I'm Not Gonna Do What You Told Me

This is what my home looks like right now.

This was right outside our windows on Sunday.


Riot police!


Riot police with riot horses! (I'm more scared of the horses).


Anarchy today (well, Saturday). They also smashed in the windows at Macy's.


A woman after my own heart.


When I was driving home tonight, I happened to be listening to the radio (unusual for me). And I caught that Rage Against the Machine was going to make an appearance at a free concert at the Capitol which is just blocks from my house. I anxiously awaited William coming home, since he loves Rage and I knew he'd want to go. He got home, all sweaty from riding his bike, and we quickchanged and ran to the Capitol, Molly in tow.

As it turned out, the police wouldn't let them play although they allowed the other (unknown) bands to play. It sucked. People were chanting for the band by singing the lyrics. If you ask me, they would have had a docile enough crowd, more so than the angry fans who wanted to see Rage (they also play tomorrow night in a more typical venue, but also for $60). We were surrounded by some seriously patchouli smelling hippies that were practicing synchronized meditation, so I figure we would have been pretty safe. :) Anyway, we waited and waited, with an antsy crowd. Eventually a bunch of cheers went up and they asked everyone to be really quiet and sit down. So we did.

And then we saw this:


That's right. De la Rocha and Morello with a megaphone. Despite teh fact that people had even done the soundcheck for them (and I spotted five guitars in the little rack, so I imagine they would have played a few songs), they werent' allowed to take the stage. So so so lame. In any case, they treated us to Bulls on Parade and Killing In The Name. De la Rocha did the raps and Morello sang the beats. The crowd helped with both.


And then:


I feel it necessary to note that I beat Tom Morello in Guitar Hero. Just sayin'. I do a wicked wah-wah-chicka-chicka-wah-wah, what can I say? (Please tell me you know what sound I'm making over the net.)

Molly doing her part as a concerned citidog. (in my excitement I forgot to put on her Dogs for Choice t-shirt).


Then as we were leaving, we inadvertently joined a peace march.


It was just described on the news as a "bunch of anarchists". It was totally peaceful and within its rights.


There were tons of these, and they're quite intimidating in person.


When they came out, the Fox cameraman I was standing next to said, "You might wanna get outta here, honey." Are you kidding? This will never happen again here! I mean, I'm not into getting tear gassed or pepper sprayed or anything.... I kept a safe distance but I wanted to drink it all in.

We rounded out our walk by checking out Chris Matthews, broadcasting from downtown, outside. Pretty fun. I hear that he Daily Show people got locked inside due to the escalating protesting. We missed the fire hoses, firecrackers, and gas.

I have to say that I love protesters. I'm not in favor of destroying property, especially when it has nothing to do with the issue at hand, but I love people who exercise their right to protest and who express their opinion. It brings an energy that I just love. I love seeing the people who care to a point to get out and do something, rather than just complain (which is something I'm guilty of).
I'm torn about the RNC. It's good for the Cities, financially and put us on the map as more than some kind of igloo country, but I'd rather it was the other ticket in town. We're typically a very progressive state and I feel like hosting the RNC doesn't represent the majority opinion here.

But I gotta say. I love the political process, messed up as it may be. And I'm loving this. Even if it means having riot police right outside my door.

Crabby

I'm crabby.

I don't even fully know why. But I feel all owly, as my dad would say.

Then he'd make a pawing motion in air and say "yee-ow!" Like a cat hissing/meowing at me. He really does it best.

Blergh.

Keep Going

I love politics. I love Hillary. I'm a little sad that she's not making the acceptance speech.

But damn, that was a good speech. She knocked it out.

If you hear the dogs, keep going.

A Rose By Any Other Name

A while back, I met a man who was the head of a very, very large hair-products corporation. He sold the corporation to Estee Lauder and has launched a new, smaller company, which was the reason that I met him--to interview him for a story I was writing.

William's firm was also working on this man's New York penthouse at the same time, so I used that as a way to break the ice at the beginning of the interview.

