Ruby Rescue(d): One Year Later

(Photo Credit: Moose, 1/1/12)

A year ago today Ms. Ruby pranced across the threshold and became the official embodied dog of Roxie's World, ending fourteen months of terrier-free living (if you can call that living) for the Moms and more than three years of confinement in a Missouri puppy mill for one of the sweetest critters on dog's earth. (You can read Ruby's story on the American Fox Terrier Rescue website, and don't worry -- There are no horrifying words or pictures that will ruin your day. If you love dogs, terriers, or this humble blog, you might even consider making a donation to support the work of AFTR. Just a thought. That's what Moose did this morning to celebrate the anniversary of Ruby's adoption.)

A year later I think it's fair to say that Ruby's transition to a pampered life with a pair of besotted humans has gone smoothly. She remains a quiet girl who rarely barks and only occasionally whines. Moose sometimes supposes this behavior is a result of neglect and isolation in her early life. Poor Ruby never learned she could use her voice to command humans and order her world. That, of course, is one reason we've heard relatively little from her here on the blog. In other respects, though, Ruby is remarkably transformed from the skinny critter she was a year ago. Daily exercise and a better diet have bulked her up considerably. Her paw pads, which were soft as a baby's behind when she arrived in Roxie's World, are now thick with callouses. She enjoys walks, but the concept of play is still something of a mystery to her. Unlike me, she won't hang out in the yard by herself for extended periods of time, chasing squirrels, digging holes, and woofing at anything that moves. In the company of a human, however, she will race from one end of the ridiculously large backyard to the other in crazy figure 8s. Moose is trying to capture this delightful activity on film for the pleasure of my readers. Stay tuned.

Not all puppy mill dogs adjust to life after rescue as well as Ms. Ruby has. The emotional scars can last for years. The Moms feel incredibly fortunate that their girl is both trusting and resilient, eager to give and receive love. Which she does, on a daily basis. You can see it, can't you, in the sweet, single brown eye she offers up to the camera in the photo above? You are mine, I am yours, that serene gaze seems to say. This lesson I have learned, happily.

Today we celebrate words that begin with "R": rescue, resilience, recovery, . . . Ruby. A celebration requires a song. How about Aretha Franklin's "Rescue Me," performed by Fontella Bass? Sounds right to me. Sing it, girlfriend. I need you and your love, too. Can't you see that I'm lonely? Peace out, darlings. May you be rescued by love today.

64 Flamingos and an Imaginary Dog

A Meditation on Two Earthquakes

Many readers no doubt felt the shifting of the earth beneath Roxie's World that occurred the other day. The animals at the National Zoo in Washington certainly felt it. The Zoo's Center for Animal Care Sciences released a fascinatingly detailed report on changes in animal behavior that staffers noted just before and during the 5.8 magnitude quake that shook the region on Tuesday afternoon: apes abandoning their food and climbing to the tops of tree-like structures, vocalizing in ways that indicated irritation; snakes (normally inactive during the day) writhing; a pride of lions standing still and facing a building; 64 flamingos rushing around just before the quake and grouping themselves together, staying huddled until the trembling stopped. 64 flamingos: I love that odd bit of numerical precision, don't you? Do flamingos always hang out in square numbers? (Flamingo photo via.)

Wa Po's Joel Achenbach has a good followup on the Zoo's report that explores the question of what it is that animals seem to know in advance of events such as earthquakes and how they know it. Shorter version: Scientists aren't sure, but possible explanations include an ability to hear, feel, or smell things humans can't detect or, more simply, that animals are paying closer attention to the natural world than humans are. Lacking smartphones and large-screen TVs, perhaps apes and flamingos have more room in their smaller brains to notice that the planet is gearing up to rearrange itself. Just a thought.

We don't have especially gripping tales to tell of the Day the Earth Moved, alas. Ms. Ruby, the new embodied dog of Roxie's World, was home alone at the time, so the Moms can't say whether she exhibited signs of preternatural knowledge of what was about to happen or put up a blood-curdling howl when the house began to pitch. (The house doesn't seem to have pitched much. Aside from a few crooked pictures [see photo at left] and a couple of crawl-space doors popped open, there's little evidence of seismic activity or stress.) Moose was in the car when the quake occurred and felt nothing, though she "heard" it by way of "The Kojo Nnamdi Show," which she was listening to on her way to the office. Goose was having lunch at a restaurant on the campus of QTU, which was thoroughly shaken by the quake. (The university's main library, McKeldin, remains closed today, while structural engineers check for damage and workers re-shelve more than 13,000 books that fell to the floor during the episode. Check out these photos of the mess -- and then go find a librarian to hug, OK?)

Funny thing, though, and this will take us to the imaginary dog referred to in the title to this post: Both moms, in the excitement of the day's events and independently of one another, thought back to an itty-bitty earthquake that rattled the Washington area not too long ago. They both remembered it, though they were fuzzy on when it happened. "Summer," Moose said with confidence, "but I'm not sure if it was 2009 or 2008. I'll have to check the blog. We posted on it." They both told a similar story about how I, then embodied, awoke them by starting to bark moments before the rumbling of the quake began. They told this story, independently and with absolute certainty, before they had seen any of the reports about animals at the Zoo seeming agitated in advance of Tuesday's temblor. I am charmed by this tale, flattering as it is to my animal wisdom and the vital work I performed as guardian of two sweet but largely clueless humans for darn near sixteen years.

The only problem with this happy story, as you might have guessed by now, is that it isn't true. The itty-bitty pre-dawn quake the Moms so vividly recall occurred not in 2009 or 2008 but on July 16, 2010 -- seven months after I had moved on to what we might, for lack of a better term, call Heaven. When Moose finally tracked down our post on the earlier quake, she was astonished to realize how utterly mistaken she and Goose had been in their recollection of the event and by how sincerely they believed something that was demonstrably untrue. Moose had told the story a couple of times that afternoon: "Sure, I remember that other quake. It was summer. Roxie was still with us, and she started to bark just before we felt the tremors." Late Tuesday evening, Goose spoke to her brother, a criminal defense attorney, and they had a good laugh about the unreliability of eyewitness testimony. "People don't necessarily mean to lie," they agreed. "They often just misjudge or misremember what they saw."

That's true, but Moose is still marveling over the imaginary dog that somehow found its way into her and Goose's memories of the Little Quake of 2010 that came before the Not So Little Quake of 2011. Yes, memory is fallible, but our mistakes may be significant. What psychic need was fulfilled by this particular lapse? she wonders. Last summer, we were still grieving the loss of our much loved and fiercely protective companion. Did we insert her into that memory because at the time she was, psychically, still very much with us? Or is this an instance of the present reshaping the past? We have a new dog now who in many ways strongly resembles the old dog. Did Ruby's presence fill in the blanks created by Roxie's absence from the original earthquake? Was our memory lapse really a case of mistaken identity, as in all those times, in the early months of her being with us, when we would slip and say Roxie instead of Ruby? Is the imaginary dog an instance of seeing Ruby where we once would have seen Roxie?

Grief is funny, sometimes. Sometimes literally. Two weeks ago at the beach, members of the extended pack slipped a few times and said Roxie instead of Ruby. "Roxie is dead," Moose declared when one such slip occurred. "That's Ruby." She said it sardonically but with a twinkle in her eye that let kiwiboy know it was OK to giggle. It was her way of saying, Yes, she is really gone, and that breaks our hearts, but we carry on as best we can and find ways to love and reasons to laugh again. This is one of the two lessons Moose sees it as her duty to teach little children. The other is that grownups get to cuss whenever they want to but kids can't. Hey, Miss Jean Brodie she ain't, but you have to admit that resilience and pragmatism are useful life skills.

