My Mutant Gang Killed My Sweater

So this is their "punishment." Demon Dog and Jiggle Low hate hats, so I know they're the guilty party because they're looking downright forlorn. Lilah just wants to preen. And MikiSquirrel is too busy chasing the camera around.

Merry Christmas to all my readers! My mutants wish you Happy Holidays and lots of presents, hopefully intact fluffy sweaters :P.

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Demon Dog In My Arms

Demon Dog is a tough one to hold still for a photo, but I managed to do it twice tonight.  And one actually doesn't have his eyes gleaming demonic red!  His eyes are a dark black blue and the flash doesn't like them.  Either that or his true nature peers out of his eyes ;-).

Now, if only I could get Jiggs and Lilah for a group portrait. These three aren't like my original six, who were excellent and obedient posers, and just love to preen in front of the camera.  I remember them tonight, with all my love, because I'm thankful for their time with me:

Happy Thanksgiving to you and your loved ones. You're in my thoughts today too!

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Furbaby Story: Deviousness Runs In My Family

In this corner, Jiggle Low, Strategist Extraordinaire:


In this corner, Pepe Le Pom, The Enfant Terrible:

My mutant pom, Jiggle Low, is a very possessive dog. You've read about his evil jealous antics, chasing after male Bug Guys, lifting his leg on anything used by my male friends, and growling at any encroachment of his territory, which includes me and his "harem."

Because of this, I've trained the new mutant baby, Pepe Le Pom, to not jump on the bed at night, but instead sleep on a pillow on the floor at my side of the bed. It has been working well. Late at night, I would turn over, dangle my hand down and give Pepe a pet and ear rub, which is a rare feat, since that dog is a walking piranha at the moment; he walks and runs with his mouth open all. The. Time. And his idea of playing is to chew on anything you extend in his direction. So it's nice to be able to have a quiet moment with him. In the morning, if I peer over the side, he'd turn on his back so I could give him a belly rub before he dashes off to his rampant destruction of any new toy of the day.

Jiggy, on the bed by my side, seemed satisfied with the arrangement. Or at least I thought so. He used to jump on and off the bed because he liked sharing time with his Other Woman, Lilah, who resides under my bed. I know. How typical male, right? But that's another topic for discussion ;-). Anyway, when he's not a possessive hump on my chest, I assume he's under the bed guarding his Other Woman.

This morning, he wasn't on the bed. I sleepily turned over, dropped my hand over the side, made contact with fur, and sleepily, as always, pet Pepe. I felt him stretch his neck out so I could reach under his jaw (do dogs have chins?). As I--sleepily--rubbed him, I could feel him just moving his body under my fingers, getting the maximum mommy attention.

I was thinking, how cute, he's learning how to move around so I could scratch all his favorite spots. Wait. A. Minute. My eyes slitted open. I slowed my hand, exploring a little. Pepe, in spite the amount of food he consumes, has a bony back, and this one is rather...rumpy and thick with hair instead of puppy fur.

I moved closer to the edge of my bed and peered down. There, on the pillow, wasn't Pepe Le Pom. It was Mr. Jiggle Low, using all his Bad Boy Skillz to hunch down like a small puppy and staying quiet as he stole his rival's morning privilege.

Pepe's tail was peeping out from under the bed, so I'm assuming Jiggs had pushed him there sometime before I woke up. He had PLANNED this. TIMED the precise moment I would reach out for the pup. HUNCHED DOWN in the exact place. And WAITED.

Is that not deviousness? That is awesome deviousness. I could only stare down into his soft melty (and triumphant) gaze in proud momma admiration.

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A Day With Pepe Le Pom

A digital slideshow by Smilebox

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Sweet Remembrance

Temper, the remaining Old Lady of my poms, left me today. She just couldn't bear to be alone without her sister and this past week, seemed to have lost her will to live.

My original Mutant Poms had been with me for 18 years, from dad Brando to the final two babies, Mira and Temper. My home was built for them, with their own back room and big yard; and they've been my home for a long, long time.

