Tunesday : Rock Lobster

 

Rock Lobster

(Pierson, Kate / Schneider, Fred / Strickland, Keith)

Performed by the B-52's

We were at a party

His ear lobe fell in the deep

Someone reached in and grabbed it

It was a rock lobster

Rock lobster

Rock lobster

We were at the beach

Everybody had matching towels

Somebody went under a dock

And there they saw a rock

It wasn't a rock

It was a rock lobster

Rock lobster

Rock lobster

Rock lobster

Rock lobster

Motion in the ocean

His air hose broke

Lots of trouble

Lots of bubble

He was in a jam

He's in a giant clam

Rock, rock

Rock lobster

Down, down

Underneath the waves

Mermaids wavin'

Wavin' to mermen

Wavin' sea fans

Sea horses sailin'

Dolphins wailin'

Rock lobster

Rock lobster

Rock lobster

Rock lobster

Red snappers snappin'

Clam shells clappin'

Mussels flexin'

Flippers flippin'

Rock, rock

Rock lobster

Down, down

Lobster

Rock lobster

Rock

Let's rock

Boys in bikinis

Girls in surfboards

Everybody's rockin'

Everybody's fruggin'

Twistin' 'round the fire

Havin' fun

Bakin' potatoes

Bakin' in the sun

Put on your nose guard

Put on the lifeguard

Pass the tannin' butter

Here comes a stringray

There goes a manta ray

In walked a jelly fish

There goes a dogfish

Chased by a catfish

In flew a sea robin

Watch out for that piranha

There goes a narwhal

Here comes a bikini whale

Rock lobster

Rock lobster

Rock lobster

Rock lobster

Rock Lobster was another song that I loved as a kid and would put it the same "New Music" category as Echo Beach or anything by Robert Palmer: these songs had a totally different sound than the '70s rock or the disco that was also playing on the radio, but it wasn't quite as out there as Punk or New Wave. Whenever Rock Lobster came on at a school dance, it was certain to fill up the dance floor, and everyone loved when the song would slow down in the middle with the down, down part -- we always had fun slowly collapsing to the floor and then popping back to life when the beat returned. So much fun! 

I'm thinking about this song right now because we're on our annual trip to my parents' house in Nova Scotia, and there is sure to be a lobster feast at some point (the pictures above are from a few years ago). As always, it's so strange being here -- I feel like I'm fulfilling some obligation to visit, yet my parents seem ambivalent about us being here. Right now, I'm in the house alone. Here's the story of my first ever visit down here:

Kennedy wasn't quite one yet, and my parents wanted to bring us down to see where they were in the process of building their retirement house; back on the lake my Dad would swim in as a kid. My Mum drove my Dad's Yukon down with me and Kennedy, and as Dad only had a long weekend to spend here, we picked him up at the airport on the way to the house. At that time, they only had the garage with its one bedroom apartment built, but it was more than big enough for the four of us to stay in. 

One night, we went out to dinner for fried clams and the atmosphere was just tense: even though I was now a mother myself, I may as well have been a little kid again, nervously waiting for the coming explosion that I remembered so well from my childhood. When we got back to the apartment, I took Kennedy into the bedroom and listened to my parents having a screaming match in the outer room. Eventually, my Dad came in and told me he was driving back to Ontario right away, and if I knew what was good for me, I'd come with him. 

"What'll happen with Mum?" I asked.

"Frankly, I don't care," he said.

"I don't think she'll be okay here by herself."

"Maybe it's best you stay then." And he left -- driving away, leaving the three of us in the woods.

What we didn't know right away was that as soon as Dad left -- ever the planner -- he called Dave and asked him to drive my Mum's car down for us. Somehow, Dad arranged to give Dave a thousand dollars, and as it was the weekend, Dave took off right away, delivering us transportation (and cash) within about 18 hours. We didn't have a landline or cell service here, and my mother couldn't believe that Dad abandoned us like that, so we had to walk forever to the only phone booth around here to learn that salvation was on its way.

Dave could only stay for another day and then he used Dad's original plane ticket to get back home. In order to save face, Mum kept telling everyone that Dad got called back early and we proceeded with our original itinerary (which included my inlaws coming here to stay with us and then a trip to PEI). For the rest of the trip, I had to listen to my mother trashtalk my father, and I felt miserable and trapped the entire time.

That would be why I've never been willing to come down here without my own vehicle -- I swear I will never again be trapped down here; the only time we ever flew, we rented our own car at the airport. And no matter how many lobster dinners or toys they may have (including the ponies they had for my girls when they were little, the ATVs, boats and Seadoo) I will always have a bitter taste in my mouth the entire time I'm here. 