So, darlings, consider this an invitation to tell us your quake tales or your stories of real or imagined shaggy dogs. Where were you when the earth moved? We're dying to know.

Ruby's Worlds

The heartwarming story of Sister Ruby's journey from a Missouri puppy mill to a Maryland pleasure palace is now up on the American Fox Terrier Rescue website. It includes photos even the Moms have never seen of the new embodied dog of Roxie's World shortly after her liberation, late last November, from a life of confinement and forced breeding. (Ruby was called "Sissy" by the angels who rescued her, so her transitional name was "Sister Ruby.") You'll also find a little piece that Moose wrote to let readers know how Ruby's adjustment to life with a ridiculously large backyard and a couple of besotted humans is going. Shorter version: The poor kid is coping. Somehow.

On their recent road trip to the midwestern Land of the Moosians, the Moms -- in that way they have of pretending that dogs talk -- imagined that their adorable little companion kept asking from the backseat of the car, "We're not going through Missouri, are we? 'Cause I really don't want to go through Missouri!" -- As if she were a canine Louise ordering Thelma to find a way to get to Mexico without going through Texas. "Not to worry, Ruby-doo," Goose assured her. "We won't be going through Missouri, ever!"

Sometimes late at night, curled up on the couch, Moose gazes into Ruby's big, brown, trusting eyes and tries to imagine Missouri and the first three years of her sweet girl's life. She wants to reconstruct that missing time and space in order more fully to understand the present -- the way Ruby will freeze in her tracks when she encounters a more dominant dog, for example, or the deep, instantaneous attachment she can form to a new toy. In this desire, Moose is not unlike Denver in Toni Morrison's Beloved, who longs to know the story of her family's origins at Sweet Home, the Kentucky plantation from which Sethe, her then enslaved mother, escaped while pregnant with her. "Denver, you can't never go there," Sethe urgently insists, after explaining Sweet Home's persistence in what she calls rememory. "Never. Because even though it's all over -- over and done with -- it's going to always be there waiting for you. That's how come I had to get all my children out. No matter what."

Is it fair to compare a puppy mill to a slave-holding plantation? Probably not, though we think the analogy points to certain brutal economic similarities between the two spaces. In any case, we hope you'll grant the validity of Moose's desire for knowledge of a beloved other's possibly traumatic past. Tell me your story, we say to those we love. Tell me your story, so that I may know you fully and we can share whatever burden there may be from your past. Tell me your story, and I will tell you mine, and in the telling we will become something new.

Or we will write a new story, in a new place, a better place, a hotter than hell place that is not hell but Paradise. With smoothies.

It's the American dream, darlings, as revised and realized by the Department of Middle-Aged Dykes With Dogs. Don't be jealous. Every breed has a rescue organization. If you love a particular breed and are ready to expand the size of your pack, get in touch with a rescue group. Or contact a shelter in your area. As Lucinda Williams says in the song we embedded here the other day, "You were born to be loved" -- and you were born to love. What the heck are you waiting for?

* * *

Dedicated, with thanks and admiration, to the good folks of American Fox Terrier Rescue, who brought the sweetest critter on dog's earth into our lives, and to all the friends who have so kindly welcomed Ms. Ruby into our extended pack. We love running with each and all of you, actually and virtually.

I Have a Feeling We're Not in [Missouri] Anymore

We know there's news breaking out in the world, darlings -- news monumental, heartbreaking, terrifying, and queerly relevant and disappointing -- but we can't wrap our paws around it right now. Forgive us. It's spring. Goose is away at a conference. Moose has a plane to catch early in the morning. And the new dog in Roxie's world made her first trip to the groomer's today. Would you mind terribly if we uploaded a couple of really cute pictures and called it a night? I mean, really cute. Miss Ruby is a super high-femme girlie girl, so her day at the beauty parlor made Dorothy's makeover in Oz look positively ho-hum. Ruby loved her groomer -- my erstwhile groomer, of course -- and the groomer loved her. She came home smelling sweet and looking absolutely, well, foxy. Don't you agree?

The shot above is in the car on the way home. (Note to Rulers of the World: Please pass a law against taking photographs while driving. Moose really shouldn't be doing that, should she?) Ruby likes car rides, too. She looks sleepy, though, doesn't she? Well, you know that the quest for beauty can be exhausting. She looks a little perkier after she'd gotten home and had a snack and a chance to strut around the house a bit:

(Photo Credits: Moose, with effects by CameraBag, 3/18/11)

Bet your teeth are aching from the sweetness, right? Yeah, I thought so. Don't worry, my pretties. The world and all its sorrows will be waiting for you tomorrow. For now, savor a little cuteness rescued from the horrors of a Missouri puppy mill and magically transported to a world of love and fabulousness beyond her wildest terrier dreams.

Ah, Ruby, you are a fortunate critter indeed. I may be in heaven, but you are in paradise. Dorothy Gale had nothing on you. Savor the bliss. You deserve it.

And so do you, my darlings. May you be up to your eyeballs in love and fabulousness. Peace out.

(Go watch the clip of Dorothy and Toto taking their first awestruck steps through Oz. You know you want to, and we want you to, but we can't embed it here.) 

Resistance Is Futile

Please let me in, Mr. President. I mean, srsly, what. have. you. got. to. lose? People are saying this joint has already gone to the dogs. Let's make it literal, and at least you'll know you've got one true pal. Lemme in. Lemme IN. Lemme IN already!

(First Dog of the United States, Bo, peers into the Oval Office from the Colonnade of the White House. Photo Credit: Pete Souza, the White House, via.)

That is all, darlings. We stumbled across this photo and thought it was a succinct way to do some political venting and indulge our dog-lust, which is considerable among the dogless dog people of Roxie's World at the moment. Moose blames the impending holidays. Wevs. You know it's bad when you get misty-eyed over the pic on the Dog of the Day Calendar.

How're things in your neck of the woods, kids? Here's hoping there is a pink-tongued bundle of love standing outside your door. Fer dog's sake, would ya let it in already? Peace out.

The Wise Little Visitor

(Sam in a Pool of Light that Looks Like a Magic Carpet, by the Back Door, Saturday Morning. Photo Credit: Moose, 5/1/10.)

Visiting Adorable Schnoodle: The Interwebs are boring this morning, and I don't know what to do about the oil spill or what to say about why the state of Arizona has clearly gone bat-$hit crazy. Can't we just go for a walk?

Currently Dogless Dog Person: Yes, we can. C'mon, little buddy. The sun is out, the breeze is blowing, and Roxie's trail goes on forever. Let's hit it!

That is all, darlings. Go outside and play, will you? The world and all its madness will be right here when you get back.

Sugar Shock

In Which We Offer a Double Dose of Animal Cuteness in Lieu of an Actual Post

Blame it on Historiann, who asks readers this morning if they have ever heard the expression "cute as a pailful of kittens?" Have you ever heard that expression? We hadn't, actually, but the question made us wonder:

Does anyone ever say,
"cute as a basketful of puppies?"