Sweet dreams, my baby Temper. All of us in our younger glory:



Today my heart will remember my sweet ones, the original Mutant Poms:

It came to me that every time I lose a dog, they take a piece of my heart with them. And every new dog who comes into my life, gifts me with a piece of their heart. If I live long enough, all the components of my heart will be dog, and I will become as generous and loving as they are. -- (UNKNOWN)

Brando, Magic, BoomBoom, BoyBoy, Miracle, and Temper.

Together again.

Mommy loves and misses all of you.

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Multitasking Grief

For me, grief changes colors as I grow older. The raw pain when grief hits is dark blood. The muted numbness is more Persian blue, like the ocean at midnight.

Grief, they say, has many stages. I'd like to add that the stages is not all the same. Sometimes the pain hits last, after the shock has receded. Sometimes, it's like white noise, always at the edge of consciousness.

It's been a very fast two days since I returned home from my DC trip. In that time, I haven't had much time to actually deal with my feelings. I know I'm hurting but it seemed I spent more time comforting my dogsitter who was very upset and the girls at the vet, who adored Mira.

In today's non-stop whirlwind of living, I've found that I even multitask my grief. Since coming home, I've been catching up with email and job chores, taking the other Old Lady to the vet because of a worrisome cough, trying to find out delays with certain job projects, running around doing all the things I have to do, and for a few minutes in between, I'd think of Mira and I grief. Then I pick up the phone and call the insurance agent about some missing papers. Then I hear the coughing in the background and stress out because any changes in kidney doggies could be bad. And then I'd think of Mira again and the back of my eyes would start hurting.

The hardest parts of the day are the simplest chores. I've to cook for my furbabies because the Old Ladies are on a special diet. The first time, I forgot and I cooked too much. When I handed out the snacks, I automatically counted the usual before putting back one. When I let them out, I'm looking for the missing one because she's always trying to hide behind the bushes. Not yesterday. Not today. I had to remind myself that she isn't there any more.

Perhaps it's the non-closure of it. I didn't get to say goodbye and even though I know Mira's gone, my heart won't believe my head. And it aches watching Temper look for her sister because they share the back porch room together. I'm thinking of getting her a companion because being a kidney dog, she can't stay inside with Jiggle Low and Lilah without supervision. And then I'd grief a little for Mira again while planning different ways to distract her grieving sister, who wouldn't eat today.

The color of my grief at this moment is like a load of laundry that had been stained by a item discoloring during the wash. The sock is still a sock, but it's a weird bluish red; the favorite teeshirt is still my comfy shirt, but it's blotchy. I look at them and am reminded of what I've forgotten to do--sort out that one dark item.

That's what multitasking grief can do to your psyche. Everything appears normal but there is something happening, discoloring and acting as a reminder.

I didn't want to write this blog entry. Grief is mostly a private thing, and open grieving can be very uncomfortable for many who come to this blog for entertainment. But you know what? This blog is my private space, in a way; I come here to be me. Writing demands absolute attention; there is no multitasking in writing, especially when it's personal.

Tomorrow it's back to whirlwind and worry, but for now, I'll take this time to let my heart properly say goodbye to Mira, the once-upon-a-time little thing that the vet told me "if she were alive in the morning, it'd be a miracle." Not only did she survive that night with me, she went on to live for another 13 1/2 years, always feisty and funny, and surviving two heart attacks and pyometra in her old age. She was absolutely my Miracle Girl.

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Eulogy To My Miracle Girl

Mira (left) and Temper (right), both of whom love to mug for the camera

Thank you, everyone, for all the outpouring of love and condolences today. I'm feeling a little numb but I'm doing okay. You know I go through this at a lot more these past few years what with the original six being up there in years. Their father had been with me since I started roofing! And Mira Girl, as I called her, was special because she wasn't supposed to make it as a baby and I nursed her all night by rubbing her nose and chest with wintergreen. That was over 13 years ago, and yeah, she lived up to her name.

I'd like to share a "reworked" poem sent by another reader to comfort me.

ON LOAN FROM GOD
by Carla Baker

God promised at the birth of time,
A special friend to give,
His time on earth is short, he said,
So love him while he lives.

It may be six or seven years
Or twelve or then sixteen.
But will you, till I call him back,
Take care of him for me?

A wagging tail and cold wet nose
And silken velvet ears,
A heart as big as all outdoors,
To love you through the years.

