She Can't Hardly Contain Herself

Every afternoon, I take Muzzy for a short walk around the block before I feed her some dinner. It's usually pretty hot outside and there's nobody around, so I often let her walk off-leash. Lately, one of our neighbors has been out in her yard at the same time. Each time Muzzy sees this neighbor, she gallops up her, her tail spinning, as if this woman were her long-lost mama.  Muzzy soaks up some goo-goo talk then dashes back to the sidewalk, races past me, and, a few yards down, takes an enormous dump.

The first time this happened, the neighbor was amazed. She had gotten into her car and was driving past just as Muzzy was getting to work. The woman rolled down her window and said, "I didn't know I had that effect on her." Apparently it was quite a stimulating effect. I laughed it off at first. But this greet-n-poop dynamic has occurred twice in the past week. I'm getting kind of embarrassed about it. When I told the woman's daughter this story, she said, "That's okay. My mother has that effect on me, too."

The idea that certain people make other people want to poop is an old joke. In fact, I came across this anecdote in Lincoln, a biography of the U.S. President written by David Herbert Donald (Simon & Schuster, 1995). According to Donald, Lincoln liked to tell this story when there were no ladies in the room.

[Lincoln] recounted an anecdote he attributed to Colonel Ethan Allen, famed for his role in the American Revolution. Allegedly making a visit to England after the war, Allen found his hosts took great pleasure in ridiculing Americans, and George Washington in particular, and, to irritate their guest, hung a picture of the first President in the toilet. (In telling the story, Lincoln called it 'the Back House.') Allen announced that they had found a very appropriate place for the picture, because 'there is nothing that will Make an Englishman Shit so quick as the sight of Genl Washington.'"

It makes me smile to think that our sixteenth President liked to tell a story like that one, but Muzzy and I are definitely taking a new route on our afternoon walk for a while.
-z

Oh, Foul Calumny!

Okay, okay, okay. It's time to take this blog back from the asylum inmates. I had no idea last week, when I posted my review of the book The Dogs Who Found Me, that I would provoke such a poop-storm of controversy, both online and at Dog Park. First, some thanks are in order.

Thanks to "Ken," presumed author of the book, for leaving a comment that stated the blindingly obvious: "This review says more about you than it does about my book." Snap! If I may respond: No, duh. I think that in my entry I made my biases perfectly clear: I like books that are smart, funny, ironic, and well written. Ergo, yours didn't move me. Better luck next time. (If I may offer a bit of advice: Before you write your next memoir, take a look at Mary Karr's Lit. It's brilliant, poetic, funny, compelling, and insightful. Try that.) But thanks for jumpstarting the comments.

Also, thanks to Teddy and his alter ego Tex for your comments. I think now you understand how tough it can be to write the funny bits.

To Grumpy Broad, I say thank you for standing up for a blogger chick's right to not like a book. (You have learned well from the master—Judge Judy.)

Finally, thanks to my loyal readers and regular commenters, especially Mixette and Cranky Girl. When I write this blog, I never assume that more than five people will read it. Heck, my mother doesn't even read this blog. So I am always gratified when people respond to my posts in person at Dog Park or online--even when they are busting my chops.

Stay cool everybody. -z

The Literary Dog: Dog Tales of 9/11 & Katrina

Teddy's Johnny loaned me his copy of The Dogs Who Found Me: What I've Learned from Pets Who Were Left Behind (The Lyons Press, 2006) by Ken Foster. I put off reading it for a while. I mean, look at the cover. Look at the big sad eyes on that dog. And the blurbs. I generally don't read books described as "wonderful . . . funny . . . and moving" on the cover or that have back-cover blurbs about life lessons, bravery, and gratitude. The book's obvious earnestness and lack of snark meant that it kept getting rotated to the bottom of my bedside stack in favor of a predictable Ian Rankin mystery or a half-completed New York Times Sunday crossword. (The Mother's Day xword was deceptively easy. I did it in ink, in about two hours. It hangs, like a trophy, on my refrigerator door, next to the movie schedule for the Paramount summer series, which I never go to. I'm thinking that it was kind of patronizing of the NYT to make the Mother's Day puzzle so easy. Come on. "Happy Mother's Day! Here's one that you can do, Mommy.")

But I digress. Because I don't want to have to tell you about this book. Look, it's fine. The author is a sweet, sensitive guy who has had a lot of bad luck that he has turned into meaningful experiences. For example, he was living in New York with his dog pit bull Brando during 9/11. Four years later, he moved to New Orleans shortly before Katrina. In between, he found and rescued at least a dozen dogs from neglectful neighbors and the mean streets. I have to give Foster credit. One thing he captures really well is the ambivalence one feels (okay, I feel) when finding a stray, that sinking realization that the rest of your day is probably going to suck, that you'll be inconvenienced and maybe have to shell out some bucks, but also that you're doing a good thing. The lesson that Foster learns repeatedly is that rescuing a sick, frightened, lost dog means making yourself vulnerable to many things--bites, disinterest from other humans, and, more devastating, feelings of attachment for an animal that you probably can't keep. The fact that Foster keeps rescuing dogs is a testimony to his refusal to become blind to the suffering of animals or cynical about the deeply flawed and selfish human race.

The weirdest thing about this book was that I kept having to remind myself that the book's author is a guy. Seriously, I kept stopping to look at the cover for the writer's name. Ken is not one of those names that can go either way. I can't quite figure out what my problem was. Was I confused because the book reads "girly"? Reading it was like perusing a pre-teenager's secret journal, full of ardent hopes and crushing fears as well as artless descriptions of helpless animals and earnest checklists ("How to Let Go" and "What to Do When You Find a Stray Dog.") Life, the writer discovers, can be so cruel, but thank God for dogs. Well, yes, I completely agree, but I also find that a little irony helps some of us get through the day. Others may feel differently, of course. And to them I recommend this book.

So, thanks to Johnny for loaning the book. And thanks to you all for reading this humble blog. -z