An exhaustive quarter of a second search of the Interwebs suggests that this is not a common expression, but we think it should be, because, well, you know:


(Photo Credit: Picked up here, but you should avoid this captivating blog about some amazing yet ordinary saints out in Shampoo-Banana doing the lord's work of providing foster care for dogs, especially pups and new moms. This blog features a PuppyCam that is as addictive as crack, especially if you are on leave or have recently lost a much beloved companion animal. Do not go to this blog if you love dogs or have anything other than a stone in the place where your heart should be. And if you are foolish enough to go to this blog, do not under any circumstances look at the little puppy named Martha, who is chocolate brown and so full of spunk and cuteness that your heart will melt even if it is made of stone. [That's Martha on the back row of the photo above, clearly plotting to lead the pack on a great escape from the silly basket.] You have been warned. RW Enterprises, LLC)

Should your taste in animal cuteness incline more in the feline direction than the canine -- but if that is the case, darling, may I ask what the heck you are doing here? -- then click on the vid Historiann embedded in her post, which shows Koko, the gorilla famous for her skill in sign language, meeting a litter of five kittens and picking out one to snuggle with:



Lord, people, how is a girl ever supposed to get anything done, with all this inter-species cuteness just a click or two away? Oh, and if you feel like getting a little weepy while you are not reading scholarly journals in your field this afternoon, take a look at the vid of Koko learning about the death of a beloved kitten/playmate, All Ball. Grab a hankie, kittens, and learn what it sounds like when gorillas cry.

Wisdom of the Day from a 6-year Old who Hangs Out in le monde d'Historiann: "STFU" could also stand for Snuggle Time For Us! How lovely to think so, don't you agree? The next time someone slaps you with a stinging STFU in the midst of some epic Interweb kerfuffle, imagine that is the intended meaning and consider replying with these words from the greatest snuggler in the history of rock and roll, Mr. Bruce Springsteen:

Cuddle up angel cuddle up my little dove
We'll ride down baby into this tunnel of love

Oh, Bruce, you had me at cuddle up. STFU, darlings, and I'll see you soon, down in the tunnel of love. Peace out.

What Remains

(With apologies to photographer Sally Mann and gratitude to the former student and FB friend who recommended Mann's extraordinary exploration of mortality, love, and grief.)

I told you Moose was digitizing me. To honor the one-month anniversary of my slipping of the mortal coil of the body (which was yesterday), she offers this bit of canine ephemera from the Refrigerator Art Division of the Roxie Electronic Archive (TM: RW Enterprises, LLC):

Lovely, isn't it? And how marvelous that the world's most famous beagle would recognize the capacity of my own delightful breed to make humans happy. Believe me, darlings, we WFTs earn our breed description as playful and friendly, making us excellent companions for children (and aging lesbians, though for some strange reason the AKC omits that particular detail in enumerating our many virtues).

How are the moms doing? you may be wondering as they mark this sad milestone, because you are caring people and you know how much they doted on me. That is a hard question to answer, even when it is posed by you, my legions of loyal and trusted readers. I feel protective of the moms right now, gazing down upon them tenderly -- as we might imagine I do -- from my new post here in heaven, right in between Spike, the butch gray tabby I never met, and Lily, the trans girl tabby who taught me early that cats rule the world, no matter what dogs or humans think. I watch Moose and Goose move, separately and together, through the early stages of their grief, and I long to lick away the unexpected tears that spring to their eyes in odd moments. I want to help them adjust to new routines or perhaps do something goofy to distract them from an unremitting sense of something missing, something silent, something painfully out of balance. Turns out, though, that my powers as Universal Dog are pretty much limited to sending out beams of all the love that was left in my mighty heart when it beat its last. The cats assure me the moms feel that sometimes, and I think they do, like when they tell the tale of one of my exploits and then start laughing. Or when one reaches out for no particular reason and squeezes the hand of the other. See, the cats say at moments like that, they're doing all right, Rox. They're doing all right.

Even though, from the moms' perspective, the world has become a minefield of heartwarming stories about dogs, humans, love, loss, and inter-species heroism, any one of which might produce some of those unexpected tears referred to above. Their in-boxes are full of such stories, and they read them eagerly and with gratitude for the kind thoughts that inspired the sender to pass them along:

• A long New York magazine feature on "The Rise of Dog Identity Politics," which explores how the increasing intimacy of human/canine relationships in urban settings and in households with fewer children has produced something of an existential crisis for dogs. Moose preferred the part of the story focused on recent studies showing that dog ownership produces an increase in the social-bonding hormone, oxytocin. She figures that anything that increases the human capacities for empathy, trust, and social affiliation has to be good.
  
• A touching story from the New York Times about two elderly dogs, Harry and Bix, who lived in the same New York City apartment building and died recently within twenty four hours of one another. I am enormously grateful to have spent my earthly life in a nice house with a ridiculously large back yard rather than in an apartment in the city, but I have to admit these two fellas seem to have had a pretty good thing going. Their humans got together after their deaths and shared a bottle of champagne. That sounds like a fitting ending to a happy story of urban canine life.
• An amazing local news story about a 4-month-old chihuahua who saved his owner's life by barking his tiny head off to alert his human that the big rig they were sleeping in at a Frederick, MD truck stop had caught fire. Coco saved the day, but he suffered severe smoke inhalation and racked up some hefty vet bills. Click on that link if you'd like to find out how to help defray the costs of this little hero's care.

Heck, Moose even found herself choked up over a story about the keeper at the National Zoo who is facing separation from the giant panda, Tai Shan, whom she has cared for for the past 4 1/2 years. (Tai Shan, in the extremely unlikely event that you haven't heard, is leaving Washington this week to enter a breeding program in China.) And both moms got a little choked up when they went to the movies this afternoon. They went to see A Single Man, the marvelous adaptation of Christopher Isherwood's 1964 novel starring Colin Firth and Julianne Moore. Contrary to what you might have heard, this powerful film is actually a story about the devastating consequences of unexpected pet loss, featuring a couple of very handsome smooth-coated fox terriers. The moms agreed that the main character's life might have been marginally improved by the sex/gender revolution that would transform Western civilization in the years just after the film's 1962 setting, but they thought what he really needed was a new animal companion. As Snoopy notes above, there is just nothing like a terrier to cheer a guy up when he's down.

Meanwhile, in Roxie's World, there are as of yet no new dogs sniffing the grounds of my ridiculously large back yard. No dogs or plans for dogs -- just longings and memories and scraps of poetry like this one from Ezra Pound's "Canto 81," also featured in Mann's book:

What thou lovest well remains,
the rest is dross
What thou lov'st shall not be
reft from thee

Indeed, darlings. It is true. Don't ever doubt or forget it. Dogspeed.

Doggie Death Panels (Not!)

This public service announcement is brought to you by the Department of Inter-Species Aging and Communication. (H/T to Goose.)

This week is Animal Week on NPR's Fresh Air with the dulcet-toned Terry Gross. I know, I know, every week should be Animal Week, but, regrettably, we don't live in that kind of world. Anyway, Terry's first guest on yesterday's show was Dr. Nancy Kay (pictured above), a veterinarian who specializes in issues near and dear to the hearts of my legions of loyal fans: the difficult medical decisions humans are called upon to make on behalf of their companion animals as they age, particularly now that advances in veterinary medicine mean that unprecedented levels of intervention are possible for dogs and cats with cancer and other conditions associated with old age. Dr. Kay has written a book called Speaking for Spot: Be the Advocate Your Dog Needs to Live a Happier, Healthier, Longer Life. Her Web site and blog are here. In the interview with Gross (a cat person, of course), Dr. Kay speaks movingly about her efforts to help humans think through questions of how much and what kind of care is appropriate, how to judge when an animal is in pain, and what an animal's experience of euthanasia is like. Moose got through the whole 30-minute interview without crying, though Dr. Kay choked up a couple of times.