His puppy ways will gladden you
and antics bring a smile,
as guardian or friend he will,
be loyal all the while.

He'll bring his charms to grace your life
And though his stay be brief,
When he's gone the memories
Are solace for your grief.

I cannot promise he will stay
Since all from earth return,
But lessons only dogs can teach
I want you each to learn.

Follow his lead and gain a life
Brim full of simple pleasure,
Whatever love you give to him,
Returns in triple measure.

Enjoy each day as it comes,
Allow your heart to guide,
Be loyal and steadfast in love
As the dog-child at your side.

Now will you give him all your love,
Nor think the labor vain,
Nor hate me when I come to call
To take him back again.

I fancy each of us would say,
"Dear Lord, thy will be done,
For all the joy this dog shall bring,
The risk of grief we'll run.

"We'll shelter him with tenderness,
We'll love him while we may,
And for the happiness we've known,
Forever grateful stay.

"But shall the angels call for him
Much sooner than we've planned,
We'll brave the bitter grief that comes,
And try to understand."

*****

My dogsitter was kind enough to bring the last remaining sibling, Temper, to see her sister so that she won't wonder about her partner-in-crime. She told me Temper went and sniffed Mira and gave her a final kiss on the nose. I'd probably have bawled my eyes out if I were there.

My Chinese New Year celebration ended on a sombre note. Family get-togethers and family parting-of-ways. But that's what life is all about, isn't it?

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Still Enjoying My Birth Month

My birth month wouldn't be complete without spending a day preening with my mutant poms. This was my number one priority this year because my two older furbabies, the last of my original mutants, are old ladies now, and not getting stronger.

Me and my young 'uns. These two were too busy chasing each other to want to pose with me but they weren't going to escape that easily.

These two precious babies are my Old Ladies, the Grand Dames. We had fun eating some of my birthday cake and they even deigned to howl out a Happy Bird Day to mommy. My original six (Mom, Dad, and their four mutant kids) had always loved taking photos. As you can tell, the Old Ladies knew where to look and even smiled for the camera.

After that, we all ran into the back yard and chased some lizards (favorite past time).

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A New Season

Ranger Buddy and I won a contract bid! Yay, income. It's a really tough project too, the kind that looks like a barn up north, a gentle sloping rooftop that becomes steep at the sides. But. Yayyy, income.

So, blog updates might be late the next week. I have a feeling that this job is going to leave me pretty wiped out in the evenings. Since it's very steep, I'll be doing the "dangle upside down while RB holds me by the ankle" maneuver while I use the shovel to dig that one stubborn shingle that refuses to let go and fall off to join his brothers on the ground. Now imagine me sliding on my tummy doing that for a few hours. Yes. Meet Uncle Pain. He's coming to visit my muscles for the next couple of weeks.

I always find it funny when RB brings up my writing to the homeowners. I always ask him whether we should just put that into our advertising. "Got leaks? Read Gennita Low's books!" "Free Gennita Low book for every reroof!" Heehee.

I know he's just very proud of me and wants people to read my books. The homeowners are always surprised and then the inevitable question comes: "Why are you roofing? Aren't you rich?"

Yeah, me and Tom Clancy, we use the same chef and personal trainer, tsk. It doesn't help either when the homeowners then tell me the next time that they went to EBay to get my book just to help my sales. Sigh. How do I tell them that buying from EBay doesn't do jackshit for my sales? I don't. I just thank them nicely.

Incidentally, if you are looking to buy a NEW Virtually His, you can get it from my publisher's site: Eharlequin.com. They sell it discounted 20 percent. I'd appreciate it if you'd think about buying my book as a gift to a friend or relative in the next three months. Why? Because I want to show my publisher that they may hide my books from my readers by taking them off Amazon and BN.com, but my readers will still find me.

No, no, no, not mad at all. My control. It is like tempered steel. My patience. It is sipping coffee. My joy in writing. I'm trying to Gordon Ramsay myself.

But what matters this week is my mutant pom, Miracle. She's a little fighter, like her mom, Magic, and you know what? She's eating. She's wagging her tail. She's even gone to the bathroom a few times without my coaxing. And that makes me very happy tonight.

