The Tim Award

We have a winner of the Leary Award for Worst Poetry (or the “Tim” as it’s known in literary circles)!

But before the lucky winner is announced, I’d like to thank Phil Holland, because, as you will see, he did not take his task lightly, but instead devoted a great deal of time to the contest and not only judged the poems, but offered some careful analysis. Phil teaches English Classics (I think) at a University (I’m pretty sure), so he knows his stuff, but, as you will see he’s also very, very funny in a dry, professorial way, which is always sexy in my book. Plus, he gave several notable mentions in the runners-up category, which I love.

So, without further ado, here’s Mr. Holland’s verdict:

__________________________________________________________

Looks like Ann touched a nerve. Or opened a vein. In any case, a lot of verse flowed out. And now the native are restless for judgment. Don’t you have taxes to do or anything like that? Or classes to teach?

Now, Ann set this up as a bad, or rather dumb poetry contest. Just to remind you: “I think we should have ourselves a dumb poetry contest in honor of Moses’s delightful friend.” (One of the dummies on his porch, not me). This happens to be a recognized poetic category. There is even a famous anthology of bad poetry called The Stuffed Owl. The editors (DB Wyndham Lewis and Charles Lee) state in their introduction that “Bad Verse has its canons, like Good Verse. There is bad Bad Verse and good Bad Verse. It has been the preoccupation of the compilers to include in this book chiefly good Bad Verse.” Is that clear? Ann’s poem to Sailor was a fine example of such verse, actually, but she is out of the running. Old Sailor could go into an anthology called Knackered Horses, though.

So, the Leary for the Best Dumb Poem goes to…

Hold on, not so fast. We haven’t had the nominees, we haven’t even talked about the art of bad verse yet. Don’t be gettin’ ready to thank the aunt who recited Rod McKuen to you as a child, or Henry Gibson, just yet.

First, let’s review the entries! (I’m taking them from the top in the last two days).

Catherine E’s (Cat’s) poem about buying underwear for her nephew was probably the first ever written on such a subject. And it contained the phrase “package huggers” — very bad (good). Nice work, Cat. Nominated!

Meg wrote a lovely little appreciation of Ann’s blog — too lovely (that’s bad, in our inverted universe).

Christine, who spoke for the “poetry-challenged”, proceed to reel off 8 neat little stanzas — too neat (well done!).

Lisa’s another one who wrote a fine poem (yes, too fine to win! — though you did rhyme “later” and “seder”, as Alan noted, and “bobsled bound” was so original it hurt).

Candy, was that just a comment or a haiku? I’m referring to:
I am a Lemon drop tini girl myself,
Lisa very moving poem.
Off to yoga and then more yard work.
Just a comment, I think, but close to a “found poem”.

Arliss, you’ve got talent! I quote:
Linda M., you touch my heart
with your salute to canine rescue
Aislinn, your wit’s unmatched
l like a rose among the fescue.
That’s too good to be bad! At least by my standards, which incline to the same kind of rhyming.

Bev, was this a haiku too?
I am laying down with a bag of ice to the head….
some of you will know why…………
hehehehehe
OK, I lineated it, but it’s the sequence that counts, and the rhythm of those “he”s

Mary Lynn’s Las Vegas poem — don’t you understand, it’s supposed to be dumb verse, not clever verse ending in a line like “Welcome to Las Vegas, we can’t wait until you leave.”

Jennifer (von Flavorbank?)’s got a kicker too in “Men & Mojitos”. I notice that was written just after midnight. And one too many mojitos. Or men.

Barbara tried an acrostic (I’ve written a few in my time), a nice blog tribute (yes, too nice).

Amanda, that was dumb all right — and contained the Best (Worst) Pun (”dairy-air”) of all.

Guadelupe, Frost wrote some fine doggerel verse (actually a wonderful poem about a stray dog named Gus), which is not really doggerel, though it has short rhyming lines. I see G. wrote a sweet tribute poem of her own on the following day, very nice.

