When Bobo died, we couldn't cope with it. Not any of us. We didn't know what to do. We waited six months to get another dog, and that was too long. It was too long for poor, lonely Lucie, hiding under the kitchen table, and it was too long for us. This time we didn't wait so long. In fact, we didn't wait hardly any time at all.
We have always strongly believed that releasing our dogs from suffering is the final act of love we can show them. Accordingly, when it was obvious that Lucie's failing kidneys were shutting down, we watched her even more closely. When the morning came that she could barely stand or walk in the grass to relieve herself, we knew the day had come. We took Lucie to the vet for the last time. It was a very sad day for all of us. Here's the thing that was sad - and I want to be very clear about this - it was that Lucie had gotten so very sick, not that she was put down. That was a blessing. And I don't use that word lightly.
Ben and I had already been exploring the internet to see what it would take to get a new puppy. I thought to get a bichon, like Bobo, but Ben was sure another cockapoo would be best for us. Why waste all the research he had done before we got Rufus, he reasoned, and I had to agree. We knew things would be different here on the east coast, but even at that, I was not prepared for the prices breeders were asking for cockapoo puppies. The breed is not recognized by the AKC yet, so, of course, the dogs are not considered purebreds. In spite of that, breeders were asking upwards of a thousand dollars for a puppy (!) When I asked one breeder with whom I was corresponding if that price was the norm, she never even deigned to reply. Many breeders have months-long waiting lists, as well, with non-refundable deposits expected just to have one's name added to the list.
All this is to explain how I ended up at the Greenfield Puppies website. Greenfield Puppies serves as a brokerage for Amish dog breeders in Pennsylvania. Yes, that raised all kinds of red flags for me. I have read about the Amish puppy mills and wanted to avoid them at all costs. Still, this seemed like an outlet that needed to be further explored. I found a photo of an adorable female cockapoo puppy and called the phone number for her breeder. I found myself talking to what sounded like a very young man, who assured me that, yes, that very puppy was still available. Yes, we could come out and see her over the weekend. So I made an appointment, assuring Ben and myself that it was an exploratory mission, and that we probably would not buy a puppy. We were just looking.
That was how Ben and Julie and I found ourselves driving through the rolling hills of southeast Pennsylvania on a beautiful spring morning, through the heart of Amish farming country. Once we got off the highway, it was pretty clear we were not in Kansas anymore. Or perhaps we were. The large farms on either side of the narrow roads had horses in the barns and laundry hanging on the lines. A farmer tilled a field with a tiller pulled by three large work horses. Cows grazed near a small stream that ran through a pasture. It could not have been more bucolic. I have never seen the like.
We turned into the driveway of one of the farms, and drove slowly up a hill to a huge barn, with outbuildings and a farmhouse beyond. A dog barked, and a teenage boy emerged from the house, followed by a beautiful little Yorkshire terrier. From his thick, bowl-cut hair to his huge, bare feet, Jonas was the very picture of an Amish youth. We explained that we were there to see the puppies, and he led us to two large elevated cages (rabbit hutches perhaps?) right next to each other that held a barking mama dog (Darla) in one, and six roly-poly puppies in the other. The Yorkie and two other dogs followed along, all of them seeming happy and well-fed. One of them was Danny, the puppy daddy, who looked like he was wearing dark brown socks, but Jonas opined it was from getting in the manure behind the barn again. We were absolutely certain that this was not a place where animals were misused or mistreated in any way.
Then we saw the puppies. Who doesn't love puppies? There were two females in the litter, one of them clearly the puppy whose photo I had fallen in love with. Jonas got the girls out for us to look at, and we took them to a little grassy rise behind the cages so that we could see them romp around and interact with each other and the other dogs. All three of us pretty quickly zeroed in on "Lilly", the puppy I saw initially. I looked up at Ben from where I squatted next to the puppies and asked him, "What do you think?" "I think we should get her", was his reply. And so we did.
Ben handed Jonas a hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills as a deposit, and we arranged to pick Lilly up the following Saturday when she would be eight weeks old. We did not receive a receipt nor give Jonas our full names, although he did have our phone number. We drove back down the rutted driveway, surprised and excited at having just purchased a puppy. And realizing we had a week to prepare for her.