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Post #2: A Bit Off Today

Sorry I couldn't get a chapter up but I've been running around transporting the Mutant Pom from clinic to vet to specialist to home. Amazing how I scheduled an entire day around one furry child.

For those who sent prayers and private emails, thank you so much. I appreciate the healing thoughts and cyber hugs. Mira is doing better, no longer panting like she's been running ten miles. She was diagnosed with congestive heart failure, like her sweet brother, and I hope my catching the symptoms early was early enough. So, she's home and she's breathing normal but not acting quite as perky as the old Mira. Not eating, so I had to baby-feed her a couple of crumbs. But she's alert and can walk slowly. I'll take that as a good sign. The vet again tomorrow because the results of tests will be in and we can compare blood tests vs EKG vs X-Rays. I swear I know more about a canine's body and drugs for which sickness than a human's.

So, anyway, thank you again. Hopefully, a new BBW chapter tomorrow.

*********************

CHAT ANNOUNCEMENT

I thought, as we get closer to the end of Big Bad Wolf, we can have our usual chat on WRITERSPACE chat forum like we had several times. The tentative agreed-upon time (suggested by the members of my Yahoogroup) is a Friday night--19th Sept. 2008. We usually start around 9 or 10pm Eastern Standard Time.

It's always fun. I answer questions and then we all relax, eat chocolate, drink margaritas and talk books.

I'll reconfirm the time as I hear back from readers here and early next week, with instructions of how to get to the site.

All dates subject to Hurricane Technical Difficulties, of course, it being that time of the year here, you know ;-).

************

Last item. The new TV season has started!

As y'all know, I'm crazymad about Terminator: The Sarah Connors Chronicles, of which Season Two just started tonight. There are many new shows coming up too.

What returning show are you looking forward to? And which new one is your most anticipated?

Isn't J.J. Abrams starting another one of his mindbenders at Fox later this year? I've seen the previews but have no idea what it's about. As you can see, the futuristic shows always catch my interest first.

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Waiting To Exhale

I'll leave the Caption Contest from yesterday open till Monday night, 'kay?

Today was one of those days and I'm beat. One of the Old Sisters Mutant Poms plopped over last night and showed symptoms similar to her dear departed brother, so I spent most of today taking her to the emergency vet and sitting outside waiting for test results while she rested in an oxygen tank. It's worrisome but it's part of having pets growing old after many, many wonderful years, so I'm trying to learn to accept this.

Things are "okay" so far but she has to stay at the clinic one more night because the oxygen tank seems to help her breathing. I know I'm not supposed to think about the cost when things like this happen, but man, credit cards...thou art evil lifesavers.

Sitting in the waiting room was the hardest. There were so many sick pets during the weekends and all of us had the same worried looks on our faces. It didn't help that the TV was showing Saving Private Ryan. Not exactly cheerful. I struck up a quiet conversation with the woman who had been there on and off all day too, the kind of bonding that strangers tended to do when we feel sort of restlessly lost, with time on our hands, but unwilling to read or write or do something useful. Pet lovers would only understand the kind of loving exchanges we shared, how much we tried to understand our furbabies, and how helpless we felt when we couldn't will them back to health.

We know we can't run from moments like these, so I share them with readers here as an extension of my writing life because I write from emotion, mining my own personal experiences and projecting it into my characters and their "lives." My mutant poms stories are just as much a part of my blog as my roofing tales, and both give me experiences that enrich my writing life.

Don't worry if this post sounds a bit down. I'm not feeling that bad. I have hope that my furbaby will live for a while yet. After all, her name is Miracle. I'm just...hmm...in the middle of taking a long deep breath.

Okay, just got a call from the vet. Prayers, please, if you can.

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Post #2: Two Sisters

I've been missing my furbaby, Batman, who left me suddenly. I regret that I hadn't any recent pics of him. So, today, I took one of his remaining two sisters. After moping around for the last couple of days, they had fun today, chasing and eating lizards.

Bad Puppy wouldn't post because he's off chasing one of his other females.

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Don't Like Days Like This

I have to send one of my mutant poms to his waiting mom and dad and sister at the Rainbow Ridge tonight. It's tough when it's a yearly ritual like this and he had two other sisters the same age left. I'm not looking forward to this type of thing at all.

