“Today I’m going to read the entire Inspector General’s report,” I announced to no one in particular Tuesday morning.

I was confused about what was in it. MSNBC had one take. Fox had another. I figured the truth was somewhere in the middle.

Only one way to find it: Read the dang report. All of it.

But the next thing I knew, I was performing CPR on a toy poodle and lost my taste - pardon the expression - for politics.

For a day, anyway.

We have a groomer, Gary, who comes to our house. He’s been a once-a-month fixture since 1995 when we adopted our late miniature poodle, Taffy.

It isn’t like Gary to shout my name while clipping a dog, so I came running yesterday when he did. Fourteen-year-old Tiki had collapsed on the portable grooming table. He had a faint heartbeat, but he was limp and unconscious.

By the time I started little chest compressions and mouth-to-tiny-muzzle resuscitation his heart had stopped.

I kept going, though, thinking he would revive at any moment. That’s what happens in the movies, right? When I finally gave up, I stared at the little guy. Willing him to wag his tail and lift his head.

He didn’t.

Tiki had cataracts, was mostly blind and had some neurological problems He was also my constant companion. The fluffy little presence who slept a few feet away from me - or on my lap - while I worked and who until recently had that show-dog poodle prance when we went for walks.

He was not the smartest dog. He knew no tricks. He couldn’t - or wouldn’t, I was never sure - sit, shake or come when called. He knew his name and the location of his food bowl. Period. He was a terrible watchdog.

Yet he was completely, utterly lovable. What more could you want?

My dad used to say the worst thing about having a dog was that you always outlive them. And he was right.

 I’ve experienced this profound sense of loss before. It never gets easier.

I still remember my overwhelming grief when I was about seven and Terry, our Irish setter, died. Nine years later, I wept with my mother when Rusty, also an Irish setter, had to be put to sleep. Mocha, my chocolate lab, died when I was pregnant with my daughter. Taffy, the irrepressible miniature poodle that grew up with my kids and who alternated sleeping in their empty rooms when they left home, died almost 10 years ago.

 Now this.

Tiki was a birthday present for my daughter when she was in high school, although I knew he would wind up being mine as soon as she left for college.

She’d caught the tiny dog fever from Paris Hilton who was sashaying around the world at the time with a chihuahua peeking out of her purse. There are pet allergies in my house. Chihuahuas were not an option.

We found a precocious ball of white non-shedding fur at the home of a local breeder. We decided to name him after University of Virginia football great Tiki Barber.

(In addition to allergies, we have UVA fans in our house.)

The breeder tried to get us to take Tiki’s littermate, too. They were inseparable, she said. Neither were show quality, she added. You can’t have too many toy poodles, she insisted.

I was adamant. We wanted one puppy. Just one.

We arrived to collect Tiki just before Thanksgiving and the owner begged us to take his brother. Temporarily. Her grandchildren were coming for the holiday, she claimed, and she was worried they’d maul the little fellow.

Would we please take him for a week and bring him back? As a favor to her?

Yup, I’m a sucker.

His name, she said as she handed him over, was Ronde. He was sporting a Tampa Bay Buccaneers neckerchief. Tiki, of course was wearing a New York Giants scarf.

Ronde never went back.

And I’ve never been happier about that than I am today.