Showing posts with label Bobo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bobo. Show all posts
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
closure, of a sort
The animal hospital called me last week to tell me that Lucie was back and ready to come home. I know that sounds strange, but I knew exactly what they meant, and drove over to pick up her ashes. They were in a small sealed box with the inscription I had requested on it: "Lucie Noëlle, October 21, 1998 to May 1, 2012, She loved to smell the flowers." The only problem was that the box was plastic, made to look like wood. That bothered me. A lot. Lucie was a classy little lady. No faux wood for her. I had to find something attractive enough that we could leave it on the side table next to the covered urn that held Bobo's ashes. I could place the plastic box inside a larger box, I thought. First I considered the miniature cedar hope chest I received when I graduated from high school. No, that would be too big. And, besides, some of the things stored inside that little chest had been there for more than forty years. That was out.
Then I thought of the beautiful wooden box that sat on my dresser. That would be perfect, I thought, but the plastic box will never fit inside there. The only way to be sure of that, however, was to try it. I took the few pieces of jewelry that I stored there out of the box, and once again admired its smooth, polished exterior. I noticed the soft velvet interior. Perfect, I thought again. If only... I placed the plastic box inside the wooden box and closed the lid. How well did it fit? Like it was made for that express purpose.
I had saved the dried remains of the first ever rose that bloomed on my new rose bushes - a rose that Lucie was too ill to smell - and placed that inside the box, as well. The fit of the boxes was so perfect that the small dried flower barely fit there. I placed the box next to the beautiful ceramic urn that holds Bob's ashes. There, I said to myself, there. Lucie is home and where she belongs. I felt comforted. I feel comforted.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
I do my best thinking when I'm taking a walk
As I was taking the dogs for a walk this morning, I was thinking about how amazing it is that Lucie has turned into such a good little walker. For so many years she would pull so hard against the leash that she was walking upright on her two hind legs for most of the walk. We had to buy her a harness as she would just choke herself and retch repeatedly. We could not curb that behavior. She was such a terrible walker that not only did we stop walking her but Bobo as well, and that was wrong, because that boy sure did love his walks.
We used to walk Rufus by himself when we lived in Kent, and I told myself that Lucie didn't care as we left her standing by the door every day. When we made the big move out here, Julie and Andrew took the dogs in for several days to facilitate that move. Julie took Rufus and Lucie out multiple times a day and walked them around the apartment building. Lucie likes to walk now, she reported to me, and she is good at it. Better than Rufus, really. So I have taken to walking them both, and it's true, in her dotage, Lucie trots right along, stopping to sniff and mark many places, which Rufus eschews for the all-out pulling me along as I tell him repeatedly to stop. I am sure we entertain the neighbors as we make our rounds.
Lucie snores loudly behind my chair as I type this, and I know I will have to pick her up and carry her to another room when I am on to my next task. She doesn't see or hear well, but she still "swims" at Ben every day when he gets home from work, and she will endlessly flip Hezbollah (her little stuffed duck) off the chair in Ben's room as he tries to change his clothes. When we are out and about, Lucie is routinely mistaken for a puppy, and I guess that is what she will always be to us, as well. A little, brown, curly-haired puppy. I hope she stays that way for a long, long time. And I'll keep walking her just as long as she wants to do it.
We used to walk Rufus by himself when we lived in Kent, and I told myself that Lucie didn't care as we left her standing by the door every day. When we made the big move out here, Julie and Andrew took the dogs in for several days to facilitate that move. Julie took Rufus and Lucie out multiple times a day and walked them around the apartment building. Lucie likes to walk now, she reported to me, and she is good at it. Better than Rufus, really. So I have taken to walking them both, and it's true, in her dotage, Lucie trots right along, stopping to sniff and mark many places, which Rufus eschews for the all-out pulling me along as I tell him repeatedly to stop. I am sure we entertain the neighbors as we make our rounds.
Lucie snores loudly behind my chair as I type this, and I know I will have to pick her up and carry her to another room when I am on to my next task. She doesn't see or hear well, but she still "swims" at Ben every day when he gets home from work, and she will endlessly flip Hezbollah (her little stuffed duck) off the chair in Ben's room as he tries to change his clothes. When we are out and about, Lucie is routinely mistaken for a puppy, and I guess that is what she will always be to us, as well. A little, brown, curly-haired puppy. I hope she stays that way for a long, long time. And I'll keep walking her just as long as she wants to do it.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
welcome to my neighborhood
There are a lot of things I like about the neighborhood where we live. It is quiet, for one thing, and that's important. We live far enough away from the university that there is not much student housing near us. We hear the occasional loud music from a weekend party, sure, but not more often then in any other neighborhood. There are only a couple of families with children on our street, so there are no yelling kids riding endlessly up and down the street on their big wheels/bicycles/skateboards.
