Weekend Eye Candy

Nothing much to say, kids.  It's the quiet season in Roxie's World, the late summer calm preceding the storm of a new semester, which begins at Queer the Turtle U two weeks from tomorrow.  The moms are slipping into that hushed, reflective mode that means they are thinking deep thoughts -- like, you know, Where is it I'm supposed to park this year? and Do I really have enough clothes to get through 15 weeks of standing up in front of people every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon?  Ah, the life of the mind.

Anyhoo, here's a pretty pic Moose snapped out in the ridiculously large backyard on Friday afternoon.  The fish have all died again, but the hardy water lily in the pond (Nymphaea "Indiana" it's called) has survived the brutal heat of this strange summer and is finally putting out some blooms.  That makes Moose happy.  She thinks there's been entirely too much dying going on of late and is pleased to see signs of life, strength, endurance.  Peace out, my pretties, and may the ides of August find you feeling strong and ready for whatever the new school year will bring.  May you be as hardy as the water lily and as lovely, too.

(Photo Credit:  Moose, 8/13/10)

I'm With Shirley

(Image Credit: Ours came in the mail, but you can pick up something similar here. H/T: A well-mannered friend with two ambiguously gay dachshunds.)

We got nuttin for you today, kids, but love and the wisdom of Shirley. We're busy trying to figure out if the neighbors are Russian spies and how in the heck Roger Federer could have gotten so thoroughly whupped at Wimbledon. No, we are not watching the Kagan hearings, which so far appear to have proven that the nominee is an earnest smarty-pants and Jeff Sessions is a freeze-dried idiot, two things we already knew for sure.

Goose is re-arranging books on the shelves in her study. Moose is making plans for an upcoming trip to England and Wales (a mix of business, pleasure, and queer family adventure that will involve my sweet-as-pie brother Geoffrey). Meanwhile, out in the ridiculously large backyard, the six shyest fish in the universe are quietly circling the floor of my pond, trying to decide whether it's safe to come up for a bite of the food Moose keeps tossing their way. Yes, darlings, it's true -- the moms are pet owners again. You knew they would get back in the game of companion-species romance eventually, didn't you? Today it's six little fish, tomorrow -- Who knows?

That's life in Roxie's World on this last day of June, as a cool breeze finally blows through the strange, hot, oil-soaked summer of 2010. What's happening in your neck of the woods?

Listen to Shirley, beloveds, no matter where your travels take you. Girl knows how to have a good time.

Remembering Roxie

Should auld acquaintance be forgot? Heck, no!

* * *

As a New Year dawns, the nation mourns the passing of the embodied inspiration for America's favorite dog blog devoted to politics, pop culture, and basketball. 2009, the year of celebrities dying quicker than you could say "Michael Jackson" (!?!?), ends with one more megastar biting the dust!

Tributes pour in from fellow bloggers devastated by Roxie's death but inspired by her example. See what Historiann and Kate have to say!

Facebook nearly collapses beneath the weight of the encomiums to the most famous wire-haired fox terrier since Asta. She was "noble," declared one pal, even "magical." She was "mischievous," recalled another who knew Roxie as a leaping, barking, high-speed maniac known for eating socks and tearing the shirts of poor grad students. Also on Facebook, a caretaker from Roxie's last months reveals the only known video of Roxie, which depicts her drinking water in the submarine/snorkel style of her final days.

Here, alas, is the final, poignant photograph taken of the embodied Roxie, on the last night of her earthly life:

(Photo Credit: Geoffrey [enhanced by Moose using Camera Bag], 12/29/09)

And below, for the benefit of new readers and fans who never knew Roxie in real life, is a reprint of a post we ran back in February when the universe of Facebook was consumed with the "25 Random Things About Me" meme. The list recounts many of the stories the moms have been telling over the course of the past few days, as they celebrate a long, joyous life and try to adjust to being without an animal companion for the first time in their nearly 26 years together. How are they coping? Goose is sleeping a lot, Moose hardly at all. They are talking about getting some new fish for the pond in the ridiculously large back yard. They are as grateful as it is possible to be for the love and kindness of friends near and far, which is the best cure for heartache on dog's earth. Thank you, everybody, and happy new year.

