid them.

Said professor Gully: “We get fixated on achievement, but … if you already know the answer, it’s not learning. In most personal and business contexts, if you avoid the error, you avoid the learning process.”

When I heard back from the woman whose story I’d marked, she was excited because she said I’d talked to her like she was “a real writer.” I told her I’d been worried she might be offended by my suggestions and changes, and her response was something I’ve now printed and saved:

“The only shame to be had with regard to mistakes should be reserved for those who don’t recognize their value and use. Any less would be foolish.”

I thought having a vegetable garden would be relaxing. Growing our own food would not only be thrifty, but environmentally conscientious and a learning opportunity — a chance for my daughter to experience the transformation from seed to sprouting plant to device for delivering salt and ranch dressing.

I thought working in the sun and the dirt would be good exercise.

It was exercise, all right. In futility.

We planted our first garden not long after moving into our South Charleston home. It was just a few tomato plants that first year, and when those few plants failed to thrive, we blamed the location. Not enough morning sun. We noted what part of the yard was sunnier so that we might fare better the following year.

 The next year, we plotted our garden and bought a good bit of dirt, which we mixed with our own. We spent hours sifting rocks and roots from the dirt, breaking down clumps with bare hands. We read what plants should be on inside rows and which should be out, and we followed the Farmer’s Almanac’s advice on when we should plant.

 We even bought well-established starter plants rather than gamble on starting from seed. We watered with Miracle Gro and plucked weeds, and for our efforts were rewarded with tall, gorgeous plants. Not one of which produced more than a few pea-sized tomatoes. Our cucumber plants didn’t yield a single baby gerkin. Not even a preemie.

 A wise-sounding neighbor said our oak trees were to blame. Said they made our soil acidic. Said we needed to heavily lime the ground before winter then again in the spring. We followed his advice to the letter. We watered regularly, weeded faithfully, debugged and derabbited. And for our efforts, we have a garden filled with lush, healthy-looking plants, thick vines and stalks.

And no produce.

With all the money we’ve invested attempting to grow our own, we could’ve bought a truckload of veggies.

Lest anyone believe my black thumbs are inherited, my parents decided not to put in a garden this year, but one grew anyway. Planted itself from seed from last year’s plants. They’re calling it their volunteer garden. Every one of the plants is heavy with fruit.

I understand, though clearly not from personal experience, that having too successful of a garden can be a burden.

In the late 1960s, my husband’s parents moved to West Virginia from Los Angeles, caught up with the charming notion of getting back to the land. Both city kids, they had only the vaguest idea of gardening, and absolutely no concept of how much each plant would produce or that each would continue producing for weeks on end. They tilled a large garden in the yard of their rental farmhouse and put in tomato plants.

One hundred of them.

And about half as many zucchini.

Their crash course in farming resulted in a crash course in canning. They had enough canned tomatoes, tomato juice, tomato paste, tomato sauce, spaghetti sauce and homemade ketchup to serve them for years, with enough left over to require every visitor to their home to take away bags filled with their bounty.

The zucchini were more of a problem, as people seemed to respond to offers of zucchini with the same enthusiasm normally reserved for chain letters.

As for me, I decided to cut my losses and put in a rock garden. It’s hard to tell how successful it’ll be. It’s only been a few days, and no rocks have died. But there’s no new gravel either.

I realized the teen years had arrived a few weeks ahead of schedule when my running home during lunch hour caused Celeste to complain about being awakened early.

It was barely past the crack of noon. Heavens! What was I thinking?

Judging by her reaction, I halfway expected Child Protective Services would be paying a call, considering my cruel and thoughtless behavior.

Although Celeste doesn’t officially turn 13 until the end of the month–trust me. The teens have arrived.

Household food consumption is up, as is the water bill. Eye rolling has hit a new high, along with exasperated-sounding sighs and grunts that apparently have replaced certain words.

Still, she remains good humored, good natured, and tolerant of her parents, so the metamorphosis is apparently far from complete.

It’s the sleep part I’m finding most fascinating. Especially when I remember the early years as a parent when I would’ve happily traded an appendage or two for a few more hours of sleep.

