This post will not be about movies.

This post will not be about movies. I feel I deserve a short break from thinking about them after the tornado of screenings, screeners, think lists, nominations and voting I just experienced. (You can read how our critics group voted here and stay tuned later this week for my personal Best of 2011 list.)

Today I want to talk about another important part of my life -- my dog Luna, a border collie mix rescued in Baja after someone found her next to a litter of puppies that had been put into a garbage bag and thrown in the trash.  My (now ex) boyfriend and I adopted her 3 1/2 years ago from The Barking Lot, a phenomenal rescue group that's worth your support.

From the moment we met, I knew she was a sweet old soul. When she first approached me, she stood up on her hind legs up and gently placed her paws on my waist. I loathe dogs that jump on me (sorry labs) but this was different. After she jumped up, she every so gently pulled me in for a hug. I swear, I am not exaggerating.

She was a shedder with white fur - two of my supposed deal breakers right there. We didn't know how old she was and could see that her teeth were a total disaster. It was love at first sight.

Once we got her home it quickly became apparent that I was her go-to human. She was fine with my boyfriend, but only if I was nearby. If I left the room, the house, the dog park, she would go in to what we came to refer to as her "dogatonic" state -- on her back, stiff as a board, totally refusing to move or react, even if she ended up being carried home (she weighs over 40 pounds).

She soon got comfortable with my boyfriend and, eventually, most men. (I try not to imagine what happened to make her so fearful of men.) But she still hung on to a general anxiousness that took a lot longer to dissipate. In fact, I can recall the moment it happened.

It was just a typical early evening walk. All bathroom business before figuring out what's for dinner. On the way home I glanced down and saw my newly transformed dog. Her normally flattened out, suspicious ears were perked up high on her head with eager curiosity. Her normally tucked tail was raised parallel to the sidewalk and swishing side to side in all its bushy glory. Her fear was lifted. She was a confident, happy dog.

I know plenty of people, usually parents, who dismiss a devoted dog owner's love for their pet. Yes, I can admit that my dog (or my cat, who I've been gaga over since 1999) is not the same thing as a human being. I can't speak for the people who spend thousands of dollars on a pure-bred puppy shipped in from Oklahoma, but when I saw my abused, beaten-down rescue dog finally become so comfortable in the life I'd given her that her entire body language changed, well, that feels really damn good.

Since then, I've made it my mission to do whatever possible to keep her ears and tail at an upward angle. Lucky for me, what she required turned out to be exactly what I needed to keep me well-adjusted and (mostly) happy: regular walks through fresh air and pretty scenery, socializing with dog-walking neighbors and, particularly now that I'm single again, a living being who is so happy to see me at the end of the day that I rush home from work excited for the moment I open the door. So, basically, we're a good match.

Though Luna seemed as happy as one animal with emotional baggage could possibly be, a friend, who is also a veterinarian, recently noticed that her teeth looked pretty bad and were likely causing her pain. This was upsetting not just because of her suffering but because my bank account had already suffered $800 worth of dental bills the year prior to have her teeth cleaned and four pulled (like I said, her bad teeth were no secret to us when we adopted her).

To hear that the original vet had barely even dinged the problem was upsetting to say the least. Forget the money. It's the almost two years since then that piss me off. During that time, her infections worsened (as did her breath) and her life was just a little less perky perfect -- all for something we could've got right the first time if only we'd been told that her dental problems were too severe for this general practitioner's skill set.

Luckily, this vet friend told us about the best animal dentist in Southern California, Dr. Brook Neimiec at Dog Beach Dentistry. It wasn't cheap (cough, cough) but after an unspeakable number of extractions, two root canals and gum surgery to root out several infections that the experienced doctor described as "pretty nasty," she's on the road to being an even happier dog.

But first she needed to do a little more suffering post-surgery. This pathetically cute picture pretty much says it all.

Unlike humans, dogs pretty much put the bad experiences behind them almost as fast as they happened. By the end of day two, she was trying to get me to rough-play with her and leaping for joy when I gave her a treat (with a pill surreptitiously packed inside).

It also seems that, since her infections started clearing up, her sense of smell has improved dramatically. On our walks she is uncharacteristically stubborn, insisting that she sniff every blade of grass, branch and fire hydrant on our normal route. The same grass, branches and fire hydrants she has showed no interest in for the six months I've lived here. This passive (non-dogatonic) resistance is way out of character and actually really annoying. But once I figured out the likely cause, I got that same surge of grateful pride. Giving a dog back her sense of smell is like getting a paraplegic to walk again.

Her ears are perked. Her tail is lifted. She is happy again and better than ever (minus 11 teeth, that is). Mission accomplished.