Which is just so stupid because I see no evidence that my parents do more than just go through the motions of pretending they want us here. We'll only be here for four full days this year and they're currently not talking with one another. They still can't hold it together for four days? So why do I think it's healthy for my girls to believe that they have two sets of loving grandparents? Why do I try and force them to believe that they have something I never had?

At least there will be lobster. 

Tunesday : Libby

Libby

Written and Performed by Carly Simon

If all our flights are grounded
Libby, we'll go to Paris
Dance along the boulevards
And have no one to embarrass,

Puttin' on the Ritz in style
With an Arab and an Heiress,
Libby we'll fly anyway - hey

And leave behind our blues
Half sung melodies
We'll trade them all in
For a Paris breeze.
Libby we'll fly

See how dark the circles grow
In a town that has no light
So many eyes just staring out
Into the bloodshot night

And Libby, I hate to see you to cry, and I
Want to share it all with you,
And if it brings us to our knees
We'll trade it all in for a Paris breeze.
Libby we'll fly

They say it don't come easy
And they say that love is blind
If you're afraid to be close
Then love is hard to find

And if you spend too much time winning love
There's no time to be kind
And Libby, I'm guilty of your crimes

I'm just another passenger
Travelling on these crazy high seas
Very likely be the same
In a Paris breeze
Libby we'll fly away

If all our flights are grounded,
Libby, we'll go to Paris
And wish we were back home again
Or sailing on the ocean
Just a window and a drink
To set our dreams in motion

But Libby, we'll fly anyway, hey
And leave our blues
Half sung melodies
Trade them in for a Paris breeze,
Libby we'll fly.

I'm still feeling fairly gutted about losing Libby last week -- I haven't been reading much, so no new reviews, and we're busy getting ready for our vacation to the lake and our week at the beach, so instead of looking too far back at another Tunesday reminiscence, I'm just going to put up this song for the best little doggy that ever was.

Mindpicking : Such a Good Dog

Yesterday morning, after watching Libby have a frightening seizure the night before, and after having had her diagnosed with liver disease last month, I took her to a new vet for a second opinion. Ella, my eleven-year-old niece, and I arrived at the bright and bustling office of this "Animal Hospital" and were impressed with the efficiency and amenities there. We were brought into a very comfortable exam room -- an overstuffed vinyl armchair for me to sit in and a thick foam rubber pad covering the metal exam table for Libby -- and since the last vet sent over Libby's recent blood work, the new vet was able to go over those results with me.

"The good news," she said, "is that these first numbers here don't indicate cancer. And here, while the liver enzymes are high, they're in the high-normal range, so I don't know if I would have made a diagnosis of liver disease as a primary problem. I'm more concerned about these very low calcium and glucose numbers."

"Well," said I, "Libby did have a bladder stone about three years ago, so she's been on a calcium-restricted diet ever since. She eats Urinary S/O kibble and she doesn't get cheese or even apples and carrots anymore."

"That's good, and absolutely what was indicated, but I want to talk about these numbers here." She circled the next set of blood results and said, "These are for her pancreatic function and they're quite low, and when combined with the calcium results and these thyroid numbers down here, we see a different picture. I would recommend a new set of blood work to see what's changed in the last month, and if required, an ultrasound to have a look at the pancreas." Here she took on a very gentle tone and said, "I appreciate that you've already made an investment in Libby's care to this point, and people have other priorities with their budgets, and as she's nearly fifteen, if you want to say 'I've done what I can and I can't spend any more on tests', then that's absolutely fair. I'm not here to pressure you into more tests."

I could barely croak out, my eyes leaking and my hands shaking where they were holding the frightened Libby up against my body, "What are we talking about? If it's the pancreas, is it fixable?"

"I have two answers for you. If it's the thyroid affecting the pancreas, then there are medications that can fix the problem. If it's her pancreas that's affecting her thyroid, then there might be surgery involved. At this point, I would recommend the new blood work, that's about $250, and if it's inconclusive, we'll need to do an ultrasound, and that's around $450. But if you're at the point in your budget..."

I could barely speak, but I half mouthed, "We're not at that point. If it's fixable..." I couldn't go on.

The vet handed me a box of Kleenex and said, "Okay, good. I'll just take Libby back for that blood work. We'll start there."

I nodded and handed Libby over, and trying to pull myself together, I started chatting with Ella, talking about how dumb I felt, blubbering over some blood work. A little while later, the vet came back and, looking at Ella and then at me, said, "I don't know if you'd rather have this conversation privately...?"

Stunned, I turned to Ella and said, "Can you handle some bad news?" She shrugged and I faced the vet again and said, "I think we're fine here."

