Michael Phelps, you're no Matt Trott

I bet Michael Phelps doesn't have to deal with the stuff I do. And I don't mean the crippling disability crap.

First, Claren has learned that when I put on my swimming suit that I am leaving her. It is for about two hours and in that time she gets dinner and Dad keeps an eye on her.

No matter, you'd think she had a vision and I was on my way to certain death. She leans against me. She follows me. Dad has to hold her collar to keep her from trotting out with me like she normally does.

This is not, let me be clear, a problem. It breaks my heart every Sunday. I wish I could bring her into the pool with me. My friend swims with her dogs, but she lives on a lake. Most pools frown on dogs joining their partners.

I bet, though, Michael Phelps is famous enough that if he has a dog he could take it to the local pool. In fact, he probably has his own pool so the dog could swim there.

In a similar vein, he probably doesn't get to the pool only to find it closed for an hour because some kid did something in the water.

But going to the pool wasn't a total waste of time. It gave people opportunity to rope me into staffing a table for a disability group my brother works for. I still think I should have been let off the hook because my brother does so much.

No such luck. It'll be fun; I am teamed with the woman who runs the swimming class so it'll be cool. At least I can bring Claren.