As I shook her awake one recent morning (after first clearing off the cobwebs and dust), she grumbled, “If I was supposed to pop out of bed, I’d sleep in a toaster.”

 Unlike me, a lifelong morning person, my offspring has had night owl tendencies from the start. At 10 p.m., she’s just hitting her stride. At midnight, she shines. For years, she managed a somewhat normal awakening time, albeit with some grumbling, but these days, a life-sized cement sloth would be easier to roust. And likely more chatty.

Recognizing the internet might provide evidence for her need to sleep late, Celeste sent links to a few studies showing the benefits for teens getting more sleep.

The first study, reported on by CBS/AP, showed that delaying a high school’s start time by just 30 minutes enabled students to be prompt, more alert, and in better moods.

According to the article, “Researchers say there’s a reason why even 30 minutes can make a big difference. Teens tend to be in their deepest sleep around dawn–when they typically need to get up for school. Interrupting that sleep can leave them groggy, especially since they also tend to have trouble falling asleep before 11 p.m.”

A second report, which she found on NPR’s website, provided evidence that teens who sleep later tend to drive safer. While she’s jumping the gun on that argument by three years, the article about the study done by Eastern Virginia Medical School did indicate that the teen car crash rate was a whopping 41 percent higher in Virginia Beach, Va., than in neighboring Chesapeake, where the school day starts 80 minutes later.

The article cited another study, published in the Journal of Clinical Sleep Medicine, that revealed teen car crashes dropped by 16.5 percent after a county-wide school district pushed the school start time back by one hour.

While my daughter’s argument might’ve been intended to do nothing more than quash my nagging, it has me wondering why—if there’s proof that allowing teenagers to sleep later keeps them safer, makes them more tolerable mood wise, and enables them be more open for learning—why aren’t we acting on this information? 

Perhaps it isn’t just teenagers who are guilty of being asleep at the wheel.

There isn’t much that Murry, our eight-year-old wheaten terrier, is afraid of. He doesn’t fear other dogs, moving cars, falling anvils. If a tiger was charging, he’d splay his paws and wag his tail or show his adorable belly. If a dog-hating armed robber broke in, Murry would bring him a shoe.

That’s not because Murry is brave. It’s because his brain is the size of a pea.

But I love my pea-brained mop dog. He’s my most constant companion. I can’t imagine how I’d survive these hot summer days without his sopping wet beard, freshly refilled from the bucket, cooling my leg as the water dribbles down from where his chin rests on my knee.

Not counting deep thought and pop quizzes, there are only a few things that Murry is truly afraid of. The first is the groomer, for whom he has a seething hatred, along with a knee-knocking fear. The others are thunder storms and fireworks.

Our family’s two other dogs represent opposite ends of the anxiety spectrum. The silky terrier, Chewie, is essentially fearless, almost stupidly so, while Roo, our closet dog, has phobias so specialized she even has one for vertical men.

That Roo chose to share Murry’s fear of thunder and fireworks seemed unsurprising to us, but to Murry, her fear compounds his, as though Roo’s trembling gives him proof there’s something to fear.

And gives us reason to dread holidays like the Fourth of July.

Not long ago, Geoff and I were on the back porch with the dogs when a storm started to brew. For some reason, when the thunder rumbled, I gave Murry a nudge and said in a playful voice, “Get it, Murry.”

He barked at the thunder.

“Good boy,” Geoff encouraged. “Get it, Murry. Chase it away.”

More thunder, more barking. Instead of growing more fearful, Murry was soon hopping and woofing at each fresh crack of thunder, thoroughly enjoying that he was being encouraged to bark. He seemed to forget to be scared.

Roo, however, was barricading all the doors with heavy furniture while Chewie was busy sticking forks in electrical outlets.

Knowing the upcoming fireworks would have our crew in a tizzy, I began seeking suggestions for ways to calm dogs during stressful times. I was told to put a tiny dab of peppermint oil on the back of Murry’s paws during a storm (or other stressful event). He would lick off the oil, which has calming properties, while the process of licking helps distract and calm him.

Unfamiliar with peppermint oil, I mentioned it to my husband. Wondered if it was safe.

“What’s the danger?” he asked. “That his breath will be minty?”