Tammy dwells on Ann’s TMZ spill, now beyond immortality. “The existing of a car” is also hard to beat (for “exiting”?).

Helena’s limerick about Ann’s burned eggs has the ring of good bad poetry. The scansion is a little rough at the end — is that a good or bad thing?

Lisa M. claims to be no poet, but she was moved to write a moving poem on the fate of an adopted “rescue dog”. Even though it contains the phrase “oh to be flea free!”, it’s too heartfelt to win as a dumb poem. It makes a dumb animal speak, though.

Mary Lynn, you again, “Trololololooza!” — will not win. But I see that’s not your official entry.

Tammy, I read your poem about your friend’s loss, and now it’s hard to get back in the mood for silly verse.

Actually, Jonah Gibson comes to the rescue, because he wrote a polished and clever poem about diet and exercise. This is good stuff! It’s all good, but the conclusion especially (in case you missed it):

Running, rowing, dance aerobic, pumping iron, and skipping ropic,
Swimming climbing, step and stretching, jogging to the point of retching—
Till weary rapture of corpuscle coursing through sore, aching muscle
Signals that this hard persistence barely lengthened our existence.
Then free from guilt but full of pain we pause to calculate our gain,
And find when appetite’s denied that all life’s fruits are froze and dried,
And though we may have added years, they’ll have to be reviewed through tears.
Oh, we can choose long life to live, knowing we’ve but one to give,
But racking life out to its limit surely leaves scant living in it.
I wouldn’t call it dumb poetry though (except for a couple of those doggerel rhymes). It may have to get some kind of prize, however. A nomination!
Kathy, that was a strange haiku (like you said). Alan, yours is nominated! here it is for those who missed it:
I already have
Ann’s An Innocent, A Broad.
I want the other.

Colleen made me laugh with her witty lines about her “dim wit”. I see what she means about absurd couplet about the fricassee. That went LOL for me.
KC, “Babies and Books” is better (worse?) than you think. Reading to geese? Mounting a prize fighter? All in one poem? That’s unusual.
Cynthia, what picture? Did Ann post your picture? Sounds like she stole your identity, too.
Suzanne, good poem (yes, too good).
Aislinn, that’s a good bad one (”Free”), a contender. “Three Oak Bar ashtrays, all in taupe.” Now that’s good bad poetry: nominated.
(April 11). Mary Lynn, you’re all over the place. I can’t keep your official self separate from your (’stinkin’ up the joint’) unofficial one. Ah, there it is, the one where you demand Ann’s book. Pretty good bad poem! (even on second reading). You’re a little crazy, though, aren’t you. good crazy, not bad crazy (though didn’t se say bad was good)? Nominated.
Yes, I am really in Greece (at a safe distance, you know). Safe from Bev, for example. And Mary Lynn with her strange obsessions. She has a bit of the stalker in her, no? At least according to her poem about the wolf that got away. She’s got a good ear (probably two of them). Good poem (too good)!
Barbara, I had to face real students yesterday (and today), but your grades are coming (by dinnertime).
Wow, reading all these comments, you’re right, I had no idea. I do like pesto-crusted mahi-mahi, though, Aislinn. No, don’t send any, please!
Cat, do you really think so? But don’t think I’m susceptible to flattery. Really?
You’re all getting (past) impatient, aren’t you. I’m running out of steam to comment on any more verses.
So, let’s review the nominations:
Cat
Jonah
Alan
Aislinn
Mary Lynn
The envelope, please. (Remember, the key word is “dumb”!) Are you sure you want the Leary in this category? No shame, eh?
The award goes to: Cat (Catherine E.) for her poem about purchasing underwear for her 16-year-old nephew!
I’m exhausted. Maybe this wasn’t the best way to make new friends, either. I loved the unpretentious wit of all the poems and comments, though, worthy of Mother Ann (the mover and shaker of this competition).
Keep those verses coming!
Bye now,
Phil

Last night’s chat was great fun.  Have spent the morning looking for the “Blaize” reference, which Alan insists is the name of the young Mrs. Mrs. De Winter .  Still haven’t found it.