Give it a listen, especially if you've got a sweet old bitch like me curled up at your feet. Dog bless you, friend, and know that you are not alone in the inordinate amount of time you spend worrying about how your animal companion is feeling and doing. Roxie's World is here for you, and, fortunately, so is Dr. Kay. Peace out.

The Saucy Dogs of Ireland

And the Same-Sex Penguins of San Fran

These amusing bits of canine and penguin cultural history are brought to you by our beloved Candy Man, who, like so many of the English profs of Roxie's World, is off on the kind of international research mission that summer makes possible for hard-working scholar-teachers. Candy Man is in Dublin town this week, doing work at the National Library of Ireland -- I mean, you know, when he isn't shopping, dancing, Skyping, Facebooking, or trolling the internets searching for material for America's favorite dog blog devoted to politics, pop culture, and basketball.


For example, yesterday he alerted us to this compelling tid-bit about Harry and Pepper, the same-sex pair of penguins at the San Francisco (of course) Zoo who recently separated after six years because Harry has taken up with a female penguin named Linda. Moose has spent much of the day sitting in her red chair contemplating a side-splitting post on the subject, imagining rival gay penguin organizations battling to spin the story of Harry and Pepper (and Linda) to their advantage. First, of course, there would be the wealthy, assimilationist Penguin Rights Campaign, which would send out its spokespenguin to claim that Harry and Pepper's relationship was clearly a casualty of California's Prop 8. "Harry was scared straight," Joe Penguinese would say somberly. "He couldn't stand up to the tide of social disapprobation he felt was unleashed by Prop 8. Same-sex penguin couples deserve and need the same kind of support, recognition, and protection that opposite-sex penguin couples get. We demand relationship equality now!" Meanwhile, down in the Castro, the rival Queer Penguins Opposed to Marriage denounced Penguinese as a neoliberal fascist and celebrated the breakup of Harry and Pepper as proof of the failure of homonormativity. QPOM spokesepenguin Michael Dugganstam said that Pepper had been liberated from false consciousness and would now be free to experience a much broader range of intimacies. "We welcome Pepper to the wild zone of queer relationality," Dugganstam said. "Marriage is for the meek and the unimaginative, and, besides, it shouldn't be tied to the distribution of benefits that all penguins should get regardless of relationship status. Economic justice now!" We would have written that post if Moose could have come up with a penguin equivalent to "God hates fags" to put on signs carried by foaming-at-the-mouth evangelical protesters who showed up at both press conferences. Any suggestions? "God hates flippers?" Nah, we didn't think so either.

Anyway, now it's Monday, so Candy Man was back in the library, poking around in a collection of 19th-century Irish songs called The Spirit of the Nation; or, “Land of the Green.” (Don't ask why, darlings. He's an English prof. They are, as I have told you many times, weird.) He ran across an amazing little ditty that so excited him, as the Official Poetry Geek of Roxie's World, that he raced back to his hotel to call Moose and tell her about it. (Fine, yes, he told her a bunch of other stuff, but he did eventually get around to telling her about the song, and they both squealed with delight over it.) The song is called "A New Song on the Saucy Dogs of Ireland," and, like much of Ireland's best music and poetry, it is a deeply political song, written to protest a great injustice -- in this case the injustice of a fine having been imposed on dogs for barking. (I know! Can you imagine?) Candy Man carefully copied out the verse of the song having to do with terriers, because, well, if you need to ask why you haven't been listening, have you? Here is the verse:

Then the terrier is a useful dog that always was well liked sir,

Stood up with anger in his eye, and spoke with all his might sir,

He snarled, marked and said, that a rat he’d never kill, sir,

Unless he’d see his comrades free from this obnoxious bill, sir.

We offer an enthusiastic PAWS UP to this eloquent tribute to the virtues of the terrier group -- Our skills as hunters, the deep affections we give and inspire, our extraordinary willfulness, and, of course, our ferocious commitment to justice for the pack. Nobody's free unless everybody's free! If we don't all hang together, we shall all hang separately! Free my comrades from this obnoxious bill, sir, or lose the services of the finest ratters on dog's earth! Sing it with me, all you saucy dogs and dog lovers and doggerel lovers, too!

Play us off, Candy Man, and come home soon. We miss you.


(Image Credit: Picked up here, but it's from Cassell's The Book of the Dog [1881].)

Gone Too Soon

No, not that guy. More like this guy:

(Image Credit: Picked up here.)

This post goes out in memory of my big beast of a cousin, Kona, warrior king of the remote kingdom of Indiana, who died yesterday after a sudden, brief illness -- an attack of pancreatitis, the same nasty disease that darn near killed yours truly three years ago. Kona was a beautiful chocolate lab -- serene, majestic, loyal, and large -- who presided over a large family and a hyperkinetic pack of chihuahuas with forbearance and quiet strength. When Moose visited his realm a couple of weeks ago, she smiled as she watched the big guy calmly patrol the grounds while the chihuahuas and the humans wreaked havoc around him, as chihuahuas and humans are wont to do. Kona was ten years old, born in 1999 on my very own birthday, April 1. Our condolences to the brother and sister-in-law of the Moosians and all of Kona's extended pack. We know your hearts feel broken right now, and our hearts go out to you.

After hearing the news about Kona yesterday, Moose ministered to me this morning with even more tenderness than usual. She fussed with my eyes, determined to rid them of the icky sticky gunk that spreads like kudzu every night while she's asleep. We ended up in the shower in something that felt a little bit like a massage and a little bit like a wrestling match as she searched for the right balance of gentleness and force in the effort to get me clean without hurting my increasingly thin and fragile body. She washed and partly dried me, then placed me out on the deck to let a delightful morning sun take care of the rest. When I was dry, she brushed me out, delicately using the flea comb around my eyes and mouth to try to extricate the last of the icky sticky stuff. When finally she was finished, we gazed at one another. "I'm still here," I said. "I know," she said, "but now you're clean and pretty, too." "Satisfied?" "Always, silly old girl," she said with a laugh, "always perfectly satisfied with you." And I know she really meant it.

Save me a place up there in heaven, Kona, a soft place with a view of the pool and a big pack of chihuahuas off in the distance. You do the heavy lifting, I'll do the thinking, and the little guys, well, they can run in circles around us from now until the end of time.

Peace out, and we'll let Usher sing you off, just as he did that other guy the other day:

Pug Love

What, you were expecting a 3,000-word post on Michael Jackson's life, death, and pop cultural legacy? Perhaps a super-snarky Sarah Palin follow-up? Not today, kids. Nope, today, thanks to my brother Geoffrey, it's all PUGS here in Roxie's World. Why?

1. Because pink is pretty.
2. Because I am confident that a significant number of my readers like sentimental musical backgrounds played on toy pianos. I could name names, but I won't.
3. Because pugs are grossly underrepresented not only in the culture generally but, we are sorry to say, right here in Roxie's World. Today, we begin to make amends to this noble if weird-looking breed.
4. Because every once in awhile we are willing to violate one of the cardinal rules of the companion species contract that usually pertains around here -- you know, the one about not putting dogs in ridiculous anthropomorphosized situations for the entertainment of humans. We do so, because, um, because, well, it can be funny, and we'll bend or break pretty much any rule for the sake of a good laugh.
5. Because my typist's sabbatical seems to be off to a slow start -- by which I mean she doesn't have time for a proper post because she'll be spending much of the day on campus today in all likelihood not thinking Deep Thoughts about the Hugely Important Book on Blogging That Is Going to Save the Humanities and Bankroll a Comfortable Retirement. She has a meeting, and I have a nap to take.