Our neigbors keep to themselves and mind their own business - for the most part, anyway. We do have the nosy old lady who lives across the street, but what neighborhood doesn't? And, after all, she was the one who took Bobo in the one and only day he wandered off. Ben found him fenced in her backyard, and he says that he and Bobo looked at each other like, "What are you doing here?" I try to think of her as the neighborhood watch.
As Rufus and I take our daily walks this spring, I enjoy the flowering plants and shrubs that bloom in each yard we pass. I have realized that there is something else I really appreciate about this quiet, middle-class neighborhood. People in this neighborhood have violets in their lawns. That is enough for me, in and of itself, because I love violets, and always have.
As lovely as the violets are, however, their presence serves as an indicator of something that is even more important to me about our neighborhood. It is the fact that although people perhaps don't encourage violets to grow in their lawns the way I do, they certainly allow them to stay. What I mean to say is, for the most part, we don't have "perfect" lawns here. Oh sure, there are lawns that are chemically treated and posted with signs warning you to keep your children and pets and any other living thing you care about off them, but they are the exception. In our neighborhood, violets and spring beauties and - sad to say - dandelions grow in our lawns, and that suits me just fine.
Our neigbors keep to themselves and mind their own business - for the most part, anyway. We do have the nosy old lady who lives across the street, but what neighborhood doesn't? And, after all, she was the one who took Bobo in the one and only day he wandered off. Ben found him fenced in her backyard, and he says that he and Bobo looked at each other like, "What are you doing here?" I try to think of her as the neighborhood watch.
As Rufus and I take our daily walks this spring, I enjoy the flowering plants and shrubs that bloom in each yard we pass. I have realized that there is something else I really appreciate about this quiet, middle-class neighborhood. People in this neighborhood have violets in their lawns. That is enough for me, in and of itself, because I love violets, and always have.
As lovely as the violets are, however, their presence serves as an indicator of something that is even more important to me about our neighborhood. It is the fact that although people perhaps don't encourage violets to grow in their lawns the way I do, they certainly allow them to stay. What I mean to say is, for the most part, we don't have "perfect" lawns here. Oh sure, there are lawns that are chemically treated and posted with signs warning you to keep your children and pets and any other living thing you care about off them, but they are the exception. In our neighborhood, violets and spring beauties and - sad to say - dandelions grow in our lawns, and that suits me just fine.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
how a memory tastes
Julie and I made thumbprints today. They are her favorite Christmas cookies, although that is not the only reason we made them. This year, we will have three different kinds of Christmas cookies: thumbprints, nutballs, and sugar cookies. We really only bake cookies at Christmas time in our house, so needless to say, they are very special and very much anticipated.
We made the thumbprints pretty much the way my mother and I did when I was a girl. I have never really liked to bake, but sitting at the kitchen table and chatting with my daughter as we rolled the dough into little balls and dipped them in egg whites, then ground nuts, didn't seem like such a bad way to spend a winter afternoon.
After we baked the cookies, I stacked them in a square plastic container with wax paper between each layer. I remembered how we used to stack the different boxes of cookies on the bench in the office of our house on Denison Avenue. Because they were right by his food dish, Bobo thought the cookies were his, and would guard them fiercely from Tom and Julie, growling and even nipping if they got too close. Just because he couldn't get at them didn't mean that anyone else could.
Julie wanted to try a slight recipe variation this year, and I was game. For half of the ground walnuts, we substituted ground flaxseed. We only tasted one cookie each, but the result seemed to be a much lighter and more delicate cookie. Just when we thought they couldn't get any better. I include my recipe here, although I'm sure any good cookie cookbook would have a similar one.
Thumbprints
1 cup (2 sticks) salted butter, softened
1/2 cup brown sugar
2 eggs, separated
1 tsp. good vanilla extract
2 cups sifted flour
1/2 tsp. salt
1&1/2 cups ground nuts (or 3/4 cup ground nuts & 3/4 cup ground flaxseed)
1/2 cup sugar
raspberry preserve (with seeds)
In a large mixing bowl, combine butter, brown sugar, egg yolks, vanilla, flour and salt until well mixed. Your hands will work best for this, so just dig in. Form dough into a large ball. If dough is very soft, you may want to chill it before rolling it into small balls. (We did not and it was fine.) Take a pinch of the dough and roll it into a ball, then place the ball on a sheet of wax paper. We like these cookies to be bite-sized, and so made ours pretty small. Our yield was 80 cookies. You can make them bigger if you want larger cookies, but remember to increase baking time. Continue until all the dough has been rolled into balls.