But now we must discuss something more important than all that. We need to talk about me.  At what point does one become a crazy dog lady?  After 4 dogs? 5?  We have 50 acres – a small farm -which makes 5 dogs not seem entirely crazy, but all the dogs prefer to spend most of their time on my bed-desk, which even I know is crazy.

Here’s the thing. I met another dog.   I’ve been visiting shelters and meeting dozens and dozens of dogs over the past few weeks, and I’m not one to fall for every dog I see.  In fact, I really don’t want most dogs I see, even the most beautiful, young and friendly.  But the other day, while visiting the site of the new facilities for The Simon Foundation, a wonderful rescue organization that I’ll  blog about soon, I met Raven.  Stephanie Ferguson, the director of the Simon Foundation is fostering Raven in her home and this is what she has to say about her:

“Raven a 2-year old American Staffordshire Terrier, was confiscated from a home in December 2009. Until that day, she had spent her entire life bearing puppies in the basement. She is a beautiful dog, even though someone did a really bad job of cropping her ears with a pair scissors.

Three of Raven’s housemates (Sydney, Spike, and Annabelle) came with her to The Simon Foundation. None of the dogs had ever been socialized with humans, and they were terrified of their new environment. They spent the first several weeks cowering in their pens, not making any eye contact with the staff. None of the dogs knew how to walk on a leash, so trying to get them out of the pens for exercise and socialization was a stressful experience for everyone.

While fearful, once Raven was out of her pen, she loved to be held and petted. She craved affection, and a life she never before knew existed.

One day we received an application for Sydney and Spike. Because the dogs didn’t show well at the kennel, we decided to take them to a storefront that we use for events and showings. On a whim we decided to bring Annabelle and Raven so they could get out and have a little reunion with their friends. We are so glad we did, because the Raven that was unveiled was a wonder to us all.

Upon seeing her friends, Raven expressed immense joy and playfulness. She ran around with the pack and even approached the people in the room. It was amazing to watch, and gave us hope that Raven could be adopted sooner, rather than later.

A staff member took Raven home and discovered she doesn’t just like other dogs, she also likes cats and children! It was decided that she would be fostered by another staff member so she could be integrated into a home environment and learn how to “be a dog”. She needed to learn how to walk on a leash, up and down stairs, go outside to go to the bathroom, and other basic skills that would help facilitate a successful adoption.

It didn’t take long before Raven’s true personality started to reveal itself. She has the calm, mature demeanor of Cesar Milan’s “Daddy”, who recently passed away. She is extremely intuitive and maternal, perhaps from repeatedly whelping litters.

Raven loathes the cold (and especially the rain) so she needs a sweater to keep her warm. She has learned to walk well on a leash, go up and down stairs, and she’s pretty well housebroken. She likes to ride in the car and pretty much sleeps on a dog bed the entire trip. We do not allow her jump on the furniture, but if you let her, she would love to snuggle with you on the couch while you watch TV. She’s no longer afraid of people (maybe a little shy), but definitely not afraid.

She has been trained to sleep in a crate at night. She didn’t like it at first, because she doesn’t like to be alone, but now she goes right in and sleeps the night away under a soft fleece blanket.

Raven is highly adoptable to anyone who has other pets and children. She would do best in a home that has at least one other dog for her to play with, and someone who will either take her with them wherever they go, or who is around a lot, because she does not like to be left alone.

If you can offer Raven the home she so deserves, please visit The Simon Foundation website at www.thesimonfoundation.org to submit an online Application to Adopt. Her friend
Annabelle is also still available.”

