Obituary for the Old Barkley Times

Madeline J. Dog, 113.75 in dog years, was suddenly called home to snarfel the big beach in the sky on Wednesday, July 27, 2011.

Born on a Columbia County farm in mid-April of 1995, Maddy Jerk Monkey Hose Dog, as she was affectionately called by family and friends, was the smallest and quite possibly the homeliest of a large, multi-generational family.

Her mother, whom she knew only briefly, was a black Labrador-mix and was whispered to be the canine predecessor of the OctoMom. Her father, whom she never met, was known as That Bastard Who Got Over the Fence. Both have reportedly returned to the breeding ground in the sky.

Madeline is survived by her adoptive family: Siobhan, her adoptive mother; Jed, some guy who never formally signed the paperwork and always referred to her as "YOUR DOG IS BEING A JERK"; Annabel, a foster sister, who misses her but kinda wants a puppy; and Silas, a foster brother, who would feed her from his plate accidentally on purpose.

She is also survived by a cat, Ariel, who was a late-in-life friend and not entitled to bragging rights.

Madeline was predeceased by at least one sibling, a direcl litter-mate named Chester, who, became affluent in adoption and who, in the early years, was reunited occasionally with his sister by way of dog-sitting. He was tragically struck and killed by a car in his prime. The motorist was never located, however there was some question as to whether Chester bore some culpability in his own untimely death, as he was rumored to have been a car chaser.

She was also predeceased by an adopted sibling, Maggie Dog, who was her dearest and closest canine pal for more than a decade.

She often referred to herself as "one member of a two-dog wolf pack."

Madeline was estranged from her remaining siblings.

She bore no children, a credit to her natural abilities of entertainment.

Also ... the result of spaying.

Madeline was educated in the style of 4-H Obedience (Method trained) and won praise for her recitals of limited runs. She never flaunted her abilities outside the spotlight, however, refusing most performance requests.

Her favorite pastimes were playing with her Squeaky Nun toy, drinking out of the toilet, begging for food, stealing food not quickly provided to her, knocking over small children and licking pants.

She was a lover of balls, sticks and playing fetch. She refused to "drop it."

She enjoyed yearly trips to Maine, where she loved to romp on the beach and chase after dogs owned by former presidents of the United States. She also liked to reinforce the point that she would not perform (nor would she "drop it") for the Secret Service. Luckily, she was never harmed as a result of these hystrionics.

She especially enjoyed trips in the car to just about anywhere ... the grocery store ... around the block ... the end of the driveway. Anywhere except the vet. In her youth, she would curl up in the back window of her adoptive mom's old, Civic hatchback. People from all over the country would wave and laugh as they drove by. Her mom couldn't see them, however, as Madeline was a large dog and often would block the rear views.

She also enjoyed watching the opening sequence of "The Slaves of New York," a movie based on a Tama Janowitz novel and featuring a Dalmatian named "Andrew."

She was also known for barking intermittently, jumping up and running out of rooms for no apparent reason, and other occasional irregularities.

She was not known for her humanitarianism, however she was modest. She didn't like to make a big deal out of staying by the side of people who were in the throes of painful back spasms. She often reveled in looking at them nervously and with undue concern, though she did not like to be known as a "Nervous Nellie."

She would prefer people just forgot she ever cavorted with a cat. That was AFTER she got the cataracts. She truly thought it was a meowing, battery-operated toy one of the foster kids had dragged home.

Near the end of her days, she enjoyed sleeping, eating and pooing, sometimes all at the same time. She also enjoyed barking at her family when they sat out on the porch. They would let her out. She'd want to go back in. Then out. Back in. She wasn't indecisive, she just assumed the family being OUTSIDE was completely unnatural. She wanted them inside, staring at the TV where they belonged.

The end came quickly for Madeline. However, she always liked to keep them guessing. For the past three years she had gained considerable skill at clutching her chest and shouting: "This is the Big One, Elizabeth. I'm comin' to join ya, honey," and then recovering completely.

