At times this summer I was not sure I was playing with a full deck. I don't want to push the poker analogy, but Bob and I were a lowly pair of deuces alongside three Aces in a very full house. Robert (age 24) was living at home to save for an eventual rental in the city; Julia (21) moved back from her snow bound New Hampshire college and her best friend Sarah moved in with us so she could intern at Working Mother.

That's a lot of people for "empty nesters," but the pets outnumbered us by 6 to 5! Julia's two dogs joined our two dogs to make Four of a Kind, and a wild hand it was!

Somehow Julia acquired a guinea pig in college and the little ball of cowlicks came to live with us in a cage the size of an airplane hanger. That oversized home graced my pretty living room all summer while we contemplated where else it could fit. The four dogs were afraid of little Pickles-they circled the cage curiously but knew that if anyrhing bad happened to her they would be in deep trouble.

Upstairs Frack the black cat reigned in complete control like a skinny, imperious King of Spades. Weighing no more than 6 pounds and wielding two decades of cat wisdom, Frack ruled the upstairs. When the youngest of the Four of a Kind dared to steal food from Frack's bowl the skinny King lept out of the shadows to attack him with a vicous one-two swipe of his clawless front paws. We called it the "soft paw" attack, and it was surprisingly effective against a dog whose teeth weighed more than the aging-but-self-confident King of the Upstairs.

Since the people could not control the Four of a Kind, a leader emerged from the pack as Buster the Welsh Corgi became judge, jury and jailer of the other three. Although Buster's short legs make him the smallest of the gang his mighty nature gave him complete control as he ran to every doggie argument and every doggie game to settle the dispute or referee the plays. He was ever vigilant and nothing could stop his ear-splitting, rapid-fire control bark when the other three got even a bit outside the bounds of his strict behaviour requirements.

It seemed at times that all this life force was going to burst the walls of my century old farmhouse, especially as we lived thru the blazing hottest summer ever with only a few cranky air conditioners to keep all of our temperatures from boiling over.

And just when it couldn't get anymore chaotic, the wild cards showed up: seven men and women dressed in revolutionary-era war uniforms re-enacting the march of Rochambeau pitched 8 authentic tents in our generous backyard, just a few miles from where the French supporters of our forefathers actually pitched the same type tents 230 years ago.

Who dealt this wild card hand? Me, of course, having invited these dedicated historians to our yard when I met them by chance and found them in need of a camp.

You see, it's me. I'm the dealer, and I love all the craziness and chaos and noise that only a very full deck can provide.