So that’s Raven’s story. We haven’t adopted her yet. Denis will meet her tomorrow, But Stephanie brought Raven over to meet my girls yesterday. I had a bit of trepidation about this, I must admit. She’s a pit bull and they are more inclined to fight, generally, than, say, a Labradoodle..  Female dogs can be aggressive toward each other, but my dogs never fight. They take bones away from each other, eat out of each others’ bowls, etc. I didn’t know if Raven had ever fought other dogs (I was told she was taken from a crack house). Daphne, our pack leader has been known to growl at dogs who have come to our property and whose energy she doesn’t like, so I was worried that if she growled, Raven would be triggered to attack and there would be a tragedy.

But Raven and Stephanie arrived while we were outside and Daphne wandered over to them her tail wagging slowly. Raven was on a leash, which can make some dogs very defensive when confronted by a loose dog, But Raven was mellow, wagging her tail, her head lowered. Soon all of my girls were sniffing Raven, everybody seemed to be admiring her and then we went inside and let them all off-leash together.

Well, I won’t bore you with all the details, but Raven loves to play with other dogs. She LOVED the puppy and Holly loved her. They played for an hour, at least. She’s very short and compact, so she’s easier for the puppy to play with than Lulu, whose size can be overwhelming to the puppy. But she’s so strong that she can play tug-of-war with Lulu, which none of our other dogs want to do because she’s so powerful that they get flung into the air when she shakes her head.

So what do you all think? Will you stop reading my blog if I adopt her, because you will then know for sure what you have long suspected – that what you are reading is the rantings of a lunatic? A dog lady? Or will you admire me for my bravery and kindness, bringing yet another 4-legged creature into our home to live out its days with us?

PS – we have had 5 dogs before, and two of them were Irish Wolfhounds

PPS (PSS?) – we really would like to spend more time in the city and traveling once Dev leaves for college in the fall.

I’ve blogged before about my friend Charlotte who rescues dogs from pounds and places all the young cuties, while keeping some of the older, less attractive dogs that nobody else wants. Today, I thought I’d introduce you to some of Charlotte’s pack.

First, here’s Clover, who was going to be put down just for being old.  Well, she’s old, but  look at that face.

You really have to go to Charlotte’s house to see her very special, grizzled and wizened old pack in order to understand how precious and grateful these seniors are, and how much they adore Charlotte.

This is dear old Max:

.

Charlotte got a call from a shelter in Staten Island on Christmas Eve, two years ago, because a family had dropped off Max,  their pet German Shepherd, and wanted him to be put down.  Why?  Because he was ten years old, with stiffness in his joints and THEY WERE GETTING A NEW PUPPY FOR CHRISTMAS!  A wonderful person who worked at the shelter could see what a sweet, honest and dignified gentleman Max was and they drove him to Connecticut that very night, so that he could be with Charlotte, and he’s been with her ever since, with no major health problems and always a wagging tail.  I always think of him as our Holly’s grumpy uncle Max, because, while he was never mean to the puppies, they drove him crazy and he was happy to show them the door when they were adopted.

Charlotte also has a chihuahua who had both hind legs broken when her owner threw her against a wall, and two other chihuahuas who had been labeled too aggressive and too old to be placed.  They are no longer aggressive and they worship Charlotte. All Charlotte’s dogs adore her and are very polite and well-behaved.  So, I’d like to suggest to anyone thinking of getting a family pet, please consider an older, wiser animal.  They are usually housebroken and most have a great deal of wisdom about people and show their gratitude to their rescuers every day.

Charlotte has several dogs that she is trying to place, so I thought I’d feature them here. First, dear Lady:

This is a sweet, sweet girl who has a cat.  Yes, she came to Charlotte with a beautiful, long-haired calico cat, who would love to stay with Lady, but they may be adopted separately. Lady is not terribly old, nor very young.  She’s in her “prime,” I’d say.  Can’t you see her curled up next to your fireplace this holiday season?

