Mother's Day can be a minefield for those of us who have tried, in vain, to have kids. But as I get older my understanding of motherhood expands. I feel especially blessed this season to be surrounded by my step and adopted family and to watch one of my non-traditional "kids" become a foster mother herself. She is gorgeous, funny and smart, and I'm nominating her for mother of the year. She is a Wyandotte chicken, and we've renamed her "Mother."

Most chickens have had all the mothering bred out of them. I, personally, have a diverse band of fowl from all flocks of life. This year, spring on the farm delivered a special challenge and surprise. Our pretty young Wyandotte decided (against all odds) that she was to be a mom. She stockpiled eggs and puffed up like a turkey and grumpily scolded us when we came to collect. This was all in vain because none of our eggs are fertilized (we don't have a rooster). After we collected the day's eggs, she even sat on an empty nest, not eating or drinking, while she waited for her imaginary brood to hatch. Her behavior was strange and crabby and chickens like conformity. She became isolated from the group and got more and more odd.

This week we said a final goodbye to our very sweet hound, Jim, after six years together.

We are ruled by dual masters, and in my case, they rarely agree. My time with Jim has been punctuated by countless quiet, painful battles between my heart and my mind, especially his last few years when he was in and out of hospice care.

I met him as an old, strange community dog in Costa Rica with numbered days, so I don't think either of us expected a long, or especially deep, relationship. But love often sneaks up on us, and if we are lucky, our intellect still gives way to passion. This is what happened to us.

The arc of our attachment had a lot to do with external factors. I was determined to not bond too deeply, since, from the beginning, I knew he only had a few months to live. Then somewhere around the fourth or fifth time he had a medical crisis in which the doctor gave him only a few months, I began to feel as if my hardy Jim, who kept surviving the unsurvivable, might, in fact, never leave me. So I fell in love with this dog and his quirky hound-dog behavior. He became a guidepost for me, and the fact that he'd chosen me increased my net worth substantially.

Here is how it all began ... well, this is not really how it all began. Like so many of you, I can only imagine what my boy's life was like before I met him. I have reason to believe it was full of romping and play and that he was well-cared-for (if not well-loved). But at some point he became homeless. He, like many community dogs, seemed more at ease around other dogs than in the house with people. AT FIRST. Once he discovered things like pizza and dog beds, he began to fulfill his true destiny: to be a house-potato.

I met Jim, sick and emaciated, six years ago on a trip to a small village in Costa Rica, where he blocked my way on the sidewalk, looked me in the eye, and howled -- the most mournful sound I've ever heard. Old, starving, toothless, raw from mange, with a big gross tumor on his belly -- I'd never seen anyone more pitiful.

I treat pet care a little like a religion. Most of my day is consumed (happily) with caring for, entertaining, and snuggling with the 20 or so animals on our little farm. But for all of our attention (and experience), Jake, the newest addition to our family, continues to challenge us.

Early last week, Naughty-Jake came in from the back yard huffing and puffing and greeted me in his usual exuberant style of jumping up and plopping his deep shepherd chest on my lap as I worked at my desk. He smelled like hard play and his ruff was completely wet, like he'd been wrestling with other dogs ... but that was impossible. No one was home who could have taken him to the dog park.

Later in the week I was picking my brother up at the airport when "unknown caller" popped up on my phone. I ignored it. They called back. I begrudgingly answered and heard a strange man talking through the wind -- saying something mostly unintelligible. I did catch some broken phrases: "I think (crackle) dog park (crackle) real nice boy." With a sinking feeling, I pieced it together. When I left for the airport, Naughty-Jake had let himself out of the house by pawing the door knob, gotten out of the fenced back yard and made his way to the dog park, where, I later learned, he sat patiently at the gate until someone let him in.

I'm a little crazy (a tyrant?) about New Year's resolutions. I always bite off more than I can chew and, because I'm a little compulsive, I end up chewing on my overly-tough resolution all year long. Much wiser people make manageable resolutions or cry uncle in mid-January, retooling as necessary.