In a medium-sized mixing bowl combine ground nuts/flaxseed and sugar. Place the egg whites in a small bowl. Dip each ball into the egg whites, then drop it into the nut and sugar mixture. Roll it around until well coated, then place it on a cookie sheet, 20 cookies to a sheet if they are small. I used parchment paper this year, and highly recommend it. To make the "thumbprint" in the cookie, use the round bottom end of a wooden spoon to press a hole into the center of each cookie. Do not break through the dough at the bottom of the cookie. The cookie should look like a miniature birds' nest.
Bake in a preheated 375 degree oven for 12 to 15 minutes, depending on size of cookies. (12 minutes was plenty of time for the petite cookies we baked.) To check for doneness, turn a cookie over and see if the bottom has turned a golden brown. If so, they are done. Remove cookies to cool on paper towels. When they have cooled, store in an airtight container, with wax paper between the layers of cookies.
To serve cookies, put a very small dollop of raspberry preserve in the center of each cookie, right before you are ready to serve them. Do not fill ahead of time and store. Thumbprints are wonderfully attractive on a plate with other holiday cookies, and are best served with Constant Comment tea.
We made the thumbprints pretty much the way my mother and I did when I was a girl. I have never really liked to bake, but sitting at the kitchen table and chatting with my daughter as we rolled the dough into little balls and dipped them in egg whites, then ground nuts, didn't seem like such a bad way to spend a winter afternoon.
After we baked the cookies, I stacked them in a square plastic container with wax paper between each layer. I remembered how we used to stack the different boxes of cookies on the bench in the office of our house on Denison Avenue. Because they were right by his food dish, Bobo thought the cookies were his, and would guard them fiercely from Tom and Julie, growling and even nipping if they got too close. Just because he couldn't get at them didn't mean that anyone else could.
Julie wanted to try a slight recipe variation this year, and I was game. For half of the ground walnuts, we substituted ground flaxseed. We only tasted one cookie each, but the result seemed to be a much lighter and more delicate cookie. Just when we thought they couldn't get any better. I include my recipe here, although I'm sure any good cookie cookbook would have a similar one.
Thumbprints
1 cup (2 sticks) salted butter, softened
1/2 cup brown sugar
2 eggs, separated
1 tsp. good vanilla extract
2 cups sifted flour
1/2 tsp. salt
1&1/2 cups ground nuts (or 3/4 cup ground nuts & 3/4 cup ground flaxseed)
1/2 cup sugar
raspberry preserve (with seeds)
In a large mixing bowl, combine butter, brown sugar, egg yolks, vanilla, flour and salt until well mixed. Your hands will work best for this, so just dig in. Form dough into a large ball. If dough is very soft, you may want to chill it before rolling it into small balls. (We did not and it was fine.) Take a pinch of the dough and roll it into a ball, then place the ball on a sheet of wax paper. We like these cookies to be bite-sized, and so made ours pretty small. Our yield was 80 cookies. You can make them bigger if you want larger cookies, but remember to increase baking time. Continue until all the dough has been rolled into balls.
In a medium-sized mixing bowl combine ground nuts/flaxseed and sugar. Place the egg whites in a small bowl. Dip each ball into the egg whites, then drop it into the nut and sugar mixture. Roll it around until well coated, then place it on a cookie sheet, 20 cookies to a sheet if they are small. I used parchment paper this year, and highly recommend it. To make the "thumbprint" in the cookie, use the round bottom end of a wooden spoon to press a hole into the center of each cookie. Do not break through the dough at the bottom of the cookie. The cookie should look like a miniature birds' nest.
Bake in a preheated 375 degree oven for 12 to 15 minutes, depending on size of cookies. (12 minutes was plenty of time for the petite cookies we baked.) To check for doneness, turn a cookie over and see if the bottom has turned a golden brown. If so, they are done. Remove cookies to cool on paper towels. When they have cooled, store in an airtight container, with wax paper between the layers of cookies.
To serve cookies, put a very small dollop of raspberry preserve in the center of each cookie, right before you are ready to serve them. Do not fill ahead of time and store. Thumbprints are wonderfully attractive on a plate with other holiday cookies, and are best served with Constant Comment tea.
Monday, October 1, 2007
day 1
I have known all along that as much as I hate the thought of it, the day would come when I would have to get back on the treadmill in the basement. My twice-daily walks with Rufus will only take me so far on my journey back to a healthy lifestyle. Yesterday was that day.