Charlotte calls this handsome young fellow “Wiggles,” because that’s what he does when he sees people he likes, and he’s yet to see a person he doesn’t like.  He is young and enthusiastic and would really do well in a home with a person who knows how much exercise a pit bull requires. He’s about 8 months old and has gotten along quite well with Charlotte’s other dogs and cats.  Wiggles would love to be your new running partner and friend.  And he’s just so cool-looking:

The very gentle and well-behaved pit bull in the photo below was surrendered to a local shelter after he was stabbed between the shoulders during a drunken fight between his owner and another man.  He has a scar, but carries no grudge and loves people anyway.  Somebody who works on Rescue Me might take this handsome fellow, but in case that falls through, he’s young, housebroken and good with people.  Let’s call him Blade:

And finally, meet Thor:

Thor is not looking for a home, he already has one with Joe Tracy, above.  Joe was doing some work on my house and I saw this gorgeous (and I mean GORGEOUS) English Mastiff seated in his truck, and insisted he take him out so we could meet.  Thor is a gentle giant and is part of the crew of Joe’s company, ON THE LEVEL CARPENTRY, in New Milford, CT.  They do amazing work, and if you hire them, you get to meet Thor.

Finally, Charlotte has three other small dogs looking for homes.  I don’t have time to reformat their pictures now, but if you email Charlotte at 4dots@att.net she will be happy to email you photos.

The other day, I visited my friend Charlotte. Why?  Because Charlotte  rescues dogs from a kill shelter and one of her recent rescues just had a litter of puppies.

As many of you know, Denis has put a freeze on the acquistion of new dogs in the Leary household.  The kids and I are always whining about getting a new dog, but Denis always brings us around to his sensible viewpoint, which is that we have a very amiable pack at present, never a growl or raised hackle between them.  They’re all trained and relatively well-behaved and there is almost enough room in the bed for Denis and me to stretch out between them at night.

So I didn’t tell him I was going to look at the puppies.

I just went for a little look.

Well, I needed to see that Charlotte had everything well in hand!

When I got our of my car, I was greeted by Charlotte’s pack of small rescue dogs and in their midst was a wonderful female version of our former Pongo – a scrappy terrier mutt.

“Oh my God, I love her,” I said, pointing to the terrier, and Charlotte said, “She’s the puppies’ mom, Peanut!”

So into the house we went to look at the puppies.  Peanut trotted ahead of us and turned her head around every few seconds to bark and yap at me.  Her barks weren’t aggressive, nor were they entirely friendly.  She was stating, in no uncertain terms, that she had her eye on me; that if I thought she was going to let me anywhere near her puppies, I had another think coming; that I’d better just watch myself; that she knew a puppy stealer when she saw one; that she didn’t want my germs on her puppies, etc.  We proceeded through the house listening to Peanut’s list of things I could and could not do, and finally arrived in the bathroom where the puppies’ whelping box is kept. There we saw that one of the puppies’ elderly foster uncles (a portly and grizzled chihuahua mix) had stepped into the box to have a sniff. Peanut leapt into the box and sent him on his way with a long, low admonishing growl, then she frantically sniffed and checked all her pups, looking up at us every few seconds as if to say, “Did you see that?  That disgusting ….male …was in the box with my babies.  Did you see? Did you see that?”

After she gave her babies a snack and licked them all clean, she was much more relaxed and allowed me to hold them.  I want to go back and take some better photos and maybe we can help Charlotte place these gorgeous pups in wonderful homes.

Charlotte is very special.  She takes in dogs that are on death row at a Waterbury, CT shelter, and she has had great success placing them.  She ends up keeping some of the very old dogs that she can’t place.  She had found a home for Peanut soon after she rescued her, but when the prospective adopters learned she was pregnant they changed their minds.

After learning about the pregnancy, Charlotte decided to keep Peanut and the puppies until the puppies are weaned. On October 1st, Peanut climbed into her whelping box and began delivering her puppies, while Charlotte and the other dogs quietly watched.  She is a very dedicated and fastidious mother, dear Peanut, and has wonderful manners in the house.  I told Charlotte that if she doesn’t become too attached to Peanut, and still wants to place her after the puppies find homes, well…..