It's blog fodder, kids, plain and simple. Enjoy, and we'll catch up with you soon. Take it away, pugs!

God Loves a Terrier

Watch this clip from the finest motion picture ever made so that you can understand how it is that America's favorite dog blogger devoted to politics, pop culture, and basketball is still ALIVE four weeks after my primary vet declared that I only had two weeks to live:



That's right, my darlings: God loves a terrier -- and a certain skinny but sweet-as-pie old terrier loves you, even if you aren't likely to hear much out of me for the next little while. My typist, as I mentioned recently, has not one but two conferences this week, one right here in our ridiculously large back yard and another off in the City of Big Shoulders. Posting will be light, but we will do our best to amuse and edify you as circumstances and paper preparation allow. Moose and I have made a deal: I promise to stay alive until she returns next Wednesday if she promises to tell the truth about who does all the work here in Roxie's World when she does all this big public yakking about the feminist literary pre-history of blogging. Wevs, kids -- She's gotta make a living, but we're hoping she can do it without indulging in too many stretchers.

Meantime, pray to the deity of your choice that Goose can manage to keep me alive for an entire week. Rest assured Moose is coaching her right now and will leave an extremely thorough set of directions, but we'd appreciate your support as well. Just because, well, you know, it can't hurt. You have to admit it would totally suck if I kicked the bucket while one of the moms was out of town.

Here's a couple of dog treats you can peruse while you wait for our next update:

Can Dogs Talk? Goose insists that they can. Moose is skeptical, though she allows that some of us are pretty good writers.

Are Old Dogs the Best Dogs? You know you won't get any arguments on that point around here. (Warning: The Office of Affect Management suspects that this article by Wa Po's Gene Weingarten will make you cry if you have ever known, seen, or thought about an old dog, but we are grateful to Kelly for passing it along to us anyway.)

Stay alive, kids, and stay in touch. Dog loves you.

Stayin' Alive

The sun is shining, we stand (or, in my case, sit) on the precipice of June -- and America's favorite dog blogger devoted to politics, pop culture, and basketball is, emphatically,

not dead yet!

So crank up the volume, and put on your white suits, kids. Disco down with us for the song of the day in Roxie's World:



Am I experiencing a miraculous recovery or a momentary reprieve? Haven't a clue, and Dr. House is not in the house to investigate my extraordinary case. Here's what the doctors of philosophy of Roxie's World can tell you based on their observations.

Up to Monday (Memorial Day), I was taking the following medications, as prescribed by my primary vet and my sweet-as-pie Portuguese cardiologist, who I saw for my annual check-up two weeks ago Tuesday:

• Proin (for urinary incontinence)

• Enalapril (an ACE inhibitor, used to treat high blood pressure and congestive heart failure)

• Hydralazine (also used to treat high blood pressure)

• Pimobendan (used to manage heart failure secondary to mitral valve prolapse in dogs)

• Tramadol (an analgesic, used to treat severe pain)

• Metacam (an NSAID, used to relieve symptoms of arthritis)

• Pepcid (used to treat peptic ulcer disease, perhaps caused by prolonged use of an NSAID)

As of Monday, when I resolutely refused to take any of my meds, despite Goose's repeated attempts to get me to swallow previously irresistible wads of pills wrapped in liverwurst, I have been taking:

• Nothing
• Nada
• Bupkis
• Nuttin', honey
• Diddly squat
• Jack s_it
• Zilch
  

On Tuesday, you may recall, my primary vet took a blood test and declared me to be in liver failure. She predicted I would be dead in two weeks without treatment. Since that time, the moms have declared our house a Hospice for Dogs (H/T: the Shy One), with Moose making a series of snide remarks about the pharmaceutical industry, high-end veterinary care, and the virtues of Christian Science, except for, you know, the whole Christian part.

Meantime, here on the floor, I am comfortable and content. My back legs still aren't working, though I have made valiant efforts in the past couple of days to stand. I eat, drink, and potty, with varying degrees of assistance. My coat is soft and smooth again, though earlier this week it was stiff and dry. New daily rituals of hot compresses and artificial tears have alleviated the icky crusting around my eyes that had briefly left me functionally blind. Moose has gotten all poetic about my patience during these tender ministrations, telling a friend that I sit in complete stillness, like some grateful, canine Buddha, even as she takes the flea comb to dislodge the schmutz that has gotten stuck in my eyelashes.

For once, Moose's metaphor may not be wide of the mark. There is a bit of the Buddha in this old dog as I make my way through however much time I have left in this body, this state of being. On Wednesday, I told you I was dying. Today, I would like to rephrase that. Let us say instead that,

I am living -- for how long, who knows, but what mortal creature knows the answer to that question, my philosophical friends?

The mood here in Roxie's World has shifted from sorrow to gratitude, the mode from vigil to celebration. Every moment now feels like an unexpected gift, which is arguably how all of our moments should always feel, but even a dog can struggle to sustain an absolute commitment to being in the present. For you hyper-active, hugely self-important humans, such a commitment is even harder to maintain, and so you add yoga and meditation to your to-do lists.

Go outside and play, little Buddhas. Hold your face up to the sun and bask in its warmth. Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin'. Feel the deep rhythms of your own and everyone else's stayin' alive. Our good friend Julie has a beautiful piece up today, addressed to yours truly and aimed at helping me make the best of heaven when I get there. It's full of excellent advice (e.g., "Look for the Jew part of heaven. You'll know you're there because everyone will say, I don't really believe in any of this, but you look swell, Sol.") and good suggestions on who I should hang out with. (Gert, Alice, and Virginia were already on my list, Jules, but I would also like to add Galileo and Gilda Radner to your suggestions. Plus maybe Abe Lincoln and a couple of musicians. How 'bout Mozart and John Lennon?) We are extremely grateful to Julie for her thoughtful consideration of how I should negotiate my next phase, but I am sure she won't mind if we say that for now, for this moment and perhaps the next few, the consensus in Roxie's World is -- you guessed it -- that heaven can wait. We've still got some livin' to do.

Peace out, beloveds, and thanks for holding us in the light.

Mid-Week Grab Bag

Flying Chihuahua Edition

My typist has an early morning meeting tomorrow -- one of those really wacko meetings that could only happen in the academy: the salary committee will meet to award merit points for a non-existent pool of merit money (call it Excellence Without Money: Keeping It [Un]Real!) -- so this will be quick. We know many of you count on us to be your eyes and ears on the culture, and, though that knowledge humbles and unnerves us, we feel an obligation to let you know what's on our radar screens even when we don't have time to blog it properly. We don't want you to embarrass yourselves by not knowing what all the other kids are talking about at the lunch table, so here you go. Here is what matters, right now, in Roxie's World:

1. Watch this heartwarming vid of a Detroit couple whose 6-pound Chihuahua, Tinker Bell, was picked up in a 70-mph wind gust and blown nearly a mile away during a sudden storm. The miraculous tale involves a flea market, a pet psychic, and two dog lovers named Dorothy and Lavern Utley. You know we don't make this stuff up. Watch the vid:

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

2. Too busy to pay careful attention to all the Holy Crap, He Really IS the President! assessments of Obama's first 100 days in office? Newsweek does it quick and dirty in a 5-minute highlight reel. There really has been a lot going on, and we give the dude credit for staying cool as a cucumber. I'm pretty sure we would have melted down the moment Roberts screwed up the oath of office right there on Moment One of Day One, so paws up to the Big Guy with the Tall Wife and the Frisky Dog.