* * *

Randomly Roxie
(Originally published February 6, 2009)


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.

A Death in the Family

Paul is dead -- again.

Loyal fans will recall that we had a plump orange koi named Paul who disappeared from our pond a few weeks back, the victim, we suspect, of a hungry heron who swooped into the yard for a late-night snack. That left us with only two fish (John and George-Ringo or the Captain and Tennille, as Moose liked to joke), so the moms went off to PetSmart to get replacements. (You know, sort of like when Ringo took over for Pete Best.) Things were going along swimmingly. The new guys seemed to be getting along well with the old guys, and Moose and I had almost figured out who was who. But then Friday evening Moose went out to check on the boys and noticed that the new Paul was. . .stiff. She went in the house to tell Goose. "Is he floating on top of the water?" asked the ever-skeptical Goose. "No," Moose replied, "but I'm sure he's dead. Come see." A careful investigation ensued. Scary red splotches were noted on Paul's skin and a certain curling of the body seemed to be taking place. The net was fetched. A eulogy was spoken, brief but heartfelt. "You were a good fish, Paul. I hope you didn't get John sick, too." A toilet was flushed. The dinner guests arrived, and it was soon learned that our favorite seven-year old knows how to spell "dead," "fish," and "toilet."

And so it goes in Roxie's World, where life and death brush shoulders as casually as strangers on a crowded street. Paul is dead. What's for dinner? In this respect at least, Roxie's World is not unlike the world of The Sopranos, which is winding toward a spectacular conclusion that is likely to find a lot of our favorite characters swimming with the fishes. Steve Van Zandt, who plays Silvio Dante on the show, has hinted that the piles of corpses are likely to get as high as those piles of asbestos-laden garbage Tony's guys have been dumping all over New Jersey lately. He recently told The New York Post, "If they were ever considering the idea of doing a ['Sopranos'] movie, let's just say it would need to be a prequel."

The moms and I noticed that last week's episode of The Sopranos took a turn for the literary. We can't explain the sudden appearance of the "Lincoln Log sandwiches" Carmela made for AJ shortly before his pathetic suicide attempt (though we are pleased to pass along NBC anchor Brian Williams' amusing explanation of the "handy, portable heart attack on a bun" he recalls from his north Jersey childhood). We can, however, weigh in on the significance of AJ sitting in on an English class in which Yeats' poem "The Second Coming" was discussed. ("The Second Coming" is also the title of the episode.) First off, the moms insist that I rant a little about the ludicrous depiction of the English prof with her carefully written lecture notes on the blackboard behind her. (What, no laptops with projectors in New Jersey?) They don't mind that the young woman playing the prof was a little sluttier-looking than most real-world English profs, despite the academic black turtleneck and blazer she wore. The moms realize that certain liberties had to be taken in order to make sure horny little AJ would pay attention. What annoyed them is that she did such a miserable job of reading the poem. No wonder AJ wanted to off himself after listening to her declare that "The best lack all conviction, while the worst / Are full of passionate intensity" in a thin, flat voice utterly devoid of poetry. She might as well have been reading from the phone book!

Fortunately, the scene quickly shifts to AJ reading the poem aloud to himself in bed -- curled up with his Norton Anthology of Poetry pointed right at the camera. (Excellent product placement, "Horton." Now, if your proofreaders were only as careful as your marketing department. [Follow this link if you don't get the "Horton" joke.]) AJ reads most of the poem's second stanza, including its ominous concluding question, "And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, /Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?" He reads in the monotone of the medicated adolescent boy he is, yet his reading compels our attention much more than that of the tone-deaf English prof. As the series moves inexorably toward its own grim ending, we are watching AJ finally grapple with the possibility of having conviction. He is troubled by the violent actions of his "friends," judgmental about his parents' materialism (yet wholly dependent on it), haunted by the injustices and inequalities he suddenly sees everywhere. At the same time, he seems paralyzed, unable to act in any meaningful way on his new beliefs. When his psychiatrist asks if he tried to stop his friends from brutally beating a young Somalian, AJ replies, "I'm one individual. What could I do?"