This man happens to be from an Eastern European country that Schwartzenegger also hails from--and has a similar, marble-mouthed (though decidedly less manly-sounding) accent. He's a total riot--and I think a total genius, so please don't get me wrong. He just happens to be a real character, of the Willy Wonka variety.

Anyway, once I told him that William and I were together, he appraised me, tilting his head and staring down through his glasses. I was a little unnerved, and a little amused, unsure of what was coming next.

"I think you and William will have beeee-autiful children," he says to me with a grin.

Taken aback and most definitely blushing, I could only manage to say, "You think?"

"Yes, yes, now let me see--where is the rose essence--" he snapped his fingers. A girl appeared at his side.

"Go get a crystal container and fill it with the Bulgarian rose essence," he tells her. "And bring it back here for this woman."

Uh.... OK.

We move on with the interview. The shopgirl eventually reappears with his requested items.

"This is for you," he says, telling me that it's extremely expensive, rare, and a really wonderful aphrodesiac.

Then he makes matters even more awkward by telling me that all one needs to do is pat a little under the nostrils and breathe in the scent—and then other "wonderful" things will happen.

I quickly change the subject, and he's easily distracted, so the attention shifts to the greening (or lack thereof) of the cosmetics industry.

I come home and tell William. He smells it, and we both pronounce it fairly gag-worthy. We laugh over our perception that it won't be very effective.

It sits on the dresser for a good length of time--weeks or months, probably.

One morning, I'm still sleeping and William wakes up early. He takes Mo for a walk, and on the walk, he wonders to himself if there wasn't something to the Cosmetic Giant's comments. No harm in trying, right?

While I'm still asleep, William dabs on a little of the rose oil. He cleans up and gets all handsome for me. I wake up.

He gets in close for a good-morning kiss. ...And something, or someone, smells funny.

Not wanting to be rude, I figure it's something in the loft that's gone bad. I sniff around, trying to figure out what it could be. I can't seem to find it....until I'm close to William.

"Ughhhh....why do you smell like that?" Just thinking about that overpowering rotten-sweetness makes my throat close up as I write this.

"Like what?" I sort of remember him playing the innocent, hoping the fumes will--I don't know exactly—intoxicate me into thinking I want him, even though it smells like garbage.

I pushed him away. "Oargh. You smell disgusting! Did you PUT ON that rose stuff?" I realize now this is some sort of amorous advance in my early-morning haze. He tried to continue the innocent act, but it turned to amusement and a little bit of embarrassment as I figured out his plan—that he was willing to smell like garbage to get some action.

He keeps trying to get close to me, and I keep pushing him away, and we both have fits of giggles over how seriously awful it smelled. As far as its efficacy at being an aphrodesiac? It was like magnets that you try to put together the wrong way—me propelling across the room any time he came within ten feet of me.

I think he tried to wash it off. It's been a while, so memories are a bit hazy. Eventually, we headed out for the day--sans William meeting his goal--and get in the car. Even that much later, with attempts to rid himself of the smell, I gagged when we were in close quarters. "I can even smell it in herrrrre!" I whined.

And when we got home, the smell hung in the air a bit. In clothes. It wouldn't GO AWAY. This shit is powerful!

Anyway, the bottle has stayed tightly corked and in its place on my dresser since then. If anyone's looking for some repellent, let me know. I've got $200-an-ounce rotting rose up in here.

The Fight in the Dog, Part III

Well, more tests (blood and urine)--and "nothing remarkable" about them--meaning, nothing abnormal, out of the ordinary, or even downright wrong.

Miz Mo has been upbeat, even sprightly, since her weird disorienting incident on Thursday morning. Playing with her toys, fetch, keeping up with her Labbie "cousins", loveable, sweet. It's almost as if it didn't happen, like this week was a bad, bad, bad dream.

I feel torn. No bad news, but no answer, either.

Every time I look at her, I have to pet her, hug her, kiss her. Tell her I love her and see her nub-tail wag.