His name was Batman Boy Boy, the wimpiest of the lot. Like his dad, he peed like a girl. I never did buy him the set of neuticals I promised him. In the end, he fought a good fight, but was tired out. I know he's with Magic and Brando, along with his big bad sis Boom Boom right now, doing those cartwheels and sideway flips of his that always made me laugh out loud. And oh yeah, I hope he got his balls back.

You know, I love writing and being a writer, but writing eulogies sucks.

Hug your furbabies for me. Time goes by so fast and before you know it, almost twelve years have gone by since I held four tiny pups between the palms of my hands. And now, I have two of my original mutants.

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From The Mailbag

The Questions I Get....

Jenn, why do you call your poms Mutant Poms?

Like their mom, my furbabies aren't exactly normal. Brando, my eighteen year-old who passed away last August, was 15 lbs, big for a pom. When I started researching about finding a mate for a dog, I discovered that I needed to get a female bigger than my male or she's going to suffer. So I spent YEARS keeping an eye out for Brando's potential woman. I thought I'd never find her because most of the poms around here were 8lbs and smaller.

One day, someone advertised about their Big Pomeranian that she couldn't keep any longer. I drove to look at her and TADA! found Magic. Magic was destined to be Mrs. Brando. Why? She was huge. Like Shaquille O'Neal huge (hence, her name). And purebred, with papers. She was so big, Brando needed a ladder. She was so big, she dragged Brando around for a walk. She was so big, Brando gave me the most accusing look when I introduced her to him, that could only be interpreted as, "WTF is that, mom?" When she finally got pregnant years later, she grew to be 28 freaking lbs. For a pom, that's mutant. Brando was a beaten husband ;-).

Now, that's not only the reason why I call them my Mutant Poms. Magic gave me four kids during the one time she allowed Brando to...uh...take advantage of her. All her kids grew up to be 15 lbs. The girls lift their legs like their mom. The boy is a shy sweetheart like his dad and they both SQUAT like girls. The girls would not let any males near them; in fact, I have lesbian dogs because they hump each other when they're in season.

Then there is that weird thing with worms. Yes, worms. My mutant furbabies like to run around in my backyard on cool spring mornings, especially after a rainy night, scratching the ground like chickens and dragging wriggly worms out for breakfast. It's the most disgusting thing to see but I couldn't break these four puppies out of this nasty habit. In the years to come, when I added two more (including Bad Puppy Jiggle Low), I discover that they too love worms for breakfast. Ugh. I've come to the conclusion that I have chicken-dogs, which make them Mutant Poms.

The Mutant Poms, when Magic and Brando were alive, loved to pile on top of each other and sleep. They put their faces inward, so all you can see is this pile of moving, snoring cream-colored rug (yes, one of them snored like a man).

My Mutant Poms like to run outside like a pack of wild animals. It doesn't help that two of them have collapsed trachea, so they sound like grunting hogs when they chase each other. When it gets dark and I call out for them to come in, all I hear are snorting and growly grunts rushing towards me, like I have a brood of pigs about to attack.

I'm totally convinced there's some kind of mutant gene in them. That's why I'm so sad that the girls are lesbo-bitches. They're now too old to breed, anyway, and I can't afford cloning. I love my worm-scratching, hog-grunting, "three times the normal size" Mutant Poms.

TMI? Hey, you asked.

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Bad Puppy II

Does that look like a BAD BOY to you? Think he's an angel, with no plans to make anyone mad at him? Well, some bad boys know how to look innocent.

So I woke up this morning at the sound of paper ripping. I peered over the side of my bed.

Jiggle Low is chewing on a book! From my Keeper Basket! (Yes I have a Keeper Basket by the side of my bed).

I went ArrrgHHHhh! And he went Yip, yip, yip, yip under the bed as I jumped off to rescue my precious. Sigh. Cover corner is gone. The book? LINDA HOWARD'S SARAH's CHILD. Bad, bad, bad child of mine.

I have forgotten the funny and exasperating travails of having a puppy in the house, since all the mutants are now adult dogs and MOSTLY well-behaved. Jiggle Low lives up to his name, let me tell you. No wonder his former mom named him that. He jiggles and and wiggles and streaks from one end of the house to the other 0-60mph. The former "baby mutant," Lilah, doesn't know what to make of him, especially since she hasn't yet realized that he's her gigolo ;-P.

