India's mom says: My little black Pomeranian, India, is the answer to some 30-mumble years of wishes, hopes, and dreams. I've always been violently allergic to anything with fur or feathers, yet I've wanted a puppy since I was about four. At Christmas all my friends were making wish-lists on behalf of their puppies, so I made one for "my puppy," a Snoopy dog that I'd dragged around by the ears for years. I asked for dog biscuits for Snoopy, and my understanding parents gave them to me, and I ate a dog biscuit every day "for Snoopy," until my parents caught me. Last fall, I met a Pom that didn't make me stop breathing or hive up or sneeze. Hope crept into my heart like ivy tendrils taking hold of a brick wall. I found a breeder nearby who was incredibly patient with me. I visited her house to see if I could tolerate Poms. I held her pups and smooshed them in my face to see if they'd make me hive. And I visited India at six weeks old to see if she'd be the semi-hypoallergenic pup I'd been searching for. I should confess here that if I don't take Zyrtec every day, and if India doesn't get bathed every week, and if I don't remember *not* to rub my eyes, the story would have a different ending. As it is, I have a little ball of black fluffy love that I adore. India's just over ten months old now and incredibly spirited. ("Sassy" is how one of my friends describes her.) She "talks" a lot and is quite clever: she knows "sit," "down," "spin," "walk" (on her rear legs), "creep," "shake," and "speak." Everywhere we go, people want to pet her, and for her part she wants nothing more than to increase the net love in the universe with kisses.