She will be missed by all who knew and loved her, but she is looking forward to being reunited with her friend and beloved sister, Maggie, so they can relive their kibble days.

A private burial was held after bedtime.

Contributions in lieu of flowers, preferably pigs' ears or some other delicacy based on a dare or bi-product, may be sent to the humane society of your choice.

More than stuff

While his hoarding tendency means that he, literally, brought more to this relationship than I did, when it comes to the important stuff, we somehow manage to balance.

He brought Maggie.

I brought Maddy.

And we both brought our childhood teddy bears.

His, "Paddington," is on the right.

Mine, uber-creatively named "The Bear With The Bell In His Ear," is on the left.

Each bear somehow made it through the trenches of our messy childhoods -- despite matted fur, patched-up holes and glassy-eyed stares -- mostly intact. As their reward they now perch just beyond the reach of the next generation of sticky-handed, would-be eye pokers and ear tuggers.

Paddington and Jed used to do a lot of skydiving together. Well, Paddington -- stripped of his raincoat and hat and instead wearing the latest styles designed by mom and grandma -- would skydive with a parachute and Jed would push him out of the plane. They were inseparable friends until one dangerous adventure when Paddington skydived into a lamp, got stuck and burned his little bear backside.

You can't replace friends like that.

Which is what I was thinking as I recalled my most vivid nursery school memory: Bringing my prized Bear With The Bell In His Ear to show-and-tell. I was so excited to show and tell all about its amazing, stupendous, unique secret -- that he did, indeed, have a bell in his ear. (What can I say? I've always had a flair for the obvious). But instead, found myself listening to the hiss of a tow-headed little girl, wearing a smart, navy sailor suit, as she threatened to remove his jingle with her safety scissors.

Poor bear. He never left my room again.

That is until recently when he and Paddington went to stay with a neighbor of ours, who has a gentle way with well-loved toys.

Nursery magic, as The Velvetine Rabbit can tell you, makes toys real. But Margot Curran makes them immortal.

I do believe our bears' best days are yet to come.

It's been nearly four years ...

We had another baby ...

We moved to a new house ...

We even adopted a cat, Ariel, of all creatures.



And Jed swears ...



She is the reincarnation of you, Maggie.

We miss you.

XXOO

Just Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrfect!

Soooo ... Jed and the kids went to the shelter ...

filled out some forms ...

listed everyone we've ever known as character references ...

and released the veterinary records for our dear-departed Maggie as well as our still drinking from the toilet, sweet-old-incontient Maddy.

And today we got the call that we've been approved ...

to adopt a cat.

Well ... a kitten actually.

This black furry blur is Ariel



and she will be coming to live with us on Monday.

That is the name she was given at the shelter (probably why our cat person and appointed caretaker of said feline fell instantly in love) and Ittybit has no intention of changing it. I, of course, will be calling her 'Tempest,' as I'm sure she will be a tiny, whirling dervish only William Shakespeare could have conjured.

She's a playful one.

Now, friends, I am not a cat person. I like them well enough, but they seem to only tolerate my presence. (This could be a cat feature, I don't know.) I have owned ONE cat in my adult life and I believe it ran away to join the circus (or was shoplifted during a town-wide yard sale, whichever is a more plausable explanation for his wandering ways) about six weeks after I had him neutered and immunized). In fact my experience with cats is that they all seem to find a place that suits their needs -- say fish served nighthly at the neighbors' house.

So, aside from the fact that we've decided this shall be a house-bound cat with all her natural nails (because the proceedure to remove said implements of slicing torture seems cruel and with our luck she'll be wily enough to get out into the world whenever she wants to anyway) what else should we know that will make everyone's life easier? Especially the newest member.

Think: Geriatric, incontinent dog who's sweet but never lived with a cat before.

Think: Litterbox placement/maintenance.

Think: Training her to flush the toilet (I've seen Meet the Fockers) or make toast (after she washes her paws, of course).

We'll take any advice if it will make the house purr.

Think: Purrrrrrr.

Goodbye 2008

Goodbye 2008, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I can't say as I'm going to miss it, despite the fact that '08 brought us our first African American President and as real a sense of hope as I can remember.