Don't just stand there, AJ. Read the poem again. If things fall apart, as they seem on the verge of doing in your life and family, it might be time for you to realize that you've got to grow up and do something. Otherwise, you could be the next one to find yourself swimming with the fishes.

Absences, Anniversaries

You've missed me, haven't you, devoted denizens of Roxie's World? I know. I've missed you, too. I sensed your restless fingers out there, pointing and clicking and pressing "reload" again and again, hoping for news on my fish, my moms, ACC basketball. I felt the waves of your affection and concern wafting through the blogosphere, as you wondered: Is Roxie's leaky heart okay? Did Moose stop typing for Roxie because she broke all ten fingers in frustration after the non-Lady Terps managed to lose another game to Miami in the ACC tournament? Did Goose awaken from her dream of fish and get the pond cleaned out, or what?

It's a long story, fans, and there's a lot I can't tell you because it involves work-related stress that the moms have said I can't discuss. Nonetheless, everything is fine in Roxie's World. All three fish are present and accounted for, though John is in a deep sleep on the bottom of the pond. Paul and George-Ringo are being a little more active, but the big guy hugs the floor and barely moves. Goose says it's because he's a poet. He's resting and gathering inspiration from the cold, dark depths of his unconscious. Whatever. I'm just surprised he's not snoring. I snore when I sleep that deeply.

March is a big month here in Roxie's World. The 8th, in addition to being International Women's Day, is the moms' anniversary, so Moose and Goose officially commemorated Twenty-Three Years of Queer Delight on Thursday. Moose celebrates her birthday later in the month, but the new anniversary on the calendar this year belongs to yours truly.

Yes, fans, this coming Monday, March 12, the best darn dog blog devoted to politics, pop culture, and basketball will celebrate its first birthday! Can you believe it? Let's celebrate!

Perhaps tomorrow we'll post a Best of Roxie's First Year in the Blogosphere list as part of the birthday party. Or maybe my loyal fans will comb their way through the archives and nominate some of their favorite posts through comments. What's your favorite? My withering critique of Notes on a Scandal? My stunningly accurate predictions about the mid-term elections? The eloquent meditation on time, age, and the body that I offered last year to celebrate the arrival of spring as my moms and I grappled with how to manage my heart condition? You decide, gentle readers, and let us know. In the meantime, we thank you for your devotion. Without you, I'd just be an old dog with two crazy moms and a laptop. With you, I've got a whole world in my paws.

Peace out.

Dream Work

Oh, sleep! It is
a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole.
--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Goose says she has boring dreams. Often, Moose will roll over in the morning and regale us with the elaborate details of her nocturnal adventures--hilarious work-anxiety dreams, scary unresolved-family-stuff dreams, fleeting glimpses of her late father's tender face, fading echoes of his voice. Goose shakes her head and says, "I dreamed I was in the canned food aisle at Safeway, trying to choose among different brands of tomato sauce."

The other night, though, Goose had an Academy Award-worthy dream. She told me it was okay to share it with my legions of loyal fans because you all know we have been worried about our fish, John, Paul, and George-Ringo, who have endured--we hope--the Washington area's recent snap of very cold weather underneath the thick slab of ice that has formed on their pond in our yard. We've all been concerned, though we know that koi hibernate in winter and that the pond isn't frozen all the way to the bottom.

Anyway, Goose dreamed she had gone down to check on the pond to make sure the water was still flowing. (Pond maintenance is one of Goose's regular chores.) She went and stood on the edge and looked down into the pond. In real life, our pond is about three feet deep and usually clouded by dirt or algae, but the dream pond was crystal clear and unfathomably deep. Not only that, instead of just three fish, the pond was teeming with fish--leaping, iridescent, in varied patterns of orange, white, and black. Goose stood and watched them in joy and admiration. The fish were safe. The spring would come again.


Moose loved this dream. She thinks dreams of water always have great psychic importance and that fish are signs of regeneration, transformation on the deepest levels. She's not sure where she got this idea--possibly from the footnotes to The Waste Land, perhaps from a Celtic folk band she heard in France at the age of seventeen. In any case, the dream made all of us happy and willing to believe that something wonderful was about to happen.