Concerned, I researched about the safety of peppermint oil and found an ASPCA warning that large quantities could cause gastrointestinal irritation in dogs, but the risks appeared to be small.

Other recommendations include. . . .

• Taking your dog for an extra long walk prior to the fireworks starting, since a tired dog is naturally less stressed.
• Feeding them a little more than usual shortly before the loud noises begin, as a full stomach tends to make them sleepy and relaxed.
• Providing a safe, dark place with music or a fan running.
• Making sure your pet has an I.D. tag in case he races off in fear and gets lost.
• Not taking a pet to a fireworks display (or forcing them to go outside during a thunderstorm) thinking it’ll help them develop an immunity to their fear. It almost never does.
• And making certain outlets have protective covers, and forks are kept out of a terrier’s reach.

Not long ago, I wrote about the belongings some of us can’t imagine living without. Mine was a nubby old recliner I’d very nearly gotten rid of several times, but couldn’t. My friend Susan Linden suggested I make something from the chair, like a picture frame from the wood or album cover from the fabric—something more substantial and tactile than the photograph of the chair I briefly thought would suffice.

Yet the chair remains a fixture on our newly screened-in back porch.

After reading an email from David Miller of Canaan Valley, I’m thinking holding onto my ugly chair might not be such a bad thing.

Miller suggested I do a column about those things you once owned, but got rid of, that you’d love to have back. The impetus behind his suggestion was a 1984 Jeep that Miller and his son, then 15-years old, purchased back in 1999.

Although Miller called the Jeep “a motorized dumpster with no frills,” that didn’t stop him from flying to Texas to buy one that was in fairly good shape. He and his son drove it home.  In 95 degree temperatures. With no air conditioning.

Miller said he distracted himself from “the oppressive heat by watching the gauges fluctuate wildly and listening to the engine cough and miss,” and later, by trying to drive without a back on his seat. (“Having a back on the driver’s seat is a much underappreciated device, but one quickly gains appreciation when it is absent.”)

Eventually, the two made it home, then spent much of the next several months working on the Jeep together. Years later, after his son moved to the West Coast, the Jeep was put into storage. And there it sat, seldom used, for the past eight years.

Although the Jeep still runs, there are problems, and Miller’s not sure he wants to deal with the hassle and expense of getting it back on the road. Keeping it creates other issues (like storage), but since there are so many memories attached to this Jeep, he fears if he lets go of it, he’ll regret it.

Prompting him to suggest a column asking others if there was anything they once had, but got rid of, and wished they could have back.

At the time of Miller’s request, I could only reach those readers who have friended me on Facebook, but many of them had regrets.

Kathryn Brown regrets getting rid of “half of everything I send to Goodwill.”

Novelist Brad Barkley regrets no longer having his ’65 Mustang and his ‘72 Camaro.

Jamie Gates misses her “Jane and Johnny West action figures.”

And Charlie Medford not only misses his “red Fender Strat,” but also his “ultra fit bod,” which he says was actually lost over a period of time, not gotten rid of.

Pam Hanson wishes she’d kept her “older son’s Fisher Price ‘Flip Track’ plaything . . . great track, train on one side, car/airplanes on another. I’ll feel forever guilty he won’t be able to hand down to his future children.”

Roland Rusty Cook misses a book he used to have of his “4th grade teacher Roberta Knox’s poetry.”

As for Miller, he wrote back to tell me he’d found a new use for his jeep. He and his dog, Tucker, drove down to a nearby pond and went for a swim.

“It’s the perfect vehicle for this activity,” said Miller. “Don’t really care if the seats get dirty or damp, and the air whipping through the compartment on the two-mile ride home just about dried off Tucker while he sat up front, watching for deer.”

He’s keeping the Jeep. And dodging regrets.

Last winter, Linda Mays, a student in my husband’s novel class, shared a link to a book on Amazon.com that had been sent to her by a friend.

Apparently, said Mays, her friend’s motivation in sending the link was to encourage her to continue writing. “She must’ve been thinking, ‘Hey, if this person can get a book published, maybe you can, too.’”

 Mays wrote that she followed the link and read some excerpts from the book, then scrolled down and began reading the reviews.