I thought that after our morning walk would be a good time to check out whether the treadmill would even work or not. It has been almost two years since I used it on a regular basis, and when Julie tried to use it this summer, she reported it as non-operational and "smelling bad". So I wasn't real optimistic as I turned it on and climbed aboard. I only walked for three minutes, but it seemed okay. There was some "slippage", as I reported to Ben, and he said it might be because he had adjusted after Julie tried to use it last.
Ben and I made sure everything else was just the way I like it down there - the neon clocks synchronized, the little oscillating fan operational, and my Neil Young CD in the boombox. Next I had to find the clothes I prefer to work out in. That's not easy to do. My dresser is in perennial need of a good clean-out, and the clothes I don't wear for a while get buried under the layers of stuff that I do wear. At last - biking shorts and a sports bra and a light-weight, loose-fitting cotton t-shirt. Comfortable walking shoes and socks, and I was all set.
After our evening walk, I changed my clothes, grabbed my water bottle and headed for the basement. The first thing I always do before I get on the treadmill is weigh myself, and last night was no exception. I was not really that surprised at how much I currently weigh, but I had hoped it wouldn't be quite that bad. I am too embarrassed to say how much it is, but suffice it to say that I need to lose a minimum of thirty pounds to even get close to a healthy weight.
Neil Young started to sing, and I was off. I walked for a half hour, which is my normal walking time. The slippage was quite alarming, but tailed off the more I walked. I did notice a slight "burning smell" at about two minutes, but kept walking, and it didn't seem to get worse. The biggest problem was the noise. That treadmill is so noisy! I am hoping that once I start walking on a regular basis, it will run more smoothly (and quietly). I am sure it could do with a tune-up, but that's not something I can afford right now.
Neil and I sang, he wailed on his guitar, then it was time for me to do my cooling-down and stretching exercises. I hate this part way worse than the treadmill part, so I figure it must be good for me. Fifteen minutes of that, and I was done. I took big gulps of cold water as I powered everything down: clocks, fan, and boombox.
I turned to head back up the basement steps, and the last piece fell into place: Rufus was waiting for me at the top of the stairs, just like Bobo always did. That was one of the reasons I had to stop before. Bobo had just died, and he wasn't there anymore. When I saw my little black dog waiting for me last night, I knew this was going to work out all right.
Day 2 Update: Ben adjusted the belt so it doesn't slip anymore, and there was no "burning smell." He also made some critical adjustment that made it less noisy. Just about an optimum experience if I truly have to do this.
I thought that after our morning walk would be a good time to check out whether the treadmill would even work or not. It has been almost two years since I used it on a regular basis, and when Julie tried to use it this summer, she reported it as non-operational and "smelling bad". So I wasn't real optimistic as I turned it on and climbed aboard. I only walked for three minutes, but it seemed okay. There was some "slippage", as I reported to Ben, and he said it might be because he had adjusted after Julie tried to use it last.
Ben and I made sure everything else was just the way I like it down there - the neon clocks synchronized, the little oscillating fan operational, and my Neil Young CD in the boombox. Next I had to find the clothes I prefer to work out in. That's not easy to do. My dresser is in perennial need of a good clean-out, and the clothes I don't wear for a while get buried under the layers of stuff that I do wear. At last - biking shorts and a sports bra and a light-weight, loose-fitting cotton t-shirt. Comfortable walking shoes and socks, and I was all set.
After our evening walk, I changed my clothes, grabbed my water bottle and headed for the basement. The first thing I always do before I get on the treadmill is weigh myself, and last night was no exception. I was not really that surprised at how much I currently weigh, but I had hoped it wouldn't be quite that bad. I am too embarrassed to say how much it is, but suffice it to say that I need to lose a minimum of thirty pounds to even get close to a healthy weight.
Neil Young started to sing, and I was off. I walked for a half hour, which is my normal walking time. The slippage was quite alarming, but tailed off the more I walked. I did notice a slight "burning smell" at about two minutes, but kept walking, and it didn't seem to get worse. The biggest problem was the noise. That treadmill is so noisy! I am hoping that once I start walking on a regular basis, it will run more smoothly (and quietly). I am sure it could do with a tune-up, but that's not something I can afford right now.
Neil and I sang, he wailed on his guitar, then it was time for me to do my cooling-down and stretching exercises. I hate this part way worse than the treadmill part, so I figure it must be good for me. Fifteen minutes of that, and I was done. I took big gulps of cold water as I powered everything down: clocks, fan, and boombox.
I turned to head back up the basement steps, and the last piece fell into place: Rufus was waiting for me at the top of the stairs, just like Bobo always did. That was one of the reasons I had to stop before. Bobo had just died, and he wasn't there anymore. When I saw my little black dog waiting for me last night, I knew this was going to work out all right.
