Practical philosopher Dr. Orison Swett Marden once said, "The beginning of a habit (behavioral pattern) is like an invisible thread, but every time we repeat the act we strengthen the strand, add it to another filament, until it becomes a great cable and binds us irrevocably thought and act."

But what happens when a person has a change of habit? I'll tell you what happens, chaos . Which is exactly what happened one morning at our house.

Every day, my husband wakes before dawn and begins his day. He turns on the stereo to his favorite jazz and blues station, makes coffee and then he goes outside to get the morning newspaper.

The whirling sound of the coffee grinder has become the dinner bell for our Labrador, Whitman. In the past, Whitman would sneak into the kitchen's pantry and eat loaves of bread and an entire case of Cup of Noodle Soup. Now, he sleeps in the basement behind a baby gate.

Our family's Chihuahua, Olive has also been conditioned. When Whitman barks, she flips and spins like a wind-up toy wound too tight. Chihuahuas are like four-legged infants, they like to be held and carried everywhere. Each morning when my husband goes downstairs to let Whitman upstairs, he tucks Olive underneath one of his arms. Feeling brave, Olive growls and yips at Whitman. I imagine her saying, "I'm the boss of you! And don't you forget it, Mister!"

This one particular morning, I said to my husband, "You sleep in today. I'll make coffee, pick up the paper outside and feed the dogs."

"You'd do that for me?" he said as if I had never made coffee in the morning before.

I turned on the stereo and made coffee. One pulse of the coffee grinder, and Whitman immediately began barking, as did Olive, and I went outside to get the newspaper. Olive was on the kitchen floor doing her flips and spins, when I went to let Whitman up the stairs.

What happened next convinced me to never run with the bulls. Just as I lifted the baby gate, Whitman charged the steps at the exact same time Olive ran down the steps. "Olive, get back!" I yelled. I threw my body up against the stairwell wall and let Whitman pass — his elephant-size paws trampled up the stairs.

I heard an unearthly cry. Olive was lying on her side at the bottom of the steps. She wasn't moving, and the tip of her tongue stuck out of her mouth like a pug. I picked her up and held her.

"So much for sleeping in. What happened?" my husband growled when he entered the kitchen.

"Whitman stepped on Olive," I cried. "I think he broke her neck."

"Giv'er to me," he said.

He said the same thing when our son at 4 months old fell down the steps. "Giv'im to me," and he held our son up like parents do when they are teaching their kids to walk. Only problem was that our son hadn't even learned to crawl yet. Olive dropped to the floor just as our son did.

That's when I noticed her eye. "Her eye! I screamed. Chihuahuas have bulbous eyes, but Olive's right eye looked like Rocky Balboa.

It was 7 a.m. when I drove Olive to the vet's office. I was still in my pajamas and barefoot. Dr. Skip just pulled into the parking lot. I ran to his car and held Olive up to the car's window. I blubbered something like: "I should've stayed in bed and not made coffee."

"Calm down. "Let's bring her inside and take a look at her."

Olive stayed in the observation ward all day. Her prognosis, wait-n-see; wait and see if her eye receded into her head, which meant she would lose her right eye. Our little one thought having a one-eyed Chihuahua was cool and had already designed a Bedazzled eye patch. But as it turned out, Olive's eye healed. And we went back to being creatures of habit — I sleep in in the morning, and my husband makes the coffee.

To find out more about Mimi Kopulos and read her past columns, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

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