I won't miss it because 2008 also brought us full-force into the debauchery of our times. It forced us to stand in front of the mirror of our own making and see how much we've actually lost. How much we squandered.

On a personal level, 2008 has been good to our family. It's brought us back to the place we started; it's made us see what's important. We have two, healthy, growing children who happen, at the moment, to adore each other.

We have even prospered enough to risk our sanity and future solvency on a new business venture, which means moving a few houses down the road (hopefully by the summer of the New Year).

But it also means deciding to sell our barn: the place we've realized ourselves and raised our infants. It's where we were married, and where we planted our first tree. It's even where we buried our beloved dog Maggie. Someone else will be walking across the tile floor I installed. Someone else will open and close the big barn doors my father-in-law made. And eventually, someone else will paint over the marks on the wall charting our children's growth from the time they could stand until now.

All of that has next year to play out, but the deciding has taken place in this year.

I'm choosing to look at it as an opportunity to make a new home out of an old house. I'm deciding to look on the bright side and be excited.

Time moves on, so will we.

Goodnight, little Squeak

Cheshire cat, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I am not a cat person.

But I am a tolerant person; and as a tolerant person I must admit that there are cats, which, from time to time make me rethink my aversion.

Squeek, our porch-lounging neighbor's cat, was one of those felines.

She was the anti-cat.

A sweet little calico, she got her name not only from her penchant to 'talk' but also the timber of her voice. She was neither timid nor feisty. She was friendly toward the children, even the tiny screamer who likes to pull tails. She greeted us every time we came home, rolled onto her belly in front of our path and begged for affection. Even if we were carrying groceries we had to stop and give her a pat. She just seemed to have a smile in whatever she was doing.

But last night she was hit by a car driving through our "driveway."

She didn't survive.

We are all saddened by her loss, especially Annabel who loved her more than pretty much any animal she's ever known. Even Maggie.

Goodnight, little Squeak. We will miss you.

Ah, the good ol' dog days of summer

The other day I revealed my first experience in Kennebunkport, Me., and the happenstance of finding a beach next to the Bush compound by the light of the moon and - it would seem - the seat of my pants. Today I will tell you the second part of the three-part saga: The first time I took my then-boyfriend's (and-much-later-husband’s) dog to the beach ... alone.

Now mind you (and Jed would disagree with me about this) his dog got a little strange when we all started dating.

We had each brought a dog to the relationship (Maggie was his and Maddy was mine). And aside from the certain economy of their names --they both answered to either Maggie OR Maddy whenever their selective hearing acknowledged being called – after a brief time residing in the same house the canine pair formed a pack.

His dog, Maggie, even became a little dog aggressive. That’s not to say that she ever BIT another animal, but she did scare many-a-people at the other end of the leash who were thinking that she might. My dog, Madeline, who had previously been a coward in the presence of stranger dogs, now took a cue from her older and wiser compatriot and barked heartily at their presence out in the world.

Of course this new gang we formed – one that no longer acquiesced to the whims of its founders - barked at everything that moved. Sometimes with an insistence on stampeding towards other dogs with the force of a herd of wild boar, sending terror into the hearts of all involved.

You may see where this is going ...

Jed and I were in his hometown on a the new girlfriend tour: I was being introduced to his boyhood friends. During one portion of the weekend he was busy slowing down his friends’ golf game by agreeing to play while I had decided to take both our dogs to the beach. How bad could it be? They weren’t bad dogs.

And the day was beautiful. It was 7 a.m. and the beach was mostly empty. I had stopped at a bakery on Chase Hill and gotten myself a cup of coffee to hold in the hand that wasn’t holding dog fecal matter … (WHY DO WE DO THIS? Insist on drinking coffee on the beach when inevitably ONE if not BOTH dogs will squat and leave a present that will need to be scooped up and carried for the remainder of the walk?)

... I digress ...

The dogs were happily playing in the surf and fetching tennis balls and sticks I threw for them.

Until.

There.

There, in the distance.

Very, very far into the distance.

