The Black Lab. The Kong Addict.

(Disclaimer . . . The following is not intended in any way to minimize the devastation of addiction. It's simply meant to make you smile.)

Her name is Zooey. Z-O-O-E-Y. She's six and a half years old. And she's a Kong addict. For those of you unschooled in the dark underbelly of dog toys, a Kong is a red rubber "ball" that could quite possibly survive a nuclear holocaust. Some people cram peanut butter inside to give their dogs a more frenzied experience, but Zooey takes it straight up.

The signs of Zooey in need of a fix are unmistakable. She pants/huffs around the house, saliva slowly dripping from her jaws (ok, that doesn't happen, but it makes for good TV/blogging). She goes from room to room in search of her stash. Usually when she gets this way, her Kong has been left in a room that now has a closed door, making it impossible for her to get to her "sugar." When we, a family who has consistently enabled her by opening those closed doors, finally can take her agony no more, we grudgingly respond, saying, "Zooey, this is the last time. I mean it."

Sometimes, the Kong has rolled under a table or chair, making Zooey's drug of choice even more of a forbidden pleasure. She sees it. We see it. She knows we see it. We know she knows we see it. And what do we do? Again, we cave in, not being able to bear seeing her in such a deplorable state. Oh, sure, she makes the empty promises that she'll give it up. Cold turkey, if she has to. But we know, come tomorrow morning, she'll come padding up the stairs with that Kong in her mouth. She needs help. She needs . . . an intervention.