I showed Denis the photos last night.

“NO PUPPIES,”  he said.

Then he said, “The mom is cute.”  He asked me to hand over the computer so he could have a better look.

“She’s a Pongo, alright,” he said, smiling.

As promised yesterday, I will now tell the true story of how our dog, Lulu, the St. Bernard/Airdale mix almost died after eating a portion of our driveway this summer. But first, a few words about Lulu.

I have blogged about Lulu before, more than once. Oh and here’s a good one. But I have purposely not told you the whole truth about her. The reason I haven’t shared this is because there’s really no nice way of saying it and I don’t want all the dog lovers here to get all upset and call me mean and cruel.

The fact is that Lulu is as dumb as a board. The dog is just plain stupid. She has proven this to us on many occasions and we have often wondered whether she suffered some sort of brain damage as a puppy or was just born with a staggeringly low IQ.

She has absolutely no problem-solving skills. None. Most carnivorous animals have excellent problem-solving skills because hunting for food that runs away requires some strategizing. Wild dogs must communicate with each other in order to hunt in packs and that is why dogs make such great human companions. They’ve learned to understand our movements and much of our language, and through repetition, can be taught to do many useful things, such as coming when they’re called, or getting off the bed when told. This is the ordinary dog I’m talking about. Lulu is no ordinary dog.

Lulu came to us from a rescue organization in Louisiana at nine months of age and, at first, we mistook her boundless enthusiasm and general doofiness as a stage she was going through. We thought she was all excited to find herself on a farm instead of on death row (she had been in a kill shelter with bad hip dysplasia). We just assumed she was adjusting.

The time she dove into the dishwasher to lick a plate and backed up with the bottom rack of dishes attached to her collar, we laughed until we wept. She was still madly licking the dishes as she dragged the rack around the house smashing dishes left and right. When she got her jaw trapped in Daphne’s collar and almost strangled my dear Daphne to death, nobody was laughing. (In fact, be careful leaving young, playful dogs at home with collars on. Dogs have died from this.) When she wore a chair as a necklace, in another act of outrageous greed, we were, again, howling with laughter.

But here’s something that’s not so funny: She doesn’t understand the “come” command. She is not being stubborn when she doesn’t come. It’s just something she hasn’t been able to figure out. On a cold, snowy night, she will be sitting up on our hill staring dolefully down at the house.

I will open the door and call her. She whines and squirms and does all sorts of theatrics but the dog WILL NOT COME. Then I will shake a box of treats and this sends her almost out of her mind with desire. She yelps and cries. If only I could be there with the people! In the warm house. With the food! This is what she is thinking, but she is on the hill, and we are in the house and she can’t, for the life of her, figure out how to change that! I swear, each and every time, I must don a coat and boots and walk up to her and when I reach her side, she does this joyous leaping and bounding and then we run down to the house together. She has been saved again! But the next night, when I call her, she is stumped all over again. If only I could be with them…they’re so close … but yet … so far!

I must say her instincts for protection are very much intact, as one day, at the gas station, she didn’t like the way a man came running up to me (he was looking for directions) and she turned into a snarling, teeth-gnashing she-wolf and almost made it through the window in her attempt to annihilate the guy. I gave her many kisses for her heroics, that day, in truth, the guy was a little odd. You really shouldn’t run at ladies with oversized, mentally challenged dogs in the car.

Anyway, last month, Denis had a bunch of guys over playing street hockey. There are often snacks and coffee at these street hockey games but all the guys know to keep everything away from Lulu. After one game, last year, she devoured a bunch of those little metal creamer containers and we were picking them up with the pooper scooper, all over the yard, for weeks. Anyway, the night after the hockey game, last month, Lulu refused her supper. We were away, but our caretaker alerted us because Lulu treats each and every kibble that is ever served her as if it’s the first morsel she’s had in months and for her to refuse food is not a good sign. Plus she was moaning. Fortunately, Steve rushed her to the animal hospital where they x-rayed her and saw that her stomach was filled with round sharp-looking foreign objects. Bone? They wondered. Bits of stick? No. It was gravel. Lots of it. What we were able to surmise was that one of the guys must have let a little bit of grease from a sandwich, or perhaps a drop of cream from his coffee dribble onto the driveway and Lulu greedily gobbled up whatever it was, with a huge side order of driveway.