Almost on the other side of the beach.

Was a familiar something.

A Q-tip person: White-haired and regal, walking a boneless spaniel and flanked by two men wearing dark green windbreakers.

I knew the green men were protecting the little white-tipped dot, and the dot was walking a "Millie" clone.

I froze.

Maddy froze.

Maggie froze.

And then ... Maggie RAN.

I grabbed Maddy’s collar - lest she get any ideas about collusion - and watched as Maggie got farther from me and closer to the white dot. She seemed to be a black bullet; getting faster and faster and lower and lower to the ground as she zoomed toward the former first lady’s morning constitutional entourage.

My body was frozen but my mind reeled with panic.

OHmygodJedsdogisattackingtheformerfirstlady’spooch.

WhatdoIdo?

TheywillshootJed’sdog.

Hewillneverforgivemeforgettinghisdogkilled.

Staycoolstaycalmpretendnothingiswrong.

And then, at the very second, just feet away from her target, Maggie stopped short, sniffed a little sniff and turned around. She loped back to me as if nothing had happened.

I felt faint.

When we finally passed each other a few moments later, Barbara (as I thought of her but would likely bumble for "your majesty" if I tried to actually speak) turned in my direction, smiled and gave me a little wink. Her wordless reassurance didn’t really help me calm down, though.

In fact, I still kind of feel like throwing up.

Side by side

i've missed you film, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

How I've missed film. When I lugged two children and about 10 rolls of film into the lobby of my preferred pro lab it all came flooding back.

The magic that is photography.

A feeling.

A wordless wisdom that almost blindly catches a moment and holds it in ways you may not have intended or perhaps even noticed.

It's something digital doesn't do in the same way.

Digital has made me understand what instant gratification really means. Film makes you wait. It forces you to be judicious. It makes you pay otherwise. It also makes you remember things you might never have seen.

The thing is, I only shot a few rolls of film during the last week. The rest I found by going through boxes and drawers and glove compartments in several cars. What I found were six or so overheated, overdue, overlooked rolls to bring along for the ride.

I didn't have much hope for finding long lost gems. The rolls from last year or from 10 years ago didn't get developed for a reason. Mostly the images were sure to be afterthoughts. I didn't finish the roll and it stayed in the camera. It was last ditch efforts, usually not worthy of a second look. They were just because.

When the contact sheets came back there were amazing litle memories I'd completely forgotten. There were photographs from magazine jobs and weddings, there were pictures from my old apartment.

But somehow, years later, these trigger-happy castoffs seemed valuable even in their imperfection; perhaps because of their faults.


One roll from seven years ago contained a photograph of Jed holding a metal snow saucer, standing in front of Ledig House with Maggie by his side. We'd gone sledding with the dogs down the big hill despite only a smattering of snow that year. It was an old-time looking frame with a weird light-leak and funky coloring.

He wants me to make a larger print of it to hang in the house. He said he felt as if he were looking at his own father standing in front of the Captain's Walk . Timeless even while time passes.

It's made me want to keep my old Nikon as more than a paperweight. Keep it loaded and ready for a shot or two as an afterthought. Perhaps once every few years send off the rolls to see what, if any, treasures await.

Another cause for concern

Do you remember when I said this about the last days of our beloved Maggie?

Well, had you been living in our house at the time or speaking with me in person, I would have told you "it was the strangest thing" the way she just stopped eating.

I would have told you that while she wouldn't touch her food bowls all of a sudden, she would still drool over table food and gobble down pancakes or homemade cookies or even the hard dog biscuits we'd been refraining from giving her because the tumor in her lung was pressing on her esophagus.

Well, guess what she'd been eating since August?

All the signs were there ...

Lately I've been thinking the universe is thumbing its nose at me. Crazy, right? Maybe it's just the stress of everyday life, or the reality that I've just gone from one needling virus to another since Thanksgiving. Maybe I'm just tired of thinking. Like the character Henry Chinaski in the movie "Barfly" said: "Sometimes I just get tired of thinking of all the things that I don't wanna do. All the things that I don't wanna be. Places I don't wanna go, like India, like getting my teeth cleaned. Save the whale, all that, I don't understand that."