Petfinder itself may be a byproduct of this dogged (woof woof) obsession with resolution-setting and -keeping. It was in the spirit of the new year (1996) and making a difference that we decided the perfect website -- channeling all the powerful features the web had to offer -- would serve to help homeless pets.

As we enter our 16th year and somewhere around 20 million lives saved, my obsessive resolution-keeping has forever been reinforced.

My favorite personal resolution resulted in a permanent habit that has, more than any other, improved my quality of life. The idea came from Petfinder co-founder Jared Saul. We resolved that our dogs would get three good walks a day -- even though we had a fenced yard -- every single day of the year, regardless of the weather.

The benefits of walking at least three miles a day with your dog are obvious, but for me it has been the gratification of never, ever feeling guilty about them being bored or under-stimulated or under-exercised, which is something that really plagues me.

I also experienced the world, with all its seasonality, with my best friends in a way I would have never done otherwise. I was the eccentric walking around the neighborhood no matter the time of day or the weather -- donning my toasty (and puffy) Carhartt overalls when we lived in New Jersey or my zesty chili-pepper "sunbrella" in Tucson. (By the way, in my version of this resolution, other people walking my dogs counts.) Sixteen years later, my dogs can still count on three walks a day, although Jake, the fence climber, doesn't always wait for us. And old Jim usually opts out if the sky threatens rain.

After the jump: Betsy's resolutions that didn't work out so well.

Dogs in Missouri need your help. Why should you care about dogs in Missouri? Because in your city there is a pretty good chance you have a local pet store selling puppies from a Missouri puppy mill. In fact, Missouri exports up to a million puppies a year all across the U.S. (30% of U.S. puppy mills are in Missouri), and this November, Missouri voters will get to mandate common-sense humane standards for puppy mills at the ballot box. (Learn more about Prop B.)

But the folks who profit by cutting corners on humane care are pulling out all stops to try to quash this important legislation. I applaud the Humane Society of the United States and our Missouri colleagues' efforts to bring about change for over 200,000 breeding dogs. Join us to get the word out to all Missourians to vote YES! on PROP B. Post it on Facebook; e-mail your friends. Help the dogs!

This year my old pooch became fearful, aggressive, crippled and weak, pot-bellied, and incontinent, and started liking sweets. The vets all agreed he was just getting old. I didn't think so. Here is our story:

About a year ago, Jim the hound dog had an almost overnight quality-of-life change. He awoke one night in abject terror, whining and shaking with tremors whenever you'd touch him, especially on the head. He didn't want to sleep alone. That same week he started having trouble with weakness in his hind legs. He had recently started begging to share my pancakes, which was unusual for my normally picky carnivore. Having lost my dogs Max and Kobie to brain tumors, I was certain I was seeing telltale signs of the same awful disease. In a panic, I packed him up and drove him to the vet school for an MRI and was surprised to learn that Jim had a very healthy noggin.

Later that month, my laid-back hound dog became a scaredy-dog. New people and new dogs were especially scary. He'd charge in fear if they came into his yard, couldn't regain his composure for hours, and on two occasions, he tried to gum his victim into submission (Jim is challenged in the tooth department). This was such a dramatic change, I felt strongly that it wasn't a natural aging process.

The Obama family is making the transition to First Family, and we all know what's next: getting that new First Dog.

We're so happy for daughters Malia, 10, and Sasha, 7, and so pleased that the Obamas are going about their search for a new pet in a responsible way: They plan to reach out to shelters and wait patiently for the right pooch to become available for adoption.

The family is concerned about all the right things: finding a pet that will match their lifestyle and choosing a dog appropriate for Malia's allergies (how great that the Obamas believe a kid with allergies can know the joy of having a pooch -- they must have a good pet-loving pediatrician!).

I just want to shout out a special thanks to the First Family for providing us with such a great example of responsible pet selection. If folks follow their lead, I believe far fewer pets will end up in shelters.