Let's hold that pleasant thought in our minds as we hunker down for the last few weeks of winter. I noted a few other propitious signs this week:

• It looks as though a small but significant backlash against the backlash against Hillary Clinton may be setting in. New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd published yet another ridiculous anti-Hillary screed this week, but Vanity Fair writer James Wolcott has a great piece from a few weeks ago that nicely dissects Dowd's mind-clouding Clinton hatred. Meanwhile, over at Huff Po, which has otherwise become a bastion of Hillary hatred, comedian Elayne Boosler offers a full-throated affirmation of Hillary's fitness for the job of president. She praises her toughness, her experience, and even her refusal to apologize for having voted to authorize military action in Iraq.
• Christian conservatives are reportedly unhappy with their choices so far for 2008. Apparently, John McCain can't tack far enough to the right to appease the far, far right, and there is just enough anti-Mormon bigotry among fundamentalists to assure that the flip-flopping Mitt Romney will never get off the ground. Stubborn Republicans are refusing to heed the message of the recent election and seem determined to march in lockstep over a cliff of ideological purity. Moose is convinced that any Democrat could beat any Republican who is likely to get the nomination.
  
• It's almost March. The non-lady Terps have a winning record in the ACC conference and seem poised to get back in the NCAA tournament for the first time in three years. The Maryland women still seem rattled in the big games, but I have a hunch coach Brenda Frese will have her team's head on straight come tourney time.

Cheer the turtle, friends! Spring is coming. The moms and I took a three-mile walk today. And everybody knows Dick Cheney is a freeze-dried lunatic. Things are getting better, bit by bit.

Holiday on Ice

(Photo Credit: Ricky Carioti, The Washington Post)

Old dogs are reluctant to admit it, but we actually don't like to learn new tricks. Which is why I haven't been too pleased by the fact that Mother Nature decided to turn my large back yard into an ice rink this week. My thirteenth birthday is coming up (April 1, for fans who haven't yet marked their calendars), so it's a little late for me to be trying to master the triple lutz just so I can go to the bathroom. Peggy Fleming I am not, despite a certain icy elegance. Indeed, I've been so discombobulated by the lake of glass my world has become that I broke one of my new year's resolutions this week (#3: bladder control) and had an accident in the house. That, of course, was my moms' fault. They hadn't gotten the ice cleared off the deck and stairs to give me a clear path down to the yard, and even though I rather like tinkling on the deck when it's covered in snow, I was so rattled by the disruption in my routine that I tinkled on the basement floor as a form of protest. As a consequence, Moose attacked the deck and stairs with a shovel yesterday afternoon. She had that wild "Mommy Dearest" look she gets in her eye from time to time when there's been some particularly egregious violation of household order. She cleared me a path. My yard is mine again, and Moose has a pleasant ache in her shoulders from her upper-body workout. All is right with our world, except for some lingering concern about how our three fish might be faring in their almost completely frozen pond. There's still a tiny trickle of water flowing in the waterfall, but I can't imagine what John, Paul, and George-Ringo are doing underneath that huge block of ice. I walked out on it one day last week to see if I could find them. No such luck. Poor guys. It's like Gitmo, only colder.

On the other hand, it was a delightful week for curling up on the couch with the moms to watch the fabulous Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, which we did on Monday and Tuesday evenings. Fans of Roxie's World know I was disappointed that a terrier didn't win Best in Show, but I was pleased that James, the English springer spaniel who upset the adorable little Dandie Dinmont everyone had been expecting to win, at least has a tie to the Washington area. (His owners are from Fairfax, Virginia.) I think it's funny that my moms get such a kick out of watching dog shows. It's not as though hyper-obedience and obsessive grooming have ever been goals they've aspired to as dog people. Even the pure-bred thing is a little weird when you think about it, proud though I am of my AKC registration papers. When it comes to people, after all, my moms are all for mixture, variation, and the broadest possible spectrum of difference, so why is it that when it comes to dogs they are riveted by a spectacle of purity and sameness? Moose is quick to denounce pretension in any form, yet all those snooty-sounding breed names trip off her tongue as if she had been born saying them: "Petit Basset Griffon Vendeen," she'll intone from the couch, just because she can. Have I stumbled upon a contradiction, or are the moms just eager to watch some dog-inclusive entertainment on a cold winter's night? In the long run, perhaps it doesn't matter. We're snuggled up and hanging out, together, and they let me know who's "Best in (their) Show" this night and every night.