 “That’s where the real fun began,” said Mays, who was shared the link with the rest of the class.

At that time, though, I must’ve been busy, since rather than follow the link, I saved it for later, then forgot all about it until this past weekend. My husband and I had just returned from a writing conference, which usually get me so charged up I can’t return to my keyboard fast enough. But this time was different. Instead of brimming with ideas and how to approach them, I came home feeling I’ve been playing out of my league. There are so many fabulous writers in West Virginia alone. How can I hope to even rise to the middle, much less the top?

Fortunately, when I’d saved the link Linda Mays sent, I attached a note to myself that said, “Something to read the next time you’re feeling down about writing.”

I followed the link and read the reviews.

“As a rule,” wrote one of the early reviewers, “I force myself to read at least half of a book, no matter how terrible it is. I must say, this was most certainly the worst half of a book I’ve ever read.  If you’re the type of person who likes to stop and look at train wrecks, see if the library has a copy. If not, spare yourself.”

Wrote another, “You know when you’re sitting on the toilet and you can choose between reading this book or the ingredients on the back of the baby powder? Choose the baby powder. I couldn’t get through two pages before my eyes started bleeding.”

Then came what must’ve been a tongue-in-cheek recommendation.

“Forget Harry Potter. Forget Stephen King. Forget Citizen Kane. Forget that Citizen Kane wasn’t a book,” wrote one reviewer. “(This) is the book you’ll be talking about to your children’s children. It’s the Dune of our generation. Imagine if Tolkien were alive today and writing SciFi Romance, and you’ll have a good idea what this book is like. (This book) is the thinking person’s scifi romance novel! Read it now before it’s made into a major motion picture!”

Said the next person: “The above review is more creative than the book.”

I realized then why I’d saved the link as something to read when I’m down. It was to remind myself that few things can be more inspiring than to read a really bad book. One that somehow got published.

So many times I’ve finished the last page feeling disappointed by a terrible ending, by a character who suddenly does something completely uncharacteristic, by a far-too-convenient solution, or by some other sin that makes me angry to have wasted time on the book. I’ll often be so aggravated I’ll toss the book in the trash rather than get a quarter from some future yard sale book buyer looking for a cheap read.

But not any more. Not now that I’ve realized even horrible books have something to offer–hope.  Hope that if drivel like that managed to get a publisher’s stamp of approval, that maybe someday, I, too, might have my name on a cover.

I recognize the impossibility of writing a book that everyone loves, but if I keep at it long enough, maybe I’ll write something that at least inspires a few other writers.

From the time we first bought our new old house three years ago, I’ve been dreaming about screening in the back porch.

And dreading how much work it would be.

One minute I’d be envisioning just where, on this new porch, I’d put a swing or hanging bed. The next minute I’d be trying to figure out how to remove the porch ceiling without damaging it in order to locate a beam that would support the weight of the swing.

I’d picture white wainscoted walls replacing the cinderblock.

And calculate complexity and cost and the cranium aches that would surely accompany such an endeavor.

For every positive I could imagine, there was an equal and opposite potential pitfall.

I’d never dealt with a home improvement project that would require working with cinderblock and concrete. I’d never worked with treated lumber or screening or this particular kind of wainscoting before.

I began to think I’d never take the plunge, never actually start for fear of not getting it right. The only thing lower than my expectations was my budget. Half a shoestring.

But then it happened. The first mosquito sighting of spring—a bruiser so big he likely required an airstrip. He was dragging a banner that advertised buffet night at Café Fuller, “Featuring even more tender and tasty thick thighs!”

I officially went over the edge, determined to screen in the porch before skeeter skool let out for the summer. Advance preparation, research and knowledge be damned! I’d jump in with both feet and see where I landed.

(I tried not to be discouraged by those wagering my landing would involve a visit to Thomas Hospital, allowing that they had reasons for placing such bets.)

After my first of 43 visits to Lowes, I began with what seemed at the time like the simplest section of porch. I soon discovered this particular section had been built with a different type of cinder block than the rest. Based on the quantity of masonry bits these blocks soon devoured, I suspect Kryptonite reinforcement.