She's our Momo. And she's healthy, for now.

Thanks for your sweet comments and encouragements. Molly sends you can send bacon, if you'd like, c/o Willikat. But she also says thanks, by way of a sweet, brown-eyed wink.

The Fight in the Dog, Part II

Sorry for the delay in updates. We had a crazy couple of days over here.

The first vet visit revealed: her heart murmur, diagnosed this spring, is a little worse. It's moved from a 2 to a 3 or 3.5. That's on a scale of 6. X-rays revealed that her heart is enlarged, from the extra work it goes through to make up for the valve that doesn't close properly. It could have led to a fainting episode, the scary episode I detailed in the last post. The vet seemed quite sure that was what happened. The progression of the disease is hard to gauge and hard to treat; it's controversial and none too cheap. Some dogs live years and years; some just live weeks. But, since she's been living with it for at least a few months now, I figured it will be a good long time. I was feeling so-so about the visit, sad that she's getting worse, but reassured she wasn't going to drop dead at our door.

Then this morning happened. I noticed Molly was a little more lethargic than normal, but nothing that immediately concerned me. I mean, dogs get tired, too, right? Then it ame time to leave. She heard my keys jingle and immediately jumped up, but when I realized I had forgotten something and went looking for it, she got confused. When I made it back to the door, she couldn't find me, despite my repeated calls for her to come "bye-bye" with me. I could see her shadow on the floor, her paws going one step to the left, then one to the right, as though she couldn't choose where I was calling from. I thought it strange but she eventually figured it out and I sort of immediately chalked it up to my paranoia.

Then we walked a few more feet. Molly, instead of doing her usual cute prance, was shuffling her feet, floppy, loose. Her head wasn't pointed up, but rather in the down position that usually indicates her dog-guilt over an accident or toilet-paper-eating incident. We turned down the long hallway that leads to the street where I park my car. She stopped at least three times and turned to her left, where she thought the door should be, and bumped her head against the wall, as though I'd opened the door for her. She was several feet away from the door.

When I got her to my parents' house, she was no better. Limp-limbed, uninterested mostly in exploring the house, running into my legs, running into the cabinets. I couldn't stop crying. I tried to hold myself together, but holy hell, it's really hard when someone (something, for you purists) is hurting and you can't help. She was responsive when I called her name and that sort of thing, so I felt at least confident enough to leave her there for a few hours, with a call put in to the vet's office.

The vet called me back around 11. My mom had reported that lil Mo was still pretty despondent. The vet told me that maybe it was something neurological, so Mo should come back for more tests (read: $$). I took her in about an hour ago. When I picked her up at my parents' house, she bounded ot the door, jumped on my legs, wagging her little nub-tail. Like my little Mo.

Mom threw up her hands. "Weirdest thing, in the last two hours, she's sorta revived," she says. (Mom, maybe it was your hamburger-and-rice offerings).

So she bonked into a cabinet at the vet's office but otherwise was sweet and gentle. Maybe not as feisty as I would have liked, but definitely improved. She sat nicely for her exam, and the vet reassured me that at least her heart was sounding stable and her lungs clear. There was perhaps some concern that Molly was having vision problems (she already has cataracts), but the vet also said that her pupils were responding and that Molly could definitely see fine.

They took some blood and did a pee test, and we'll hear about those results tomorrow morning. Think good thoughts!

For now, I can't tell you how happy my heart feels when I hear her bark at the slamming doors out in the hallway. That's my girl.

The Fight in the Dog

About a year and a half ago, a 17-pound, apricot-colored, furry, Muppetish, four-legged, curly-fluffed pal wandered into our life. She walked through the door at the Humane Society, just as we were about to leave, and William and I pointed to her in unison, and breathed out that "ohhhhh" like the Martians in the Crane Game in Toy Story.

She was ours in our hearts from that moment. We didn't buy her that day, but the next day we went back and scooped her up in our arms.