3. From the Office of Burning the Village in Order to Save It (Higher Ed. Division): You've probably seen the Times Op-Ed piece by Mark C. Taylor, chair of the religion department at Columbia, which proposes that "If American higher education is to thrive in the 21st century, colleges and universities, like Wall Street and Detroit, must be rigorously regulated and completely restructured." Among Taylor's suggestions -- and sing along if you've heard this song before -- are the abolition of tenure and the abolition of departments, which would be replaced by "problem-focused programs." By "problem-focused programs," Taylor means, um, well, for example, "Mind, Body, Law, Information, Networks, Language, Space, Time, Media, Money, Life and Water."

Moose's favorite line in the column was,"Consider, for example, a Water program," which set her mind spinning out a fantasy MLA interview in which the Water Program at Big Coastal Ag School seeks to add a lit critter to its crack team of H2O specialists. She imagined an interview committee comprised of an engineer, an economist, a meteorologist, and a microbiologist feigning interest as a desperate young job seeker tried valiantly to connect her dissertation on transatlantic modernism to the program's goals and foci. "Water is at the heart of the project," she gamely essays. "Transatlantic Modernism -- Get it?" Historiann offers a more substantive critique of Taylor's column here.

4. Further evidence that the term "post-feminist" may be premature, indeed, delusional: The MLA has released a study, aptly titled "Standing Still," which shows that English and foreign language departments "promote male associate professors to full professors on average at least a year -- and in some cases, depending on type of institutions, several years -- more speedily than they promote women," according to a summary of the report on Inside Higher Ed. In doctoral-granting English departments, men spend an average of 7.5 years as associate professors, while women spend an average of 9.8 years. The gap is even bigger in doctoral-granting foreign language departments, where men spend an average of 6.7 years as associate profs, while women average 10.2 years in the rank. I would spend time delving into the hows, whats, and whys of this gap, but my typist, who has been an associate professor for, um, awhile now, would like to move on to other topics. Go read the Inside Higher Ed analysis. It's really good, if sobering.

5. From the Office of You Say "Potato," I Say "Queer Studies," But I Wish You Would Just Stop Talking: If you haven't seen it, you really must go read Larry Kramer's petty, narcissistic, and wrong on a thousand levels speech to the Yale Gay and Lesbian Association, which bestowed its first Lifetime Achievement Award on the writer and activist. The speech is an attack not only on Yale, with whom Kramer has had a famously contentious relationship over his efforts to fund gay-related things at his alma mater, but on the projects of queer theory and gender studies and on versions of LGBT history that are, in Kramer's anything but humble opinion, overly influenced by those fields of inquiry and thus insufficiently committed to producing what Historiann wittily describes as The Big Book of Transhistorical Gayness. (Great discussion going on in the comments on this post, by the way. Don't skip 'em, or Historiann will catch you in her lasso!) Tenured Radical, herself a Yale alum, takes on Kramer, too, and Inside Higher Ed has a report with comments from several prominent historians, including a very diplomatic and now at Yale George Chauncey (whom Kramer, in his speech, tried to co-opt as an ally).

Note to self: When somebody is kind enough to give you an award, the most important thing to say is thank you. Here is a list of ten tips for writing an effective thank-you speech, and nowhere on it do I see, "Attack the institution hosting the event and fill your remarks with mean-spirited invective that demonstrates how little you know about anything other than Your Self."

Chew on that one, darlings, as you lull your own lovely selves to sleep. Sweet dreams.

Moose-Gate Update

Big Gay Celebrity Edition

Pay no attention to those headlines this morning declaring that everything is vastly worse than we thought it was months ago when we started making jokes about Great Depression 2.0 ("Economy Shrinks at Staggering Rate," shrieks Wa Po; "Sharper Downturn Clouds Obama Spending Plans," howls the Times). We know you don't come to Roxie's World for bummer-inducing analysis of how much vastly worse things are going to get before we find the bottom of the sh_t hole into which we seem to have stumbled. You don't turn to us for grim pronouncements that send you racing back to bed to pull the covers over your sweet, scared little head: There will be BLOOD -- and . . . hoboes and . . . bears -- oh my!!!

Fear not, my darlings. We know why you are here. You long for an update of the shaggy dog story of the week -- the announcement that the Obama family has decided to adopt a Portuguese Water Dog as First Pet and the shocking attack by First Lady Michelle Obama on "Moose" as a proposed name for the new dog. (People magazine broke the story here; we weighed in, with reaction from our own wounded Moose, here.)

First, we've got a report on our effort to help the Obamas come up with an acceptable name for their still mythical dog. So far, I am sorry to say, my legions of loyal fans are not exactly wowing the judges in this round of competition. Two out of the three suggestions submitted have been rejected for violating the rules of the contest (names must be clean, clever, devoid of political incorrectness and should avoid allusions to the Kennedys or major African-American heroes). My brother Geoffrey's proposal of Oprah is out for several obvious reasons, including his tasteless suggestion that it would be amusing to hear the president say, "Oprah, stop humping President Sarkozy's leg!" Historiann's proposal of Bobby appears to have been intended as a sly dig at Louisiana Gov. Bobby Jindal, who got such excellent reviews for his response to President Obama's Not Exactly a State of the Union address this week. Unfortunately, the unintended Kennedy reference in Historiann's suggestion caught the attention of the Secret Service, which interpreted the allusion as a threat upon the life of the president (which, you may recall, is how Hillary Clinton's references to Robert Kennedy were interpreted by hyperventilating blogger boyz during the primary campaign). We are hoping Historiann is released from custody in time for her classes next week. (We are cautiously optimistic, noting that she did manage to post today from wherever she's being held -- and that she linked to us!)

The third suggestion came from our dear Candy Man, who offers the enormously flattering idea that the First Family should name its lucky pup after me! Gratifying as that prospect is, we are inclined to think the Obamas aren't likely to go for it, given that America's favorite dog blog devoted to politics, pop culture, and basketball never quite endorsed the president and still regularly pops off about his policies and his politics. C'mon, Mr. President -- We've said really nice things about your secretary of state!

The contest continues, people. Goose, you haven't even submitted an entry yet. qta, you are a clever fellow and remarkably good at following rules. Show us your stuff! Your country needs you! As for myself, I offer up the suggestion of Buddy, which would acknowledge that the whole Kennedy thing has been pumped up as a way to distract us from the obvious truth that Barack Obama got his political heart and soul, not to mention most of his executive staff, from the original man from Hope, Bill Clinton. (I will also point out that Buddy, like yours truly, was named after a dead relative. Those of you looking for help in this contest might consult the Obama or Robinson family trees for guidance.)

The big news on Moose-Gate, though, is that no less a figure than Anderson Cooper has weighed in on the travesty of Michelle Obama's attack on "Moose" as a possible name for the dog. Yesterday, filling in for Regis on Live with Regis and Kelly, the cutest queen in the history of closets comes out strongly in support of Moose. He recaps the People story on the family's selection of a breed and then pivots into the controversy over the name. Here's the money quote:

They talk about some of the names that they have rejected, and the name they rejected that I liked the most was "Moose." I like that. I think Moose for a dog would be kinda cool.

Who knew Anderson Cooper was so sweet? so discerning? so devastatingly intelligent? He is also, if you will pardon the expression, a highly effective straight man to Kelly's lovable ditz. The two do great shtick together, which you may all know if you are more regular watchers of Regis and Kelly than we are, but we are such irregular watchers that we actually thought it was still Regis and Kathie Lee when qta called this story to our attention. In any case, here's the clip of Anderson and Kelly in action. The dog talk begins just before the 5:00 mark:



Want more? The dog talk goes on -- and on -- in this next clip, as Kelly recounts a hugely entertaining story of her efforts to get her shih tzu to regurgitate a Hershey's Kiss it had ingested. (Don't worry -- The story wouldn't be funny and we wouldn't pass it along if the dog weren't just fine at the end of it.)