Day 2 Update: Ben adjusted the belt so it doesn't slip anymore, and there was no "burning smell." He also made some critical adjustment that made it less noisy. Just about an optimum experience if I truly have to do this.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Lucie-inspired haiku
I used to write haiku about Bobo, and when Ben asked me why I never wrote any about Lucie, I told him she has to inspire me. So she did. Here are some haiku I wrote about her. (Yeah, she's been barking a lot lately.) The last one is my favorite, I think. I'm not sure...
the little dog starts
then the bigger one joins in
what an awful noise!
Sunday newspapers
quiet afternoon reading
shit! Lucie went off
Lucie! shut up now!
can't you see I don’t need that
adrenaline spike
didn’t you know that
when Lucie swims through the air
she just wants closer
it is so quiet
when the little brown dog sleeps
then she growls softly
Lucie warned me twice
before she bit my face off
she's not a pillow
Oh, and here is my favorite one that I wrote about Bobo. A copy of it is in the urn with his ashes.
a hot summer day
the white dog sleeps in the sun
what does he dream of?
the little dog starts
then the bigger one joins in
what an awful noise!
Sunday newspapers
quiet afternoon reading
shit! Lucie went off
Lucie! shut up now!
can't you see I don’t need that
adrenaline spike
didn’t you know that
when Lucie swims through the air
she just wants closer
it is so quiet
when the little brown dog sleeps
then she growls softly
Lucie warned me twice
before she bit my face off
she's not a pillow
Oh, and here is my favorite one that I wrote about Bobo. A copy of it is in the urn with his ashes.
a hot summer day
the white dog sleeps in the sun
what does he dream of?
Sunday, August 5, 2007
like you don't have a favorite, too
It has rained all day long. Although Ben and I ventured out of the house earlier today to go to the greenhouse, we have pretty much stayed in and puttered about. I like days like that once in a while, and rainy weekend days aren't so hard to take since I don't have to head for work first thing tomorrow morning. (I am not gloating as I write this, I swear it.)
As I was having a glass of V8 this afternoon, I thought I would take a spin through the channels to see what was on t.v. I caught a glimpse of Detective Elliot Stabler on the USA Network so I decided to play the game where I watch until I figure out which episode of SVU I am watching. It was the one where Fred Savage plays the accused rapist who decides to be his own attorney, and then his actual attorney, whom he is sleeping with, kills him when she realizes he is indeed the rapist. But that's beside the point. The point is, USA was running a Law & Order: Special Victims Unit marathon this afternoon! That may not seem exciting to you, but it sure was to me. I love Law & Order: SVU.
I didn't used to like any of the Law & Orders, although Tom and Julie watched Prime for years. Then, a few years ago when I was in New York, I was watching t.v. in my hotel room on a Saturday night while my roommate was out on the town. (She was younger than Julie and incredibly attractive, so, no, I didn't want to go with her, and she didn't ask me.) The episode of SVU that I saw that night had a scene that took place a couple of blocks from the hotel where I was staying in Chelsea. I was hooked.
I remember those happy bygone days when TNT used to run three episodes of SVU in a row on Friday nights. That's probably how I got to see every episode that was ever written. Bobo was always asleep on the couch next to me, and I always patted him and said, "heinous, Bobo" after the solemn tone of the opening voice-over. (As an aside, I couldn't bear to watch SVU for several months after Bobo died, and thought I might never be able to watch it again.)
I favor the episodes where Ice-T is featured more prominently, and I prefer Alex to Casey as the A.D.A. I'm crazy about B. D. Wong, but I have to agree with Jules that they sometimes go a little overboard on his make-up. I love Olivia, and Elliot used to drive me crazy, but the man is growing on me, damn him. All that brooding, barely-contained rage and violence.
As much as I knew I would enjoy it, I couldn't spend the whole afternoon parked in front of the t.v., however, so I promised myself I wouldn't watch the next episode unless it was my favorite one. Yes, I have a favorite. It's "Ghost" from season 6 where Alex comes back from the dead to testify against the I.R.A.-terrorist-turned-drug-cartel-assassin who had "assassinated" her two years earlier and forced her into the witness protection program. I love the plot twists and turns, and I love that Alex comes back, but I especially love the young actor who plays the frightened little Hispanic boy whose parents were murdered in the next room while he slept.
It wasn't that episode.