Just in case that sweet moment of companion-species romance didn't make your teeth hurt, click on this heart-warming story about a great program called Reading Education Assistance Dogs, in which dogs help kids learn to read by offering them a fully present and completely nonjudgmental audience. If I'm not mistaken, my friend Dudley the beagle, who comments regularly on Roxie's World, participates in this program. Weigh in, Dudley, and give us a dog's-eye-view of this amazing concept.

Heads up, loyal fans: As of this post, we've finally switched to the new version of Blogger. Aside from being able to do labels for posts, we're not sure what that means, but stay tuned for a new and improved Roxie's World. As you know, your pleasure is our top priority, so let us know what you think.

What Kind of Dog Are You?

("Speed Bump" by Dave Coverly, December 2, 2006, Washington Post)

I am definitely a toilet bowl half-full kind of dog. Visitors to our house quickly learn that toilet seats are always left UP so that I can have unfettered access to my favorite source of fresh clean water. Some humans are unaccountably horrified by this habit and by the fact that my moms cater to it, but we view it as a practical aspect of inter-species co-habitation. Dogs are thirsty animals. Humans for some strange reason have very fancy water bowls on every floor of their homes. Seat up, and these high-falutin' waste management devices do double duty. Both species are happy. All's right in Roxie's World.

Of course, I also drink out of the pond in our back yard, which is how I came to tumble into it yesterday while Goose was cleaning leaves and other autumnal detritus out of the pump. Pond-cleaning is one of my favorite household chores, because it gives me an opportunity to visit my fish (John, Paul, and George-Ringo [we used to have four fish, but one of them disappeared--either George or Ringo, but they looked a lot alike, so. . .George-Ringo]) and to supervise work that involves a high degree of messiness. While Goose hoses the gunk out of the brushes and netting in the pond, I play in the mud and walk around and around the edge of the pond looking for the ideal spot to pause for a drink. This task has gotten a little more complicated recently because the rocks around the pond have been re-arranged and the footing has gotten a bit precarious for us quadripeds. (Close readers will have noted the use of the passive voice in that last sentence. You are correct to assume that my lawn-and-garden-impaired moms were not the ones who re-arranged the rocks to look more beautiful and natural. That was done by trained specialists.) Long story short, mid-drink I lost my footing and went head-first into the pond. Fond as I am of drinking water, I am not especially fond of being in water, terriers not being among the dive-and-fetch breeds, thank heaven. I was momentarily stunned to find myself swimming with my fishes. I looked at Goose as if to say, "Help!" and she looked at me as if to say, "Well, dear, you got yourself in here, so I suggest you figure out a way to get yourself out." Which, as it turned out, is exactly what I did. She laughed, had Moose fetch a towel, and I got a brisk rub down as a reward for my efforts. And soon enough, all was again right in Roxie's World.

Speaking of water, the Post had an amazing story this morning on how the insurance industry is reckoning with the realities of climate change. More and more, insurers are refusing to insure properties near coasts, as far north as New York and New England, because they assume that hurricane seasons are likely to be as intense as last year's (the season of Katrina, Rita, and Wilma) was. Our coasts have been over-developed, making them more vulnerable to catastrophic storms, and now homes and businesses are uninsurable, making them economically vulnerable if not worthless. How smart is that, people? I bet my friend Margie over at Ecological Hope will blog on this subject soon, because she brought it up over coffee with Moose the other day before the Post story was published. (Read the Post piece here.)

Half-full or half-empty? That's up to you, fellow earthlings and friends of Roxie's World.

After the Hospital

It's been a funny weekend. I came home from the hospital on Thursday night and was so happy to be back to my couch and my moms and my big yard that I ran straight outside and took a nice big dump right by the pond. I ate a good dinner and took my meds without any trouble. We all felt better having our whole family together again. Moose joked that the night I was in the hospital her routines were so messed up that she didn't know quite what to do. After sitting through the parts of the late news that we normally don't watch, she finally turned to Goose and said, "Would you please go outside and pee in the yard so that I can go to bed?"