The vet explained that she drew the blood, and on a hunch, decided to pass the ultrasound wand over Libby's belly, just to rule out the presence of another bladder stone. Showing me the ultrasound printout, she said,"This large mass here is a tumour, and this swirly area is blood. We could absolutely still do the blood work and the ultrasound, but that's a thousand dollars all together just to see if surgery is even possible. If it is possible, that's probably another two thousand, and there's no guarantee that it will fix Libby up. I don't know if I would recommend surgery for a dog this age, and if you decide against it, because of the rate of bleeding, I think you'll be seeing her deteriorate rather quickly."

I was nodding throughout; mutely; my mind racing.

"If I were you," said the vet, very gently, "I'd take Libby home and enjoy your time with her. Get her an ice cream cone. A piece of chocolate cake. At this point, 'toxic' doesn't really mean anything anymore."

I thanked her, keeping it together right up until the moment I could barely get out,"She's just been such a good dog."

Then I started crying and the vet came around and asked if she could give me a hug, and she did, and after some more comforting words, she told me to take my time in the room; no need to rush. I told her I'd be fine, I was just anxious to get Libby home, but once I reached the reception desk and saw all those people with their pets -- people who took one look at my ruined face and quickly turned away -- the tears started streaming down. I'm sure the receptionists have seen it all before, and they murmured all the right words as I paid for the exam (no need for the blood to be tested; no charge for the brief ultrasound), and Ella and I drove home.

I emailed Dave to tell him that I had a diagnosis for Libby and he called right away. As I told him the story, he grew more and more upset, and we were agreed that it was a good thing to at least have a definitive answer for Libby's strange and worsening symptoms. He had called me as he was driving between meetings, and he had to get off the phone in order to calm down and psyche himself up for the next customer.

I picked up Mallory from work, but since she wanted to be dropped at the gym, I didn't tell her the news until I had picked her up from there an hour and a half later. When we got home, Mal spent some time with Libby, feeding her bites of chicken and sharing a cheese string. Not long after that, Kennedy came in the house, and she was already crying: as she was getting out of her car, Ella had said, "I guess you heard about Libby, eh?" And even though Ella clammed up once she realised that Kennedy hadn't heard anything, Kennedy forced the story out of her, and she came in knowing that Libby was terminal. I told the story again anyway, but it turns out that Ella had gotten all the details right, and I put the question to the girls that Dave and I were wondering about: When? Do we put Libby out of any discomfort she might be feeling right away, or maybe wait until Sunday; have a dog's dream day and then properly say goodbye? We agreed on Sunday and then ordered pizza for dinner: I had a headache from crying off and on throughout the day, and pizza crusts are one of Libby's favourite foods.

Dave got home a little earlier than usual, and Libby went to him, wagging her tail and asking for scratches. Around that time, I realised that Libby had been pacing around in circles for a while, and as time went by, I pointed out that Libby couldn't seem to settle down. We sat down at the table for dinner, and Libby kept pacing around and around, and she refused any crusts, or even whole chunks of pizza. We thought that maybe we could wear her out if we went for a walk, so Kennedy and I took her out to the park. As we were walking, Libby had small seizure-like episodes -- stopping and jerking her mouth open and shut, with drool dripping out -- but then she would snap back into herself and keep walking. We got back home, and as soon as the leash was off, she started circling around and around the house again.

The girls had planned to go to the mall, so I waved them off, and as Dave cleaned the pool, Libby paced around the back yard. At one point Libby got out of the gate, and with Dave chasing her, she started circling around and around a bigger circuit through people's yards. Lolo saw them, and when she came over to see what was going on, Libby stopped and had another small seizure. Dave brought her back home and I picked her up to try and settle her -- if pacing for hours didn't eventually wear her out, I didn't want to wait until she dropped dead of exhaustion. As I held Libby, she kept twitching her head, and when I looked in her eyes, she just wasn't present. 

Suddenly, I said to Dave, "Do you smell that?"

"What?"

"Like, dog poop."

We both looked down at the same time to see Libby emptying her bowels all over me and herself. Dave wiped us off, but Libby was still smeared, so I had to give her a bath; her least favourite experience. Even though she stood still for the bath, Libby still seemed spacey, and after we wrapped her in a towel, she started making regular twitches of her head from side to side, the drool still dripping.

Dave and I looked at each other and knew that suddenly it was time to say goodbye. Dave called the girls and told them they needed to get home. Not long later, Mallory and Kennedy -- who was bawling her eyes out already -- came in, and then Zach trailed behind. Kennedy said, "I hope that's okay...?" And I said, "Of course. Libby loved Zach, too."