But bad puppy must like reading. Linda Howard's SARAH'S CHILD is a pretty tasty story!

Besides the usual puppy training, this mutant pom is also in love with things three times his size. He has adopted Brando's Giant Stuffed Rabbit as his own. It is funny watching him try to drag the thing around by the ear.

The house is a mess. And he's driving the men in my life crazy with his territorial behavior ;-). You can't help but giggle at the sight of a tiny pup the size of Cabbage Patch doll headbutting big muscular males out of the way because the woman is HIS, dammit. Heh.

Ah, bad boys and bad mutant poms. They know how to get my heart.

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Bad Puppy

What is it about a roll of toilet paper that fascinates puppies and young boys? I woke up this morning to my whole bathroom papered in a most unbecoming manner. Said guilty party was wagging his tail, satisfied with his design. Said guilty party's little ass isn't happy about it.

Is it sweltering hot where you are too? Because over here, I feel bad that my furbabees have to wear their furcoats outside. Wow. It's not pretty on the roof these days. I think sweat is running out of my nose. Heh.

Yesterday, I was waylaid on the roof by a young crapenter. Mind you, it's 150 degrees up there. with the hoots of his crapenter buddies from the lower section, he insisted that I read his ten pages that he'd written. Said he was the next whats-his-name, Ferrentino. Said he's a powerful writer just like that movie director Ferrentino.

Sigh.

"You mean, Tarantino," I corrected him politely.

"Yeah, him. You have to read my story. Want to go out and have coffee?"

Sigh.

This kid is, like, majorly young. He had his notebook in his hand, all ready to impress. I make it a point to try not to discourage anyone who writes. So I flipped through his ten pages (you don't want to know about the mutants shooting bullets at the humans who talk like crapenters, running through the Florida backroads, really you don't) of squiggles. I looked up. His puny chest was all puffed up. I looked over his shoulder. Ranger Buddy was just waiting. Just waiting. Like the rest of my roofer boys.

Sigh.

"Umm," I said.

"I told you it was good, didn't I?" the crap-boy said, smiling. "You aren't going to steal my story are you? Then I'd have to sue you."

Sigh.

"Do you know anything about exposition and dialogue?" I asked.

"Don't use those big words on me, man," he said. "Just say how good I am."

"It needs work," I said instead, trying hard not to say anything bad. Because he did write ten pages. I understand the pain of writing ten pages, believe me. "You can't have mutants shooting up with your guys and ten pages later I still have no idea what the plot is about."

"It's like that movie director, I tell you," he said. "I'm starting from the end. It's good, huh?"

I tried not to sigh again. How do you tell a puppy that toilet paper decorating is not art? Okay, my puppy gets a good whack with the toilet roll. This boy is not my puppy. I'm not going to offer to train him either.

"Sure it is," I said, handing him back his notebook. "Now go write the rest of it."

"Want to have that coffee?"

Ahh, the heart of the matter ;-).

"Nope," I said.

"Why not? We can talk writing and stuff."

Never whack a puppy dog too hard. "You are just too good a writer for me. I'm just going to stay home and practice my writing."

"Come on, if I'm that good, you'd want to go out with me. I'm going to be famous."
Never reward bad puppy behavior with treats either. He'll never understand that he has been bad.

"Son," I said, walking past him toward my snickering guys, "you may write like a Ferrentino, but you are still a lousy crapenter."

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Food For Thought

Still resting my eyes suffering from InternetRomancelandia Word Bombardment....

But...

Here's a great article, with an interview with Nora Roberts, of the RWA conference in Dallas:

The Queen Of Romance

That is One Busy Lady, dude. All those books, traveling, interviews, and even a bobblehead of herself to boot. I bow.

I'm still hoping to have Linda Howard being called The Goddess of Romance in a newspaper article one day ;-).

It's been a hard week for me, what with coping with Brando being gone. I come home from work and no old doggy grumbling, you know? I eat my dinner and there's no old dog to clean my plate. I watch baseball and no dog to rest my feet on and cheer with me at the homeruns (Lilah doesn't like baseball). I take a shower and there's no old dog lying on the mat waiting for me. Brando used to follow me all around the house. If someone called me on the phone, I'd usually walk up and down the room while talking, and Brando would do the same, right behind me. Not any more.