Not a month into owning her, (we think) she ate some of the poisoned dog food--remember that recall that killed so many innocent dogs?--and she had a very scary diarrhea-laden incident, one that led to a trip to the emergency vet and a diagnosis of "possible multiple-organ failure."

But she pulled through the night and continued to get better as the days wore on. After about two weeks of hamburger-and-rice diet, she was back to good as new.

Since then, she has brought us so much joy. So many laughs on a daily basis, so many comforting head-butts and snuggling on the couch. Protecting us from the wind and fellow dog-walkers, blowing trash and scary noises (her own leash unspooling from the handle). She has completed our little family. She is our Momo, like owner, like dog--a little blond anxiety-prone goofball. Like she has always been a part of us.

Last night, I thought Momo was leaving us, permanently. I was lying on the couch, watching a Johnny Cash documentary on PBS, William was at his computer. I looked down, and she was sitting strangely, her head hanging at an odd angle, her stomach heaving in a slow rhythm. I thought perhaps she was going to puke, so I asked her: "Mo, what are you doing?" She turned her head slowly, with a glassy-eyed stare. William also thought she was going to vomit, so he threw on his shoes and coaxed "outside!" to motivate her to go to the door. She managed to drag her little Muppet body over to the door, but while he was hooking her leash, she began to crumple, losing control of her bladder, her front legs stiffening and sticking out in front of her. She fell against the door. I was afraid she was choking, so I tried prying open her jaws, which were tightly clenched. I got my hand in her mouth, searching for something to pull out, anything, goddammit, what the hell is wrong what am I supposed to be doing?

I kept yelling her name. "Molly, Molly, tell me what's wrong, tell me what's wrong!" As if she'd respond. Her eyes rolled around in their sockets. That's when I really lost it, yelling and crying and shaking.

Then, she sort of roused, just as I was convinced she was dying an undignified death, in our hallway, at the hands of her helpless dog-parents. I was shaking like a leaf.

William guided her outside, where she sat in the grass, dazed, head hanging, dead-eyed. I called my sister, in hysterics. She couldn't even understand me at first. Eventually I managed to explain what happened, while William calmly petted Molly and spoke to her softly. Susie thought that she maybe had a seizure. She waited patiently with me on the phone while William and I watched Molly slowly come around.

A few minutes later, William walked her around the block. I stood on the corner, still shaking like crazy, heart pounding, holding a roll of paper towels (to clean up her accidents on the way downstairs) and alternately crying and laughing on the phone with Susie, like a crazy person. Adrenaline was coursing through my body and I felt totally and completely unhinged. Then, finally, William appeared with our Molly, and she looked every bit like the Mo we saw that first day, from that first "Ohhh."

"Is she ok? Is she better?" Molly pranced around my feet, panting.
William says, "Well, she flushed a rabbit out of the bushes and chased it, tried to fight a dog and peed where it was standing, and kicked up the grass afterwards. I think she's fine."

Even then I couldn't calm down, although the words hit me with a wave of gratefulness that I'm unable to properly describe.

She's seemed totally fine in the 24 hours since. As I told my brother on the phone later that night, I think I'm more traumatized than she is. Right now I can see her, splayed out on the wood floor (it's cooler) snoozing away now that snacks are put away, dinner is eaten, and we're just relaxing in front of the TV, like any normal night.

Tuesday afternoon: the Vet. Please don't cost a fortune. Please don't get more bad news about our poor cockapoo, who just deserves to live out her life cushy-style. Please don't let me or William have a nervous breakdown (me really being the please in that one).

I don't know if I've ever felt so desperate, so responsible for a being's life.

What I do know—Molly is our furry baby, she completes our family. I know she won't be here forever, but 9 is too damn young for a small dog. Too little time spent with two people who love her like crazy—plus her grandparents who take her almost every work day and love her too. Plus everyone else. Molly makes people happy. And Molly has a lot more happy-making days in her. I have to think that. There's a lot more fight in the dog, as they say.