This dog was a rescue mutt, but we have spent more on vet bills for this one dog than for any horse I’ve ever owned (Lulu’s the one with the double hip surgery). But she’s fine now. And the good thing about being so simple, is she’s like that guy in Flowers for Algernon. She’s like Charly. I really wouldn’t want her to receive any type of treatment that would improve her intelligence, as then she might end up like our old dog Rocky, who was super smart (really, smarter than me) and as a result, he worried, fretted and second-guessed us all the time.
Lulu has no idea that she’s “different” and so she is the happiest dog I have ever known.

I’m just not expecting her to pull me out of any burning buildings.

Ylenia just sent an uplifting report from Abruzzo. It’s posted in yesterday’s comments.

Yesterday, Denis’s mother, his two sisters and their families came to our house for Easter dinner. Denis’s mother Nora, about whom I plan to dedicate an entire blog page soon, is recovering from a knee replacement, which has barely slowed her down. She’s incredibly energetic and vivacious and really just had the surgery, but came bustling in with her cane, barely limping.

Denis’s youngest sister Betsy is the only one with small children now. Her boys are ages 11, 9 and 6. I miss having kids around during holidays and admit I was a little sad this weekend. I even bought egg dye, but decided not to dye the eggs because nobody wanted to dye them with me. And nobody would be hunting for them.

Then, Connor, Liam and Blake arrived. Here’s Liam with the elf.

Our elf is a very discerning creature and will make herself scarce when certain children visit – children of the pinching, dropping varieties. But she adores the Hylton boys. She thinks they have impeccable manners and has no idea that they secretly make devil ears behind her head when she’s posing for pictures.

Betsy regaled us with hilarious stories about the logistics of being a working mother who manages these active boys’ schedules. One story involved a certain boy being told to pee into a cup, because there was no time to stop on the way to a hockey game. The next day, Betsy, recovering from a rather fun party, was driving the boys to another game. She was a bit parched so she took a swig from the drink in the cup holder next to her …yada, yada, yada …much spewing of warm liquid and foul words from Mom.

The boys walked up to the barn to feed the horses with me. Liam is very smart and talkative and is at an age where he is interested in facts, so I learned a lot about fossils, math, baseball and the human body, during our walk.

“Did you know that the smellier your poop is, the healthier you are?” he asked.

“No,” I replied. I must admit, the news pleased me, but it seemed unlikely, so I said, “it seems like the opposite would be the case.”

Liam stopped in his tracks and said, “Wait, no! The BIGGER the poop, the healthier you are! It’s because your digestive system is working well. I read that.”

I wanted to hug him then. Finally, somebody who is interested in talking about the stuff I like to talk about. I miss having kids around, especially kids at that age. There’s really something amazing about the 8-12 crowd. I love them.

Today’s blog is dedicated to Lulu.

As I’ve mentioned on this blog before, Lulu is very much Denis’s dog. She’s the first dog we’ve owned that has not appointed me as her cherished leader. She is friendly enough towards me, especially around mealtimes, but in general, she’s a little aloof. She seems to spend most of her time thinking about Denis. She smiles when she does this:

He’s working on his show now and is only out here on weekends and you should see the contortions of delight she displays when his car rolls up the driveway.

Lulu is our only real “watchdog.” Daphne is what Cesar Milan calls a “soft breed”. Soft breeds are dogs like labradors, that were not originally bred to kill anything. They tend to be nonaggressive (though they will protect you if you are threatened, usually.) Amazingly, none of the terriers, even the tiny Yorkies, are soft breeds as all terriers were originally bred to kill animals – usually rodents. That’s why they don’t make the best pets for children, in general. Now for all those who are thinking about emailing me about your sweet terriers – I know. I’m a terrier nut. I’m just generalizing.