As I was having a glass of V8 this afternoon, I thought I would take a spin through the channels to see what was on t.v. I caught a glimpse of Detective Elliot Stabler on the USA Network so I decided to play the game where I watch until I figure out which episode of SVU I am watching. It was the one where Fred Savage plays the accused rapist who decides to be his own attorney, and then his actual attorney, whom he is sleeping with, kills him when she realizes he is indeed the rapist. But that's beside the point. The point is, USA was running a Law & Order: Special Victims Unit marathon this afternoon! That may not seem exciting to you, but it sure was to me. I love Law & Order: SVU.
I didn't used to like any of the Law & Orders, although Tom and Julie watched Prime for years. Then, a few years ago when I was in New York, I was watching t.v. in my hotel room on a Saturday night while my roommate was out on the town. (She was younger than Julie and incredibly attractive, so, no, I didn't want to go with her, and she didn't ask me.) The episode of SVU that I saw that night had a scene that took place a couple of blocks from the hotel where I was staying in Chelsea. I was hooked.
I remember those happy bygone days when TNT used to run three episodes of SVU in a row on Friday nights. That's probably how I got to see every episode that was ever written. Bobo was always asleep on the couch next to me, and I always patted him and said, "heinous, Bobo" after the solemn tone of the opening voice-over. (As an aside, I couldn't bear to watch SVU for several months after Bobo died, and thought I might never be able to watch it again.)
I favor the episodes where Ice-T is featured more prominently, and I prefer Alex to Casey as the A.D.A. I'm crazy about B. D. Wong, but I have to agree with Jules that they sometimes go a little overboard on his make-up. I love Olivia, and Elliot used to drive me crazy, but the man is growing on me, damn him. All that brooding, barely-contained rage and violence.
As much as I knew I would enjoy it, I couldn't spend the whole afternoon parked in front of the t.v., however, so I promised myself I wouldn't watch the next episode unless it was my favorite one. Yes, I have a favorite. It's "Ghost" from season 6 where Alex comes back from the dead to testify against the I.R.A.-terrorist-turned-drug-cartel-assassin who had "assassinated" her two years earlier and forced her into the witness protection program. I love the plot twists and turns, and I love that Alex comes back, but I especially love the young actor who plays the frightened little Hispanic boy whose parents were murdered in the next room while he slept.
It wasn't that episode.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
what did you just call me?
I was thinking about nicknames and how some people have them and some people don't, and how some people are more prone than others to give nicknames to their friends and family. My dad has always been a 'nicknamer'. I think that must go back to the days right after WWII when he and all his fraternity brothers had nicknames for each other. He was "Fish", of course, (with a last name like "Fischer" that was an easy one) and they had an assortment of strange and colorful names that he referred to them by.
Both my brothers and I had nicknames our dad gave us when we were kids, and in fact, I had several. I hated them all. I was "Wee-cee" or "Sissy" or, worst, and most enigmatic, "Mabel Bollinger Krause". Wee-cee was for my middle name, Louise. Louise is a family name in my dad's family, and there is at least one in every generation. My dad's eldest sister was Louise, although her nickname was "Weezy". Sissy was what my younger brothers were encouraged to call me. I don't really know why my dad started calling me "Mabel Bollinger Krause", but I am sure he only continued it because I hated it so much. It always sounded like teasing when he called us by the nicknames he gave us, and, boy, I hated to be teased.
Our son Tom was called "Tommy", of course, until he was in the 6th grade, and he asked us to please call him "Tom" from then on, and we always have. We sometimes called him "T.J." when he was little, but that never really stuck. We sometimes address him as "Mr. T" or just plain "T", and for a while we all called him "Big Brother", which we picked up from Julie. I am pretty sure she got that from the way Sally addresses Charlie Brown in the Charlie Brown Christmas special. Julie, who is mostly just called "Jules" now or sometimes "Sister", had a plethora of nicknames as a child. She had so many that at one point when she was nine or ten, we sat down and made a list of them all, and I am sure there were more than twenty. Zowels was among the first, and I think perhaps came from Tom's inability to say "Jules" when he was very young. Fazouls and Fazouli sprang from that root, I believe. I will have to ask her; I am sure she remembers most of them.
Our newest dog, Rufus, has not yet had time to collect many nicknames. He is called Sir Rufus or Mr. Rufus or Roof-a-lator or sometimes Muffin, since he is a little black dog just like Muffin in the Country. When we are feeling Irish, he is Boy-o. Lucie is sometimes Lucie Lou or Lucie Luebner, or we call her Girlie or Girlie-pie or Girlie-pop because she is just such a little girlie, and both dogs answer to a host of miscellaneous terms of endearment sort of interchangeably.