Tempted as I was to throw in the trowel, I pushed myself to keep going. That first section took ages, with parts having to be disassembled, cursed at, sprinkled with cash, then rebuilt. And then–something miraculous happened. My project began to click. I was cutting and assembling sections so professionally I was wishing for witnesses, though most remained too afraid of another encounter with the randomly potty-mouthed Ty Pennington wannabe they were avoiding the back half of the house.

Many weekends and evenings were consumed by my project. And now, as my dream porch nears completion (having reached the 90% mark, which generally means I move on to something else), I’m all swollen with pride. My porch isn’t perfect. I know every place where I pounded bent nails deep into the wood since I couldn’t pry them back out. I know where the crooked cuts are, and how I disguised them. I made many mistakes, but didn’t let my fear of making them stop me. That’s sort of a new thing for me.  

I’m glad I didn’t know when to quit, because if I had, I would’ve. And I didn’t.

My porch is far from meeting the standards of a professional carpenter, but I can’t imagine I’d enjoy it near as much if I hadn’t done it myself.

“You’ll be wasting a pretzel on that one,” I said, nodding toward the panhandling squirrel that had raced up to our group and was about to assume the full cute position.

“Squirrels will eat most anything,” said the woman.

“Not that one,” I said. “I’ve been watching it. It’s here just about every day.”

“Like you can tell one squirrel from the next,” said another woman who was walking with us.

“All I’m saying is there’s one that hangs out every day at quitting time between Building 5 and the parking garage,” I said. “If you give him anything but a peanut, he’s rude.”

The woman bent and handed the squirrel a pretzel. He took it gently enough, then almost immediately spiked it hard to the ground, then ran off toward some other state employees on their way to their cars.

“Beggers can’t be choosers,” she yelled after the squirrel, then muttered something about greedy tree rats.

“I wonder if they just get so much stuff given to them they think they can pick and choose what they like,” I said.

“And slam down what they don’t,” she said. “Jeez. It acted like my pretzel was offensive.”

 “That reminds me,” said the only man in our group. “Has anyone seen the hawk lately?”

“Not for ages,” said the pretzel lady.

“Yes we did,” insisted the other. “Just the other day at lunch. Over where the tulips were. Remember?”

“That was not a hawk,” she said. “It was a turkey or a vulture or something.”

“Maybe it got chubby,” said the man. “Remember–we had that plague of squirrels last year.”

“It was awful,” said the woman closest to me. “Squirrels clear up to here. We were wading in them.”

“Bet that was hell on the hose,” I said.

“Imagine what a plentiful food supply like that would do to a hawk’s waistline,” she said.

“Doubt the poor thing can even get airborne anymore,” said the man. “No more swooping down on prey for him. Bet the best it can manage is to chuck rocks at ‘em and hope to get lucky.”

Or get smart enough to position itself between Building 5 and the parking garage at quitting time and learn how to beg.

* * *  

I apologize for failing to get the names of those amusing people who were walking with me and promise to hereafter carry a notebook so I can start giving credit where credit is due.

“It’s not fair,” my middle-schooler complained as she wiped at her shirt with some tape. “Going goth isn’t an option for me.”

“Why not?” I asked. “You look good in black.”

“Black angora?” said Celeste, displaying her T-shirt. It appeared to have been first misted with honey and then rolled in hair. “What self-disrespecting goth would go out like this? It’s hard to pull off hard-shell when it’s clear you’ve been cuddling a bunny.”

Dust bunnies aren’t the only creatures that reside in her room. There are live bunnies, too. Plus regular visits from other menagerie members.

“You’re hardly the goth type anyway,” I said. “You’re too — what’s the word for it? Happy?”

She shrugged.

“Someone who owns more than one chicken hat isn’t cut out to be goth,” I said.

(Note to Town Center Mall patrons: If you wondered about the tired-looking woman out shopping with her chicken recently, all I can say is I shouldn’t have dared her.)

“Besides,” I continued. “That goth look is so dated. Teenagers have been trying to shock folks with piercings and black clothes and black lipstick since the Dark Ages. Your generation didn’t invent it. Come to think of it, I think I have a picture around somewhere of Grammy and PopPop with matching nose rings.”