We’re not sure what variety of breeds conspired to produce our Lulu, but, while she is very friendly, she is a little suspicious of strangers, and is always the first to alert me when somebody is on the property. A man ran towards me at a gas station once, when I had Lulu in the car, and I thought she was going to go through the window. She turned into this snarling she-wolf, with her head sticking out through the crack of the open window and her jaws snapping. Yikes.

Anyway, she hasn’t been feeling well lately (bad hip) so we’re all paying extra attention to our dear Lulu.

I feel that my blog needs some beauty today, so I’m posting a painting by my very dear friend Lindsey Brown. Lindsey is an artist and curator based in Brooklyn and Dutchess County, NY. Her work is in the permanent collection of The Portland Art Museum, is exhibited regularly in various New York galleries, and is hanging all over our house.

Lindsey is my oldest friend. We’re from the same town, went to the same boarding school, and then we went to the same college. We both lived in Boston for awhile, and then we both lived in New York. She’s one of those friends that you can lose contact with for months, but when you finally hook up with each other, you pick up right where you left off. If I feel like making her spit out her coffee, or collapse to the floor like a rag doll, gasping with laughter (Lindsey does that – she will actually end up on a heap on the floor if you’re not careful), I only have to say one or two words that instantly conjure some past humiliation or gaffe that we experienced/committed together.

She can just say a name and I fully understand her sorrow or joy, because I know all about this name. And vice versa. It’s impossible for me to hear a Joni Mitchell song without thinking of Lindsey. Like Joni (whose music we listened to all the time, for years, in our bedrooms, in dorm rooms, in cars, bars), Lindsey is an artist with a poetic sensibility and a love of nature and color and beauty and light. Denis isn’t wild about Joni Mitchell music, and my kids have threatened to throw themselves out of the car when she’s playing, so I can only listen to her when I’m in the car by myself and I always recall my times with Lindsey, and all our dreams and schemes, especially when I hear the words, “I am a lonely painter, I live in a box of paints….” Because Lindsey and I really thought of ourselves as these lonely, tortured artists, though we were never really alone, ever.

My mother is in Colorado, visiting my brother, but it’s Mother’s Day, so I thought I would dedicate today’s blog to my dear mother, Judith S. Howe.

My mother is extremely charming. She has an old-fashioned sensibility when it comes to manners and applies them to modern situations, often with interesting results. For example, once, one of her grandchildren persuaded her to take them through the drive-through window at McDonald’s. Judy drove up to the speaker, and said, smiling brightly at it, “Hi, I’m Judy Howe! I’d like two orders of Chicken McNuggets, please.” Then she waited in the traffic line and when it was her turn, she pulled up to the window, and said, gaily, “Hi! Judy Howe!” I’m not sure if this story is as funny in blog form, because you have to get the accent with it. She talks a little bit like Katherine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story.

Here’s my mom with my brother Paul and me, during my very short career as a natural blonde. My mother was about 24 years old.

Here she is with my brother and sister and me, on the beach in Bay Head, NJ. I guess it was the early 70’s. In those days they didn’t know how to diagnose and treat ADHD, so if you were saddled with “special” kids like us, you just had to tough it out.

Okay, this is my mother sitting between Denis and me at our rehearsal dinner, the night before we were married. I don’t think I have ever seen a photograph that better captures the look of sheer terror on a grown man’s face as vividly as this one does. Seriously, Denis looks like he’s just soiled himself. And, I have no idea what was going on with my hair. It was the 80s? Everybody had bangs like that?

She’s not the type of granny who sits around knitting. Here’s a recent photo of her sporting around in the surf with a bunch of dolphins.

I know. She’s beautiful. Mom, I love you. Happy Mother’s Day!