Yet somehow -- as I wallow in self pity -- we've managed to raise a sensitive child, who seems to know how to take care of us when we are feeling low.

Sunday was a hard day for all of us; I was sore all over, and thinking that perhaps the stress of Maggie's demise and some other tasks I'd managed to get done during the day had taken their toll on me. I was tired. Still I managed to rouse myself from an impromptu nap in time to vacate the premises (as Jed wanted to be alone with Maggie) taking Annabel away with me.

I really had no clue where to go before I left. What to do with a hour on a blustery day. But then Annabel stole the last piece of bacon Jed had made to help Maggie choke down her pills.

There was a fight. There were tears and hurt feelings.

She wanted the last piece; he wanted it for Maggie. She didn't understand.

At least I knew what to do: We went to the diner to get bacon.

She ate five of the six pieces on her plate, saving the last one for daddy.

When we got home Jed was in the shower and she was eager to give him the bacon. I wanted to know how it went and started crying. How did it go? Where did it happen? How did he wrap her?

Something about it all was just overwhelming. Yet Annabel stood there with the bacon, looking concerned for me. "I'm not sad, Mommy. Maggie's OK now."

At 4 a.m. that morning I woke up and had to vomit. It was official, the achyness and dreadful tired wasn't from overdoing anything. It was a bug that people tell me is going around. And so, dear Internets, I've been wallowing on the couch these last two days and wishing I felt better. Wishing winter were at an end and the end of sick were within reach.

It's been really helpful that Ittybit knows just the right thing to say.

"Mama, I hoped you were feeling better. I hoped you were feeling really better."

Goodnight, baby dog ...

At 5 p.m. this evening a friend and veterinarian made a house call, and we said goodbye to our sweet dog Maggie for the last time. She was 13 years old.

She was our first baby.

She was not in pain.

She stopped eating almost completely two days ago but she had not gotten lethargic.

It was time.

Last night she spent a lot of time standing in the snow in the backyard just staring off into the distance. She did not sleep where she usually does, at Annabel's bedside, but in the hallway between the kitchen and the "great outdoors." I went to check on her at 4 a.m. and found her in the yard again looking off into the distance.

I had a dream a few days ago that we'd taken her to the vet, telling her the vet would make her better but knowing it was impossible. Her eyes were almost human; relieved and willing it to be true. It broke my heart.

We were never going to be ready to let her go or say goodbye. But we knew it would be best to do it before discomfort or pain took hold.

It was such a wonderful thing, for us, that her last moment on this Earth would be at home and not in a clinic that she had tolerated dutifully but a place that always made her shiver fearfully. This friend traveled more than an hour to do that for us when our vet would not, and we are indebted to him.

He adminstered the last treatment downstairs in front of the woodstove with Maddy laying next to her. She went peacefully as if she just fell asleep. Jed wrapped her in a warm blanket and buried her in the backyard under the honeysuckle.

She will now be a part of this place just as she was once a part of us.

You are a good dog, Maggie. We love you.

An old dog, new tricks

Tucking her into bed

Jed is worried about Maggie. Her cough is getting worse and she's skinnier than ever.

He even mentioned yesterday that he thinks she's only got two weeks left in her.

After the diagnosis last summer, I spent an anguished few days feeling numb. The idea of a house without this old girl of ours begging for tasty morsels and smiling at us as only a good dog can smile, filled me with dread.

But then she didn't die. As the months went by we began to feel hot under the icy glares of the veterinary staff as we continued to stop by and pick up two-week supplies of Hydrocodone; Jed started bringing her with him to prove we weren't just pocketing the drugs for ourselves.

Her birthday (Thanksgiving) came and went, as did Christmas and New Year's Day. And now as Annabel and I gear up for Valentine's Day, Maggie is still underfoot and under the dining room table where hundreds of paper hearts -- knocked over accidentally as we busily made cards this past weekend -- fluttered down upon her.

