Monday, July 23, 2012
Sam is not a creature of half measures. He was outside stripping the tomatoes from the vine, I was inside reading. When he decided he wanted in, he didn't bark or paw the door. He didn't sit by the glass door and look longingly. No, he hurled himself up in the air and planted four paws on the glass before thudding to the porch floor.
I love Sam. Really, I do.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
The above photo is of my brother's five and a-half month old bulldog Tucker in an oxygen cage. Tucker, who couldn't be sweeter if he were made of gum drops, developed aspirational pneumonia and nearly died several times last week. He is now through the worst of it, we hope. I can only imagine the vet bills. Catastrophic in many ways. It didn't use to be like this. When my black lab had an ACL surgery in the mid 1990's the total bill, including anesthesia, medicine and two nights stay was $180. When my yellow lab had the same operation ten years later the bill was over $2000. And that doesn't include treatment for the subsequent kidney failure that resulted from the pain medication. It can't just be inflation. America is pet crazy. And I say that as one of the deeply crazed. Vets just happened to be the beneficiaries of our madness. Anything is possible now, transplants, cloning, the sky's the limit. Three years ago my vet was stunned by my refusal to put my 12 year old lab through chemotherapy. (In fairness, if Clio had been young at the time I might have been tempted.) This pretty young vet told me, in all earnestness, "Old age is not a disease." Ha!
Canine allergy tests start at $600. My god-dog Sam went through a battery of them when the kangaroo and red lentil diet proved futile.
Sam is staying with us while my son and his wife enjoy Napa Valley. While I was at work yesterday Sam discovered a wicked, horrid monster cleverly disguised as a 6-foot bath mat. Sam to the rescue. He dragged the 'monster' down the stairs and thrashed it soundly, whacked it against furniture and water bowls. He seemed to expect some reward for his efforts.
Sam has developed a whiny quality that I thought only existed in pre-school children. Whatever we are doing for him it is apparently, not enough. The house is littered with his toys and bully sticks (for those happily unaware, a bully stick is a dried bull's penis) but he wants to munch on my collection of vintage windup toys. He wants to chew the down comforter. He wants the monster/bathmat released from the closet, where apparently it is issuing a siren song of taunts. He just whined at my husband who commented: "Oh for heaven's sake. He has a bull's penis, what more does he want?"
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
But I am baffled by consumers who buy, not because they love the painting, but because of its inches. I was in the Torpedo Factory studio when a couple came in and pulled out a measuring tape. They held it up against several of my partners' pieces and mine as well. Then they left. An hour later they came back, measured again. I wondered if they would pull out fabric swatches to see if it matched the sofa. They left again. When they returned they settled on a piece that was 24 inches tall and was mostly red and yellow.
People should buy art that they love. Repaint the room or buy a new couch, if necessary. But love the art.