Anyway, my typist thanks you for the validation, Coop. We are glad you like her nickname and pleased as punch to discover that you are able to step outside your earnest news dude persona and bring some needed laughter to the world. You tempt us to tune in to Regis and Whomever the next time you're sitting at the desk.

All right, kids, that's it. Put your thinking caps back on and get out of here. The Canine Onomastics Group, co-chaired by Moose and Frank, will reconvene one week from tonight to choose the best of the names submitted for the Obama family dog. Don't let us down! Don't let your country down! Peace out.

A Moose By Any Other Name

Apparently, Team Obama is still a little bitter about the fact that America's favorite dog blog devoted to politics, pop culture, and basketball never got around to endorsing the former junior senator from Illinois during his run for the White House. How else to explain this fit of pique from First Lady Michelle Obama over possible names for the dog the family is planning to adopt this spring? People magazine reports today the Obamas have finally settled on a Portuguese Water Dog, the breed favored by Senator Ted Kennedy (because, you know, the whole Camelot Once More meme just hasn't been driven into the dirt yet). Fine, we say, don't get a terrier. We've got more important things to do than be props in your slick political spectacle. We realize the whole group probably needs to be re-branded after poor Barney's association with the Shrub years. But, really, Michelle, did you have to take a swipe at my typist? What's up with that?

Here is the People report on what the First Lady of the United States had to say on the now all-important question of what the Obamas will name their dog:

"Oh, the names are really bad. I don't even want to mention it, because there are names floating around and they're bad," Mrs. Obama says with a laugh. "You listen and you go – like, I think, Frank was one of them. Frank! Moose was another one of them. Moose. I said, well, what if the dog isn't a moose? Moose. I'm like, no, come on, let's work with the names a little bit."

Reached in her office late this afternoon for comment on this obvious attack on her virtual identity, Moose was diplomatic.

"Look, Rox," she said, "everything is just so political for them. Imagine the kerfuffle that would arise among all the A-list blogger boyz who chugged so much Kool-Aid for the Precious if the Obamas were to name their pet after the typist for a dog blog that resolutely refused to endorse the guy! Besides, there is also the highly problematic issue of the origin of my nickname."

"You mean because of the whole Mussolini thing?" I replied.

"Yeah, Rox. I know that you and Goose think it's hilarious, because you have this crazy idea that I'm something of a control freak and that in this limited regard I supposedly bear a faint resemblance to an Italian dictator known for his fondness for order, but I can't see the Obamas standing up and explaining the joke to the American people. Really, I'm not sure even Sasha could pull that one off."

"You're probably right, but I still think it was mean of her to mock the name. I think Moose is a great name, for a person or a dog, despite its association with a dubious historical figure. I should think Barack Hussein Obama would be sympathetic to that problem."

"Indeed, but you know what? Let's show the Obamas that we are ready to rise above our former differences. Let's turn the other cheek on Moose-gate and try to help them solve their problem. Let's enlist your legions of loyal fans in the effort to name the Obamas' dog! I ran across a great suggestion today over on HillBuzz -- that the Obamas should get two dogs and name them Hope and Change."

"Ha! That's really funny, and it's also a wonderful idea."

So, that's it, legions. You are all tagged, every single one of you, to come up with the perfect name for the new First Dog. It has to be clean, it has to be clever, and it must be devoid of even a whiff of political incorrectness. We'd prefer that it steer clear of Kennedy allusions, too, and we'd kinda like to avoid the more obvious heroes of African-American history, but we don't want to set too many limits on your creativity. Submit your suggestions in comments and we'll forward the best ones to the White House. Oh, and the judges for this contest? Moose, of course, and maybe our good friend Frank from Norway, who is not named after any dictator that we know of and will likely never recover from the shock of seeing his perfectly fine name mocked by the First Lady of the United States. We think it's only fair that Moose and Frank should get to make this vital call.

What's in a name, kids? Put on your thinking caps and let Roxie's World know. Peace out.

(With thanks to qta and Kate for pointing us toward the People story.)

Paws Up for Stump!

(Photo Credit: Barton Silverman, New York Times, 2/11/09)

Let's hear it for the old guy! Stump, a 10-year-old Sussex spaniel, took Best in Show last night at the Westminster Kennel Club dog show at Madison Square Garden. Stump had retired from the ring four years ago with a serious but undetermined illness. That means his triumph is triply dogalicious: He is the oldest dog ever to take the top prize at Westminster, the first of his breed to do so, and an awe-inspiring medical miracle! What's not to love?

Way to go, little dude. I've got nearly five years on you, and loyal readers know that my own noble breed has picked up more Best in Show prizes at Westminster than any other breed, but I am delighted to welcome you to the winner's circle. Oh, and to Scott Sommer, Stump's handler and co-owner, who lets the old dog sleep in his bed, between the sheets, congratulations and a thorough face lick from the cranky old bitches of Roxie's World.

By the way, word is Stump won't maintain the hectic travel schedule of last year's BIS winner, the affable beagle, Uno, who visited the White House and rode a float in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. Sommer told the Times, “Stump’s going to travel back to Houston and kind of stay there. He doesn’t travel that much.”

Paws up to that, Stump. Take the prize -- and then take a nap, between the sheets. You've earned it!

Randomly Roxie

Not that anyone tagged me or anything, but I figure if both NYT and Wa Po have pieces on some cultural phenomenon on the same day, then in effect we’ve all been tagged and I should probably get in on the action. Both of the moms devoted significant chunks of last weekend to composing their lists of “25 Random Things About Me,” the meme that has been spreading like a virus through Facebook (who knew randomness could take so much time?). They then spent what was left of the weekend reading and commenting on other people’s lists to see if theirs were as clever and creative and charming and poignant as everybody else’s was. A week later, the nation’s papers of record weigh in to help us figure out if we are a nation of narcissists or a nation of strangers desperate for any way to connect with others – as long as we don’t actually have to, you know, interact with them. Third possibility: We are a nation of fiddlers frantically stroking our violins while the global economy goes up in flames all around us and our charming young president tries to figure out how to play hardball. Fourth possibility: People are stressed and looking for ways to laugh and decompress. If you don’t like the lists, then for dog’s sake don’t click on them.

We digress. Go read Krugman if you feel a need to get your knickers in a wad over the economy. We’re here to bare our souls, to share all that you’ve longed to know about us – and then some. Here, as randomly as my control freak of a German typist would allow me to make it, is my list of 25 Random Things About Me. Drum roll, please? Thank you!

1. I was born on Andrews Air Force Base, which is why I’ve always felt a cozy sense of familiarity with the military helicopters that regularly fly over our house. The moms were born in hospitals, which perhaps explains why they are less fond of helicopters and make frequent jokes about hand-held rocket launchers when there’s a chopper in the neighborhood.

2. In keeping with a tradition in Goose’s family of naming dogs after dead relatives, I was named after Moose’s maternal grandmother, Roxie Irene Brown.

3. My birth parents, a handsome pair of AKC-registered WFTs named Samantha and Gilligan, were named after protagonists of 60s sitcoms that the moms both watched and loved in their separate childhoods in Texas and Indiana.

4. I spit up on Goose in the car when the moms were driving me to my new home with them. She snuggled me closer and said it smelled sweet. I had a hunch I had stumbled into a pretty good deal when I leapt into her arms as they came through the door that beautiful May afternoon in 1994.