“I thought those were your folks,” husband Geoff said from the kitchen, where he’d apparently been eavesdropping.

“You’re probably thinking of that picture of Dad in a trench coat with his hair in a Mohawk, and Mom rocking her stiletto boots.”

“I remember that picture,” Celeste said. “Isn’t that the one where you have a dinosaur bone through your nose?”

“People say piercings are no big deal. They can heal,” I said. “But I didn’t think that one was ever going to close. For months, when I ran, the hole made this chirpy, whistling sound. I’d get chased by songbirds, looking to mate.”

“You and your friends should try to come up with something original,” said Geoff. “Something other teenagers haven’t already done.”

“How about this,” Celeste said, after pondering quietly for a while. “What if we dress all in white, head to toe. White lipstick. White hair. We’ll call ourselves Mock Goths, or Moths.”

“Cool,” said Geoff. “You can leave powdery stuff behind you.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “And you can bang into lights over and over again.”

Celeste nodded, clearly liking the idea.

“And we can lurk outside doors and rush in the second it opens,” she said. “Drop into food. Annoy cats.”

“You do that already,” said Geoff.

“Or you could do like I do,” I said. “Wear black anyway and pretend not to notice the hair.”

Celeste was momentarily quiet again.

“You wear so much black because of its magical slimming properties, right?” she asked.

“But you wouldn’t have to try and trick the eye at all if you added a single item to your wardrobe. Something that would distract from both the fat and the fur.”

And that is how I came to have a chicken hat of my own.

Even though I was no spring chicken when I hatched my first egg, I didn’t worry too much about what kind of mother I’d be. I assumed the many dogs I’d cared for over the years had prepared me for becoming a parent. Now, with nearly 13 years of motherhood under my much longer belt, I recognize the folly of such thinking. Along with the wisdom.

While the manner of acquiring one versus the other differs greatly, in some ways, dogs and babies are practically interchangeable.

As youngsters, both chew on strange things, putting most everything they can reach in their mouth. Both tend to suffer from selective deafness, especially when told “No!” or instructed to “Come!”

Both like getting dirty and routinely smell funky. Both like to sleep in your bed and eat from your plate. Both continuously challenge the Alpha. And both will use poo to punish.

The pitch of the voices of either species can, at times, cause pain to one’s ears, and both are prone to endless whining if they don’t get their way.

Both can be right there with you one second, and then snoring the next, often falling asleep in oddly contorted positions.

Both can have questionable manners (I’d likely be less shocked to hear the dog excuse himself after a belch than my girl), and both are capable of producing horrendous quantities of noxious gases, especially following the consumption of Doritos.

And, though the definition is different, if you don’t watch them real close, both will eat crap.

Finding ways dogs and children differ required some thought. For instance, obedience school is clearly far cheaper than college, and there are no 20-pound backpacks to contend with or school lunches to pack.

Run the vacuum with dogs asleep on the floor and they’ll wake and run from the room. Run the vacuum with a sleeping preteen on the floor and they go all speed-bump on you, and then get bitter about their hair getting sucked up in the hose.

Dogs seldom mind eating from dirty dishes, but the last time I suggested to my kid that a little swipe with her sleeve should suffice, you’d have thought I asked her to sniff her own butt.

When dogs fall asleep on the bed and I shove them down to the bottom with my feet, they don’t make threats about the kind of nursing home they’re going to put me in some day.

My dogs aren’t embarrassed to go out in public with me, regardless of what I’m wearing or how my hair looks.

When we were having trouble with the plumbing and couldn’t use the bathroom for a few days, the dogs didn’t insist on staying with a friend rather than utilizing the newspapers we’d spread on the floor.

I can still buy clothes for the dog and know those clothes will get worn.

And, most of all, dogs can’t roll their eyes.

On the upside, children are tax-deductible. Dogs are not.

Children are usually too clever to be fooled by the fake ball throw more than once.

And while I’ve caught my daughter drinking straight out of the carton several times, I’ve never caught her trying to drink straight from the toilet.

Thankfully, children generally have a better developed sense of humor than dogs and are capable of recognizing when someone is teasing.

I believe dogs are excellent teachers for those who will someday be parents. And the best lesson they teach is how to unconditionally love.