Saturday was not a good day, though. I woke up around 8 and needed to tinkle. Diuretics will do that to a girl, of course, but once I'd pottied I felt really strange. I went and stood by the pond but didn't drink out of it, even though the cool thing about having a pond is that it's like the world's biggest water bowl for dogs. It was a beautiful morning. Our koi, John, Paul, and George-Ringo, were darting around, enjoying the warmer water of early spring. There's nothing quite like a quick circuit around our yard as the morning sun turns the grass a golden green, but yesterday I just stood there. When Moose called me back in, I made my way slowly up the stairs and climbed back up on the couch. I felt woozy and disoriented for most of the day. I didn't want to eat or drink anything and fought like crazy when my moms tried to give me my morning meds. I even turned up my nose at Port Salut, my favorite pill delivery system. I don't like these new drugs or the way they make me feel, even if that sweet Dr. Braz-Ruivo does say they'll slow the progress of my heart disease. He doesn't know what it's like to be a small animal whose whole system is turned upside down by medications. Moose says that drugs do the same kind of thing to people and that doctors and the pharmaceutical industry are in a conspiracy to over-medicate the populace because they're greedy and that eventually over-prescription, particularly of antibiotics, will lead to cockroaches taking over the earth, but that's a long story that she'll have to write on her own blog someday.

I kept up my hunger strike til late on Saturday, though I did decide to drink some water in the afternoon. Moose and Goose tried to take me for a walk, but when we started to walk down to the trail I started pulling the leash in the other direction. I was breathing okay, but I knew I didn't have the energy to make it back up the hill if I went down there. It made me sad, and I knew my moms were really upset, but I'm a pretty smart little animal. I know what my limits are. They took me home, and I curled up under the loveseat in the living room while they took a Wayne walk. It was the first time in twelve years they walked on our trail without me.

Late in the day, my tummy calmed down enough for me to eat a little, and that helped me feel less fuzzy in the head. Goose got me started with a couple of treats, and then Moose gave me some beef broth. I lapped that right up. I was feeling perky enough that when Margie came by at 8 for pizza and a movie I ran to the door to greet her. I've decided not to eat anymore of the dog food I've been eating happily for the last ten years, but my moms are great about sharing appropriate human foods with me. I love anything involving cheese, although I'm continuing my boycott of Port Salut because of the traumatic associations with my icky new meds. For now, my moms are using peanut butter to try to force me to take my pills. So far, I've whipped peanut butter onto Goose's face and gotten it all over the couch in the great room, but they've managed to get the drugs in me.

Maybe I'm adjusting to the awful pills. Today has been a pretty good day. I had more beef broth for breakfast and bites of lasagne that Goose brought home from the store. I frolicked in the sun for more than an hour in the afternoon and helped Moose do some work on the pond. By "helped" I mean that I ate sand and rocks that she was spreading around to make sure the pond doesn't spring any leaks this year. I also did a fair amount of rolling in the grass and some barking at a neighbor who was out working in his yard. At times I almost felt like my spry old self, though I wobbled just a bit when I was coming back up the stairs.

We all hung out on the couch together watching the last few minutes of the ACC championship game between Duke and Boston College. For awhile it looked like BC (or, as Moose insists, "the Taliban"--because she hates Duke so much that if Duke were playing the Taliban she'd root for the Taliban) might manage to knock off the Blue Devils, but in the end the Dukies prevailed. My moms just hate that, but what they hate even more is knowing that tonight is selection Sunday and their beloved Terps will most likely be without a card to the Big Dance for the second year in a row. Poor Terps! Sometimes this season, they've been almost as wobbly as I've been recently.

So, maybe we can make this new routine work, my moms and me. Maybe I'll adjust to the drugs and get used to being a little less spry, and maybe that will mean I'll be around longer to sleep at my moms' feet and chew on their socks and lick their faces and bark at the mailman. I hope so. I'm not sure what my moms would do without me, and I sure do have fun being Roxie.