5. I’ve explained this before, but newer readers may not know that Moose and Goose got their names as a tribute to their different styles as dog parents. “Moose” is short for Mussolini, and “Goose” is short for Mother Goose. Guess who’s the disciplinarian and who’s the one we call the Freedom Schooler?

6. To Moose’s shame and considerable chagrin, I was an obedience school dropout. I got into quite a showdown one night with Renée, the rather formidable black dyke who ran the class, when she was trying to teach me the “down” command. Needless to say, though I understood it immediately, I did not cotton to this particular command, so I tried to bite Renée to convey my displeasure. Renée got down on her knees, put her hand around my throat, looked me right in the eye and thundered, “Bite or breathe, Roxie!” We never went back, and to this day I have never gone into a down for anyone, anywhere. I will, however, sit for treats and come, if it’s convenient.

7. Because it often wasn’t convenient for me to come when called, the moms would try to lure me inside by offering me favorite foods. Many an evening, they would find themselves on the deck singing out into the darkness, “Roxie, do you want some couscous?” or, “Roxie, do you want some cake?” depending on what was the most effective treat at the time. One of the most embarrassing moments of Moose’s life was when a neighbor asked her at a party, “Why are you always yelling ‘couscous’ into the back yard?”

8. My first dog pal was a German Short-Haired Pointer named Jazz, who made me think I was a very big dog indeed. I have never been given any reason to believe this is not the case.

9. The only thing I ever met that intimidated me was the Atlantic Ocean. When the moms took me for a walk on an ocean beach, I looked up at them as if to say, “Do not under any circumstances let me off my leash! What the heck is that?”

10. Of course, the moms would never have let me off my leash. When I was a speedy young cuss, though, I made a couple of great escapes out our front door. One time, Moose chased me barefooted through a neighbor’s back yard in the middle of a barbecue. “Excuse me!” she shouted as she raced after me. “She went thataway,” the bemused neighbor said.

11. Rather than chasing me, Goose would sit on a curb and pretend to cry when I got away. “Oh, boohoo-hoo, Roxie, please come back!” It actually worked, once, but then I figured out the trick and went on about my adventure. The best way to capture me was to get close to me in the car and say, in an exceptionally cheerful voice, “Roxie, you wanna go for a ride?” That’s an offer I never could refuse. My Aunt Margie caught me that way once when she joined in a neighborhood SWAT team that had been put together to find me.

12. Just last week, to prove that I am still an adventurer and still capable of mischief, I walked out the front door when no one realized it was open and took myself down to Sligo Creek Parkway, close by the trail where the moms and I used to walk miles and miles together. Some very responsible neighbors saw me and were concerned because of my shaky gait. They called the number on my tag and a grateful Goose came and picked me up. Both moms were impressed with my stamina and my instinct to return to the scene of so many long happy walks. “I’m still the mayor of this trail,” I reminded them.

13. The regal profile photograph of me up at the top of the sidebar was taken on my very first boat ride. We were visiting the Carolina Moosians at their vacation home on Smith Mountain Lake. Moose took the picture and titled it, with a hat tip to the Boss, “Let the Wind Blow Back Your Ears.”

14. How weird are the moms? Part I: Moose has spent much of the week feeling that the 14th item on her list of “25 Random Things About Me” got her into some kind of karmic trouble. What was her 14th item?

My mother is a hypochondriac. My wholly rational reaction to this fact is that I don't believe in germs, allergies, flu shots, herbs, or doctors. If it can't be cured by Tums, Motrin, a stiff drink, or a long walk, I just don't want to mess with it.

And what has her week been like? She has had two doctor’s appointments, spent $300 on an anti-viral medication (because she refuses to pay for prescription drug coverage, convinced as she is that the pharmaceutical industry is more evil than the Taliban), and is spending Friday night in her red leather chair wondering what weird, unpleasant thing is going to happen next. She believes she tempted fate and that fate decided to kick her in the pants. (Don’t be alarmed, kids. You know Moose gets dramatic when she doesn’t feel well. She’s got chickenpox for grownups, which isn’t pretty but also isn’t fatal.)

15. How weird are the moms? Part II: Goose has spent much of the week trying to figure out just what to say or do for her grouchy, uncomfortable partner. “I wish I could fix it,” was met with a surly, “I’m sure you do.” “How ‘bout a drink?” “No, thanks. I’m watching my lips swell.” One minute Moose declares she is untouchable. The next Goose is summoned to the bathroom to put lotion on her back. It’s hard to be a ministering angel when the devil’s moved into the house.

16. One of my earliest fond memories is of running around our ridiculously large back yard while the moms were playing croquet with some friends. (This was their first season as homeowners. They were experimenting with different styles of suburban lesbianism.) I raced up and down the yard until I exhausted my tiny little self, at which point the croquet players started passing me from hand to hand so they could coo endearments into my ear. Someone started calling me “baby dog,” a term the moms still use when I do something exceptionally cute.

17. I have to confess that sometimes I have taken my job as security manager a little too seriously. On three occasions I have gotten into fights serious enough to draw blood while guarding my home territory. One of those fights was with my best dog pal, Chance, the high-strung but good-hearted border collie. We remain excellent friends to this day and blame our humans for the altercation.

18. My most selfless, heroic act ever was trying to save my trans-girl cat sister, Lily, who lapsed into a diabetic coma while the irresponsible humans were off at a concert. When they finally got home, I barked hysterically until they found Lily and then climbed up on the dining room table to watch over their efforts to resuscitate her. When she was better, I licked her face until it was clean of every trace of honey they had smeared on it. For the one and only time in her life, Lily reacted to my devoted attention with gratitude rather than feline contempt.

19. Like Goose, I have had two near-death experiences, one when I went into congestive heart failure not long after my mitral valve prolapse was diagnosed and the other when I had a vicious bout of pancreatitis in the summer of 2006. Moose set up my blog after the first incident and nearly shut it down after the second. Drama queen!

20. Humans will do amazing things for animals they love. When I went on a hunger strike after I started my heart meds, Goose cooked all my food for me – goulashes, meat loaves, grilled chicken. I lived like a queen! You all know about the liverwurst they use twice a day every day to get me to take my meds. Oh, they are clever, diabolical women.

21. I wander a lot these days inside the house. Sometimes I end up in corners and am not sure how I got there. Usually one of the moms comes along and turns me around. “Silly old girl,” she’ll say with a gentle rub behind an ear. Or at least I think that’s what she says. My old ears aren’t as sharp as they used to be.

22. A mystery: If humans are, for the most part, so kind to animals, why are they, too often, so unkind to one another and so terribly cruel to the planet that gives them life? I’ve spent many a long nap pondering this great conundrum and have never gotten anywhere near understanding it.

23. A dream: The three of us on the trail again, on a perfect afternoon in June, deciding to go all the way to Wayne and making up a song to sing on the long walk home.

24. If I could, I’d tag Chance and my pal Foxy, way out in the remote kingdom of Illinois, for this exercise. As it is, I’ll tag Historiann, because she hates Facebook, and my fellow WFT blogger, Buster. Keep it goin’, kids!

25. Here’s what Moose listed as the last of her “25 Things”:

Blogging will either be the ruin or the salvation of my academic career, but it gives me such profound creative, intellectual, and interpersonal pleasure that I honestly don't care where it leads. Note to students: Follow your bliss.

That sounds about right. Except for the blogging part. What the heck does Moose know about that? ;-)

Follow your bliss, beloveds. It’s the only thing that makes sense.