A DOG BY ANY NAME IS STILL REX

Lillie

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The quality I like best about dogs is their trusting nature. Strolling past the Barking Dog Luncheonette on York Avenue, they will be found lying patiently while their owners have the breakfast special. There is an understanding that food and drink in the bowls marked Fido are the next stop in the day's program. Late in the night at some point the reassuring sound of a leash clicking onto a collar means a constitutional is nigh. The City That Never Sleeps could be renamed Dog Heaven. I haven't checked but I can well imagine Bark Place open 24 hours. I first became interested in the why's of dog names when I met Vanna. She belonged to a former Canadian mountie. I asked, "You don't mean Vanna White?" He laughed, "Yes! She of  'Give Me a Vowel' fame on Wheel of Fortune." A big black dog named White. I began to wonder about other names. Interestingly, I knew most of the dog names but few of their people's names. They all had stories.

Lillie--after Lillie Langtry (often spelled Lily in the U.S.) the beauty who hobnobbed with royalty. As you can see from the photo above, royalty is right up our East 64th Street Lillie's alley. 

Jack--who has his own Facebook page where he proudly professes his political and religious views. Rachel, his lovely personal photographer, of course, is God.

Rosie--who originally was supposed to be Ellie May but when chosen by a West Virginian, was instantly changed to Rosie because of her sweet personality.

Louie--not "Louie, Louie" the song (nor a tip o' the hat to Satchmo). Louie has a similar history to Rosie's. "I don't know. When I saw him, he just looked like a Louie."

Laser--the light, not the operation.

Lion--who barrels ahead on his wee front legs while his hind legs stay encased in a handicap cart, sort of like a dog wheelchair. King of leprechaun dogs.

Gina (Lollobrigida), Ossie (Osbourne), and Bella--this small trio is a walked by a dog walker with two dogs of her own: Bonnie (Scottish for pretty) and Eli. These two were rescued dogs who kept their names. The walker said she particularly liked Bonnie's name because, "She is anything but bonnie."

Pocket--who got a preemie start. He  was so small he fit in a pocket. 

Prince--"Not king?" I asked. "No. He's little so he's The Little Prince."One of my favorite books!

Bogart--an Old(e) English Sheepdog who looks more sheep than dog. What a coat! His predecessor was named Humphrey. 

Look! There's Sheba and Shelby, Luke (I'm guessing Luke Skywalker)and Pageant (after the high-fashion runway event). These cheerful, hopeful dogs know nothing of war or food stamps or gender intolerance. If they come down with a human disease such as leukemia, they trust all concerned will release them from misery mercifully.


I can hear the debaters chafing at the bit, "What about guard dogs and vicious dogs? They don't trust anyone." Oh, but they do! A guard dog trusts that he or she will keep evil away from those they protect. Most vicious dogs are basically guarders; they don't turn vicious on their own unless they have rabies or have been treated criminally. These will not be seen on excursions past Furry Paws. 

Jack

The dogs I have met on my Out and Abouts know "New York city is a great place to visit"  but disagree with the rest of the famous phrase. They certainly want to live here. 

An Altering and Illuminating Day

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graffiti and photo credit: Robert Janz\
location: Broadway and Reade, Manhattan

Tuesday has been my favorite day since childhood so it was natural I picked Tuesdays for volunteering at the Rever Road branch of the Durham County Public Library in Durham, North Carolina. The children's section was my specialty. In June of 2001, the extra bonus was I could tell all about my discoveries in Easy Readers by e-mail. I had been encouraged to learn computer for grief therapy's sake. The advice was providential because in September of the same year, my Indigo Mac sustained me. You see, on 9/11 I had started sorting the Young Adults series when the head librarian came and asked me in her soft Southern drawl, "Is your brother in New York City?" She knew my brother was often in Ireland and Germany for art exhibits but when he was at home, home was NYC. From Duane Street, he liked a morning walk past the Twin Towers. I answered, "Yes, as a matter of fact he is." She took my hand and speaking gently said, "There has been a disaster. Stop your work. Come back on Friday. See if you can reach your brother." I couldn't register what she was saying at first. I told her my brother would want me to stay put, possibly providing calm for the people in the library, being useful. When I returned to my apartment, there were lots of e-mails but nothing from my brother. A friend at Research Triangle Park was horrified. "Do you know how close Duane Street is??" He thought I might be in shock but  I wrote back. "I'm not worried. My brother and I have a soul-deep connection. I would feel it if he has been harmed." That didn't go over well with the engineering science mind and at the end of the day he wanted to know what the latest was. I wrote, "No latest yet." I shifted my worries to what the catastrophe would do to our already xenophobic nation. I was right to worry. Not In Our Name was eclipsed by Operation Iraqi. CODEPINK's brave little band demonstrating in front of Dianne Feinstein's office in San Francisco was trampled by airport security, flag pins on lapels, and assorted superficial show-your-patriotism outward symbolic gestures indicating the sudden polarization of the "United" States. Instead of judicial measures, we chose the surreal solutions of revenge (on those not involved) and a vociferous escalation of knee-jerk reactions. America the Beautiful became America the Locked Down Don't Want to Hear It. 

Sure enough. When I heard from my RC brother (the family referred to him as our Roving Correspondent) he was shaken but fine. When He came to Raleigh for a show, he was the same "Roberto" looking good. No cough, cracking wise. Tuesday remains my lucky day. Despite wars and rumors of wars, floods, earthquakes, and doomsday dates on the calendar, my brother is out on the streets in his festive scarecrow way, graffiti-ing his optimistic message; my enduring starving artist bro' has grown wiser, younger, recognizable still as the hero of my youth.

WRITERS' BLOCK

This post is a result of sad news. A man in the next building died. I had spoken to him briefly over the years and seen him often resting on planters or at the bus stop. I nicknamed him, "The Donald of East 64th" because he was the living opposite of, "The Donald (Palace) Trump." Neighbor Donald was a portly, scruffy, kindly mathematician with a daughter in Greece. I would see him slowly puffing his way to the library where he worked for a couple of hours on a laptop. I always meant to ask what he was doing. And there it is--the guilt. I always meant to. The last time I chatted with him, he told me about a book he and his daughter were writing, Interrogation Chaos. He described it in a heartfelt storyteller's rush of facts and drew me in with the plotlines. He hoped it would be published at the end of the month. About two weeks later, I had started out for an appointment when I saw him sitting on his front steps. I had the choice of taking a few minutes to exchange a friendly word and inquire after the book. I chose, instead, to hurry off. I always meant to tell him about my blobs. He would have enjoyed the brevity and his friends in Greece could have had glimpses of his 'hood. He never knew I was a writer, a different sort of writer but still...a writer. We could have had a Writers Conference. I have been thinking of the other writers in this very building: a poet, a translator, a playwright, a researcher pulling all nighters, a contributor to peer-reviewed journals. Are there more? Probably. The lesson I've learned from The Donald of East 64th is one I learned as a child when war deaths were a daily topic at dinner. If you have something to say, say it now. Don't let any words fall into the I always meant to category. I had forgotten that lesson; it had been overlaid by optimism and, "There's plenty of time" thinking.

I have Deborah Ruddell's Today at the Bluebird Cafe standing next to my Dell. The cover has an exuberant tree full of exotic birds which reflects my calling this place, "The Treehouse." The book will be a memorial and a reminder that today may be all we have. Say it now.