Anyway, I didn't mean to reminisce, just wanted to share with you that my other mutants are grieving in the oddest way. After Brando passed on, none of them would eat. I have been TRYING--coaxing, begging, everything--to get them to eat their usual food. They have been ignoring their plates. Treats are a different matter, of course.

Do you know what they finally ate?

Brando's leftover can of diet food, that was special for dogs with kidney problems(low phos), something they all HATED when I fed them before. They would spit it out with a disdainful snarl. But last night, while I was throwing it out, I noticed them all staring at me all googly-eyed. So I sat down and spooned the food out and all four mutants ATE. And ATE. And ate it all up.

I'm totally bemused. Huh. How 'bout that? They wanted Brando's food.

Even the furbabees are grieving their own way. No old guy piddling around while they squabble, I suppose. And definitely, no dirty old man still trying to get him some last whoopie while they were in heat.

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My Baby Left Home Today

This is going to be an entirely personal, non-professional, selfish post. I'm doing it because I want to share my memories of my great friend and furbaby, Brando. I'm doing it because it's part of my grieving process. So excuse me if this makes you uncomfortable. Come back tomorrow ;-).

My dog, Marlon Brando, the sexiest dog on earth, died this morning. He was the best dog a roofer girl could ever have, always gentle because mom was always tired, seldom complaining because mom was never home, and fiercely independent because that was how mom was.

Brando came to me when I had $100 to my name, maybe less. At that time, I jokingly told him that I was fattening him up for my last meal since I was hungry all the time. He charmed me by pooping all over the apartment.

Brando took a ride with me when I could afford my first car. He enjoyed a quiet moment with me in my first house. He wasn't amused when I bought him a concubine (Magic) who was three times his size and he couldn't properly reach her where it mattered. He and his wife gave me four crazy mutant kids and my new family moved into a new house.

Brando loved the new backyard, with all that running space. He found much joy chasing after his girls when he was in the mood, or just lying under the shade of the bell tree and watch their antics. He was with me when I started writing, was the first one who heard my love scenes read aloud, and laughed with me because they sounded so stupid to a dog.

He was not an Alpha dog. He peed like a girl while his girls, including his wife, lifted their legs like a guy. He was often bullied and harried by that wife of his, and had to scarf down his treats and food really quickly or had everything stolen. He didn't mind because he always knew mom had more for him, and that even though she mocked him, she always gave him whatever he wanted.

Which was not a lot, really. Because he was, deep down, an independent old soul just like his mom. He would do as he pleased. Please mom get Magic off my bed. Please mom Magic stole my treats. Please mom I'm the oldest don't let the girls chew my toys. Please mom could you get Magic away from my bed, the woman just wouldn't let me alone.

When his wife, Magic, left us last year, Brando did something that made me cry. As I've told you, he was much bullied, especially by his wife, and had to really scarf down his food and treats before Magic got to it. That night, while I was cleaning the room and putting away Magic's things, there were all of Brando's treats I gave him that day. Brando had laid them out in neat little piles. It was, I thought, so sweet and so evil of him. He was, after all, his mom's furbabee; he had a wry sense of humor.

Brando turned eighteen this year. I had eighteen long years with the guy. He'd known me all my grown up years, celebrating with me as we built our lives together.

How do you say goodbye to a good friend? Brando chose not to. This morning, after a sleepless night and with me telling him he could lie down, I took him to the vet for fluids. Brando waited till I said "I love you," as I always do, every day, to my furbabees before I go to work. Waited till he heard me walk out of the room. Waited till I was in my truck. And then, he died naturally. Quickly and without nary a fuss.

Independent little dog, as always.

My boy left home at eighteen. I hope Magic Girl isn't bullying him too much where they're at now. I'm not there to make sure he gets his treats first. Not yet, anyway.

Yo, Magic! Give him a big kiss before you smack him around, 'kay? Cut him some slack. He might have been the gentlest soul around, but he was the only man who dared take on a mutant pom like you.

Mom and the rest of the babies miss you, my BranBran.

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