I'd forgotten how sick she is; how little time is left. She still lumbers up and down the stairs, eats voraciously and drags hers and all bowls of dinner-time giveaways away from Madeline every chance she gets. She doesn't have any pain. And even though we know it's inevitable, her death will still be a shock.

I worry about Annabel, and how she will take the loss now that Maggie is routinely sleeping in her room and generally watching over her at night. I imagine Maggie's absence in the house will make it feel cavernous to her, especially. "Is Maggie feeling better?" she asked me last night at bedtime, "'cause I want her to sleep in my room. I want her with me all night."

One, Two, Three. ... Ready or not, here we come

Dear Annabel,

In just a few days you'll be three. Everyone who sees you lately remarks on how tall you've grown or how mature you've gotten.

I can't believe it myself even though for months I've been telling folks who ask your age that you're almost three. I feel as if I wasted a sizable chunk of the twos - and for the record, they weren't that terrible.

It's hard to believe that in a few more years I'll probably forget about how you used to sing to yourself in the car. Songs made up out of bits and pieces of the day.
"Oh I had and cat at the lake. She said MOOO. And Meow. And she didn't eat cake only OR-E-Os. ... MAMA, SING!"

Or how you'd admonish me with gravel in your voice and exaspiration in your tone when I'd tell you that I didn't know the words. "MA-OM! SING!"

I love how you tell me "I luf you," and "I din't know the cewewool spills from the top of the box when you lift it up by the bottom."

It's a good thing we have dogs, because the vaccum cleaner is pretty freaking useless and it's always in need of being emptied anyway.

I love how you giggle and say "You are my favorite mommy" and how your dad is "your favorite daddy" and how you pat Maggie's head and say she's your favorite doggie. It's even funny how you look at Madeline and call her crazy, like it's such a shame.

I love how lately the world and everything in it is superlative:

"This is the best cookie I ever had."
"This is the greatest pear I ever ate."
"This is the best drawing I ever made."

And how your tastes evolve:

"I don't want the lemony buscuits or the chocolatey ones, but maybe the coconutty would be good."

Even how you watch TV is endearing: Body all busy with a slight smile on your face as if it's all just so wonderous. And then you'll say - as if to reassure yourself - "dogs don't really talk do they."

So now that you really are almost three, I am pleased to report that life with you around is still magic, and you are still a wonder. And I would guess that you're at least 76 percent cuter than you were last year.

Love,
Mommy

Eight weeks

Our hearts are breaking.

Maggie, our old-lady, un-Labrador mutt, is dying.

She's been slowing down more noticeably in recent weeks. A nagging cough that's come and gone for a year or more turns out not to be the result of Lyme disease, for which she was treated last month and which left us hoping that her old self would return. And for a while it seemed as if she would bounce back. On vacation with us in Maine she had more energy, but the cough got worse. We assumed (with hope) it was just the heat and excitement.

She was romping into the sea just the same way she's done since she was a little one, yet her eating had all but stopped. Once we returned I noticed that she was refusing to eat solid food. Her bowls of kibble went untouched whereas in Maine they'd gone unfinished. When she snubbed biscuits, I knew something was really wrong.

It didn't take long for her to look like skin and bone. She was, at 78 pounds last year, already only a shadow of her 100-pound youthful self.

The veterinarian performed an x-ray Saturday morning and found the tumor: a mass taking up all the space in her left lung. He said it was pressing on her esophogus and that was causing her inability to eat. He prescribed adult uncoated aspirin, canned foods and mashed potatoes. He said currently she wasn't in pain, and we could take her home and try to keep her comfortable. He guessed she may hang on for eight weeks.

Eight. Weeks. The same amount of time Jed waited in anticipation to take home a little black-lab/suspected-Newfoundland-that-got-over-the-fence and name her Maggie.

I didn't meet them until nearly two years later, but I was smitten with his enormous, amber-eyed pooch.