Now, Dominic was a dog who collected nicknames. The most frequently used and best beloved was Bobo, and that is how we all really think of him. We gave him that nickname maybe the first summer after he came to live with us. Ben and I had gone to a large antique show at a fairground in central Ohio. There were lots of dogs there, but the one that caught our eye was an old bichon frise one of the dealers had brought to the show with her. We stopped to chat with her about her dog, and she told us his name was "Bobo". "How nice," we said, but "How silly!" we thought. But, don't you know, we came home and started calling Dominic that, and Bobo he was until his dying day. He was also Sir Bobo, though, and Mr. Bobo and Bobo-san and Bobo-sani. Sometimes he was Bobo-lator or Bo-bin-ator. Tom always insisted that it was inappropriate to call a dog by a term of such respect as "Bobo-san", but I always thought it suited him. He was also known as "St. Bobo the Long-suffering", which I felt was particularly apt when the kids dressed him up or carried him around in their backpacks.
When we hired a new receptionist recently, although she was younger than both my kids, she had the unpleasant habit of nicknaming people in the office, then persistently calling them by the nicknames she had created for them. I will not miss being called "Miss Mancine" all day long.
Oh, and I don't answer to "Annie" either.
Note: I know that I have not been at all consistent with the use of quotation marks in this post, and I do apologize for that. It is just too exhausting.
Both my brothers and I had nicknames our dad gave us when we were kids, and in fact, I had several. I hated them all. I was "Wee-cee" or "Sissy" or, worst, and most enigmatic, "Mabel Bollinger Krause". Wee-cee was for my middle name, Louise. Louise is a family name in my dad's family, and there is at least one in every generation. My dad's eldest sister was Louise, although her nickname was "Weezy". Sissy was what my younger brothers were encouraged to call me. I don't really know why my dad started calling me "Mabel Bollinger Krause", but I am sure he only continued it because I hated it so much. It always sounded like teasing when he called us by the nicknames he gave us, and, boy, I hated to be teased.
Our son Tom was called "Tommy", of course, until he was in the 6th grade, and he asked us to please call him "Tom" from then on, and we always have. We sometimes called him "T.J." when he was little, but that never really stuck. We sometimes address him as "Mr. T" or just plain "T", and for a while we all called him "Big Brother", which we picked up from Julie. I am pretty sure she got that from the way Sally addresses Charlie Brown in the Charlie Brown Christmas special. Julie, who is mostly just called "Jules" now or sometimes "Sister", had a plethora of nicknames as a child. She had so many that at one point when she was nine or ten, we sat down and made a list of them all, and I am sure there were more than twenty. Zowels was among the first, and I think perhaps came from Tom's inability to say "Jules" when he was very young. Fazouls and Fazouli sprang from that root, I believe. I will have to ask her; I am sure she remembers most of them.
Our newest dog, Rufus, has not yet had time to collect many nicknames. He is called Sir Rufus or Mr. Rufus or Roof-a-lator or sometimes Muffin, since he is a little black dog just like Muffin in the Country. When we are feeling Irish, he is Boy-o. Lucie is sometimes Lucie Lou or Lucie Luebner, or we call her Girlie or Girlie-pie or Girlie-pop because she is just such a little girlie, and both dogs answer to a host of miscellaneous terms of endearment sort of interchangeably.
Now, Dominic was a dog who collected nicknames. The most frequently used and best beloved was Bobo, and that is how we all really think of him. We gave him that nickname maybe the first summer after he came to live with us. Ben and I had gone to a large antique show at a fairground in central Ohio. There were lots of dogs there, but the one that caught our eye was an old bichon frise one of the dealers had brought to the show with her. We stopped to chat with her about her dog, and she told us his name was "Bobo". "How nice," we said, but "How silly!" we thought. But, don't you know, we came home and started calling Dominic that, and Bobo he was until his dying day. He was also Sir Bobo, though, and Mr. Bobo and Bobo-san and Bobo-sani. Sometimes he was Bobo-lator or Bo-bin-ator. Tom always insisted that it was inappropriate to call a dog by a term of such respect as "Bobo-san", but I always thought it suited him. He was also known as "St. Bobo the Long-suffering", which I felt was particularly apt when the kids dressed him up or carried him around in their backpacks.
When we hired a new receptionist recently, although she was younger than both my kids, she had the unpleasant habit of nicknaming people in the office, then persistently calling them by the nicknames she had created for them. I will not miss being called "Miss Mancine" all day long.
Oh, and I don't answer to "Annie" either.
Note: I know that I have not been at all consistent with the use of quotation marks in this post, and I do apologize for that. It is just too exhausting.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)