Pets as gifts. This used to be one of the big shelter and rescue no-nos. Even the mere suspicion that someone was "shopping" for a gift pet was enough to send a shamed would-be adopter back out the door.

Some shelters used to go so far as to shut down adoption programs during the holidays. The rationale was that a pet not adequately prepared for was a pet unlikely to stay in the home fur-ever.

Now, as the animal welfare industry matures, more emphasis is given to studies and statistics -- and boy have we all been surprised. We've learned that in some cases, people may in fact keep pets they got as surprise gifts the longest.

It turns out that cats, especially, may benefit from less planning and fewer expectations. (There is much to be said about that another day.)

So "pets as gifts" has come into its own. As an exercise, I, lover of all animals, founder of Petfinder, the consummate pet advocate, close my eyes and imagine the quintessential holiday experience -- and what do I see? I see bright packages piled under a sparkling tree and overflowing stockings, and smell hot cocoa. But that isn't all. I'm surprised to find that my Technicolor Christmas includes gift pets. Not just any gift pets, but a fuzzy kitten and a Labrador (can substitute Golden) Retriever puppy.

Wait just a minute here! How did the purebred puppy and fuzzball kitten sneak into my perfect Christmas morning vision? What kind of a terrible animal welfar-ian am I? The red street dog -- the mutt of mutts -- tops my preferred pet list, and a PUPPY? Please! Everyone knows I have a thing for senior pets. Notwithstanding the comical Far Side-esque images that come to mind when I picture my animal-welfare-endorsed, decrepit red senior under the tree, I think if we take a serious second look at pets as gifts, we'll find some inspiring truths.

During my life I've had many cats. All but one were normal and well-adjusted. But the first was not. It was this one weird cat that prompted my lifelong interest in senior pets. Here is our story.

When I was in college I saw an ad in the paper for a free cat. She was a 16-year-old Calico named Callie. I thought we were a good match. I could help a cat in need and get her love in return. And, because of her age, I figured she'd pass away before I left for graduate school. Perfect timing for both of us.

Her owner had died, and she was the one pet his family wouldn't take in. I might have inquired why they didn't want her with an open mind and understanding heart, but instead, I was simply aghast (just a wee bit judgmental). After all, I was 20 and issues of animal welfare were pretty black and white.

I'm far too stubborn to be a hypocrite, so over the next months, my noisy criticism of her previous family strengthened my resolve to make this strange cat love me. For four months she lived in the kitchen cabinet (actually in my lazy Susan) only to come out to relieve herself on the carpet. Wall-to-wall became bare wood.

In Month 6, she moved into a new space, under my bed. Eventually, she began to sneak out until her days were spent with me instead of the dust bunnies.

In 2005 I visited Denver. It happened to be the week the Pit Bull ban's grandfather period ended. In other words, Pit Bulls were illegal to own and as of that week, any Pit Bull in the city was a target for seizure and euthanasia.

As I stood in the shelter that morning, slackjawed and humbled, rows upon rows of Pit Bulls looked back at me. We had the same expression on our faces: "This is all wrong. There has been a terrible mistake."

I thought, "These are owned animals; loving family members." I imagined them feeling, "I have a home; I love my family."

These Pit Bulls had been seized from their homes, without provocation on their part, as part of a city-wide cleansing. Other than being, ostensibly, Pit Bulls, most of the seized dogs had done nothing wrong other than living within the city limits of a town with a breed ban.

Breed bans are troublesome for many reasons.

• They detract from the very real issues of dangerous dogs and irresponsible owners.
• They are applied haphazardly, based on looks alone.
• They criminalize, for no good reason, an entire segment of the population -- those folks who have adopted Pit Bulls and, in many cases, Pit mixes.
• They lend an air of credibility to myths about Pit Bulls. (Pit Bull jaws CANNOT "lock"!)

And, on a more philosophical level, Pit Bull bans smack of dangerous thinking.