She was a different dog back then. Fiercely loyal to him, she seemed to loathe women (though not me) but love other dogs.
In the year we lived together in a tiny apartment, she went from she-man-woman-hater to pack dog (with my Madeline) and people lover. Walks were still interesting. No dog escaped the lunging, loud sniffs. Her deep chested, throaty barks even frightened me from time to time. But slowly she began to change. Even her eyes mellowed into a warm brown.

By the time Annabel came along, I was more than a little worried how our now geriatric dogs would react to being placed in yet a new pecking order.

As one would expect, every infant cry sent Maggie lurching out of the room to a quiet corner. When Ittybit began to toddle, Maggie would move out of her way immediately. Relocating herself to a safe room, where no ears were threatened to be pulled or paws mashed under tiny shoes. Until one marvelous day when Ittybit just sat on the poor old gal just as she was trying to nap. Maggie bravely sat there, continuing her fruitless quest for sleep. Since that day, Maggie has seemed to enjoy the gentle attentions of our little girl.

Maggie has migrated from sleeping at Jed's side to the hallway where she can listen for Ittybit sounds, and now, often, I find her in Annabel's room, curled up in a corner where she can watch our little girl sleep.

Such love this girl has given us. And though I still can't believe we are losing her, and likely well before the time predicted, I can only hope the end is a peaceful one and without intervention.

For now, we'll feed her mashed beef and raw bacon, and dote on her with the force of all the love she's given us for nearly 12 years.

Yes, Annabel, dogs have their own doctors

This morning, after two days of preparation, Annabel and I took the dogs to the veterinarian. I usually let this task fall to the man, mainly because his schedule is more flexible than mine but also because I can't take the anxiety. (For the record, I think it's patently unfair that dogs have a beach-romp life of 15 years if they are lucky while a tortoise can lounge around for 150 years with hardly a pat on the head.) But it was past due, and I couldn't, in good conscience, leave it any longer.

What follows is an edited transcript of our discussions:



PREPARATIONS (LAST NIGHT):

Sometimes She's Schwann: Tomorrow we're going to take Maddy and Maggie to the doctor. They have to be examined.

Annabel: Oh, Ok. Tan we do now?

Sometimes She's Schwann: No, honey. We have an appointment for tomorrow morning.

Annabel: Who's dare doctor?

Sometimes She's Schwann: The animal doctor is called a VET-ER-IN-ARIAN, and she's a special doctor for animals.

Annabel: Vetidarian? Who aminals?

Sometimes She's Schwann: VET-ER-IN-ARIAN. ... A doctor for dogs and cats.

Annabel: Who else?

Sometimes She's Schwann: Sometimes farm animals, like horses and cows. Sometimes exotic pets, like snakes and birds.

Annabel: Oh. Tan we do now?

Sometime She's Schwann: Their appoinment isn't until tomorrow. How about we read to them about Corduroy's doctor's visit.

Annabel: OK. So they won't be stared of the doctor?

PREPARATIONS: (6:45 a.m., appointment at 9:45):

Annabel: Mama. De dogs hafta do to the doctor. We dotta do NOW.

Sometimes She's Schwann: We have to wait a while before it's time. Let's get them ready, ok. We need to brush them and take them for a walk.

THREE VERY LOOOOOONG HOURS LATER:

Annabel: Who's her. Is she the doctor?

Sometimes She's Schwann: Yes, baby she's the veterinarian.

Annabel: What is her doing?

Sometimes She's Schwann: She's listening to Maddy's heart and her lungs.

Annabel: Now what is her doing?

Sometimes She's Schwann: She's taking blood for tests, and she's giving them a shot.

Annabel: They not like that.

Sometimes She's Schwann: No ... but aren't they being brave?

Annabel: Yeah, they are. (To veterninarian) My dogs are my best friends. I lub them.

$200, five tests, 20 toe-nail clippings, one lyme disease diagnosis (Maggie) and three prescriptions later:

Sometimes She's Schwann: So what did you think of that?

Annabel: Pretty good, but Torduroy's doctor is a bear.

The children mommy blogs forgot

A friend of mine in the publishing bidness asked me to work on a photographic children's book with him. I would provide the photographs and he would write the text.

It would be all about my dogs -- Madeline and Maggie.

His idea was simple:

"Take about 48 photographs of them playing together, spread them out on a table and we'll come up with a story about "Best Friends."

I stopped cold, realizing that with all the photographs I've taken over the years there are very few of the wonder twins together. Ok, they're not twins and we are actually a step-family. He came to the relationship with Maggie and I showed up with Madeline. And it was a rough start.

Maggie, a year older that Madeline (who for the remainder of the essay I will refer to as Jerk Monkey Hose Dog because she's too smart for her own good and has always gotten into trouble) would have nothing to do with the little pest for quite a while. She'd snap and growl and slink away to anywhere that would be puppy free. Maggie always seemed mature beyond her years ... for a Lab.



My friend's request also made me realize that even if I could get the grrls to play together, my first babies -- the furry loves of my life -- are not as photogenic as they once were. They have benign bumps and skinny haunches, puffy bellies and graying fur. Though they are still beautiful to us, the industry might not agree. And too soon these creatures, with whom we've shared a combined four homes, will be only memories -- especially since the early photographs (and negatives) may have been lost in a move (grrrr!)

"That's even better," he said jovially. "We'll do a children's book about coping with the loss of a pet."

I look over at Annabel as she splashes in the pool, it dawns on me that the past two years have really brought about an amazing transformation of our entire family, fuzzy members especially. They have gone from being standoffish and frightened of the pink little bundle that made all kinds of strange noises to being watchful and proud.

"Oooh, this is even better," says my friend. "I see morning show bookings in our future."

I realized we'd better get started. She'll be at the perfect age to mourn their loss when it's their time to leave us. And it'll probably take me that long to figure out what I'll wear for the interview.

Games we played this weekend

guess what she's saying?
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

... with Amah and Papa
"Made tupcakes you, mama. I made you tupcakes. See! THERE!"
"Tum on, Tum on ... stop following me .... AHHHHHH."
"I'll have pata, and that and that and that. What are you havin' papa?"
(To waitress) "Papa's donna have Tunafush sanweege."

... with Mommy and Daddy
"Dance you me."
"I lub you. I LUB you!"
"Bid Hug peas. Bid hug."
"Pick up me."
"I do up there, daddy. I do up there."
"I want to hep make toffee."
"No pishers, Mama."
"Dance you me, mommy."
"Do it again."

... with Maddy and Maggie:
"Sit for bituts, Maddy and Madowin ... Sit for bituts."

"Play tatch with me, Madowin. Play NOW! Do det it, Madowin. Do DET IT."

Good dog, Maggie ... pat head

rank ru, raggy ...
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

It's quite amazing to watch the dogs warm up to the little miss. Annabel is usually very gentle with the animals, however occasionally she can be a little ... shall we say ... trying? Not too long ago, Maggie would never have tolerated being used as a bench, but lately she is willing to let bygones be bygones. Although Madeline still leaves the room at the slightest touch (with big folks, too) I can see the excitement bubble up in my ol' pooch each morning when Annabel starts to stir.

Sharp and sly

ama's house, kennebunk
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

The musical expression of Annabel's lexicon expansion over the last few DAYS can be summed up in ONE WORD, and is explained quite nicely in our favorite They Might Be Giants song:

"No plus no equals no, all roads lead to no, no, no. Fingers pointing, eyebrows low, mouth in the shape of the letter O. Red means stop, do not go ... NO, NO, NO."

Although every question is now answered in NOs, it is apparent that she has a much wider vocabulary and some very strong desires. She knows what she wants and will sometimes lose herself and actually regress to saying 'Aya' when she really wants something such as ice cream or broccoli. (Two great tastes that apparently taste great together).

She also has a delightful impish look that says she's trying to play tricks on us. She still loves 'sneaking up on momma. She's still sparing with the public displays of affection: there aren't many hugs and kisses for mom and dad, but there are plenty of tender moments for Elmo, Ernie and Lambie. She is also fond enough of the dogs to call them by name (it sounds like MAY for both Maddy and Maggie) and give them brief hugs and pets while she sighs a little sigh of affection.