Even looking at Libby, the girls knew that it was time (Mallory said she looked like a "broken robot") and Dave called the vet and was able to make an appointment for just a half hour later. Dave asked Kennedy if she wanted to hold Libby, and she had her for the rest of the evening. We all drove together to the vet, but Mallory and I couldn't make ourselves go in; it may make me a coward but I didn't want my last memory of Libby to be her laying there dead. It took longer than I expected, but when they came out, Dave and Kennedy agreed that it was a very peaceful passing; the twitching finally stopped and Libby went to rest. On the way home, Dave stopped at Menchies, and we five red-eyed and dishevelled mourners ate a toast to the little dog who never got her ice cream cone; her slice of chocolate cake.

When we got home, I convinced Dave that it would be a kindness for him to call his parents and let them hear the news from him first -- they have been very good to Libby throughout her life -- and he made the call (which turned out to be very frustrating for him since their first response to "I had to put my dog down tonight" was "I remember when we brought Jake to put him down"; they both had the exact same first reaction and then they both went off on other tangents; poor Dave; it was still the right thing to do). He then called his sister to let her know and got the comfort that he needed. And then to bed with the persistent sick headache.

I woke up this morning to the alarm, not Libby's scratching at my door 15 or 30 minutes early as had been her annoying habit; I woke to no diarrhea on the tiles of the hallway, as had been her recent and uncontrollable routine; I woke to no happy little doggie wagging her tail and leading me to the back door to put her out to pee, as she had every morning for over fourteen years. I drove Mallory to work at 5:30 am, and when I got back to the still sleeping house, there was no merry little soul jangling the tags on her collar as she ran up to greet me. It was quiet. And so lonely.

Kennedy looked destroyed when she eventually came down -- in nearly fifteen years, there haven't been very many nights that Libby hadn't curled up in her bed with her. And even though Libby had spent the last full night of her life pacing on Kennedy's bed and keeping her awake -- even though Libby eventually had a rather noisy freak out that pulled me and Dave from our bed -- I'm certain that Kennedy found her bed last night to be too quiet. Too lonely.

Libby was such a good dog.

Libby was such a terrible puppy.

We got Libby back when Nan and Pop still lived up here. Nan had taken the girls to the mall one day, and as she later reported to me, Kennedy and a puppy in the pet store window had mutually fallen in love. Dave and I hadn't really talked about getting a dog, but Nan worked on me (an easy sell) and when I told Dave that I thought it was a good idea, he agreed. (There's a family myth that Libby just appeared one day and Dave was told to deal with it -- I think that this was teasingly told to the girls at the time, as though we were pulling a trick on their Daddy -- but he was definitely consulted first. This led to years of people thinking that Dave didn't like Libby, which was never the case.) Nan couldn't make it back here until the Friday, and even though she called the store to try and reserve the puppy in the window, they couldn't do that, and we had to take our chances: if it was meant to be...

On the Friday, Nan picked us up before the mall opened and we were waiting outside the pet store when they opened their doors. Over the course of the week, this puppy's littermates were all bought one by one, but Kennedy's puppy -- the overactive dynamo who jumped up against the store's window whenever Kennedy came near -- was still waiting for her, her price dropping day after day until, by Friday, she was a bargain basement clearance special. Perfect.

Nan got everything a puppy would need, handed the leash to Kennedy, and said, "What are you going to name her?" I had had some ideas and figured that I would probably have the final say anyway.

Kennedy said, "What do you mean? The sign says her name is 'Libby'. That's her name."

I explained that that is just a sales gimmick and we could call her anything we liked. "How about 'Piper'?" I said, leadingly.

"Her name is Libby," Kennedy said, firmly. And Libby it was.

Immediately, Libby was trouble. She had the sharpest little needle teeth, and any time she wasn't being played with, she was chewing on someone's fingers or toes. Puppy Libby had the highest-pitched, ear-splittingest bark, and any time she thought she was being ignored, she would plant herself in front of me (or more likely Dave) and bark so long and loud that a one-way parcel to China was contemplated more than once. On her first vet check, Libby was given a deworming dose, and she left steaming piles on the deck that looked like sentient spaghetti in turd sauce. 

Although Dave insisted from the start that that dog did not belong to him, Libby fell in love with him hard and refused to leave Dave alone. Anything that belonged to Dave was fair game to Libby as a puppy and she found and shredded his socks and underwear, dragging anything with his scent from the laundry bin that towered over her. She ate his glasses once. One Halloween, Dave had sculpted a chimpanzee makeup (based on Planet of the Apes, of course) on a plaster mould of his own face, and when he rendered it in latex, he was so pleased with the appliance he was able to make that he left it on the dining room table where he could admire it. One morning, right before Halloween, we discovered that Libby had climbed up on the table and chewed the appliance in the middle of the night, ripping it in several places. Dave was devastated, but with quick thinking, turned his costume idea into a turfwar-scarred biker ape (which I nicknamed "Furious George") and I think that was probably the best costume he ever made.

Libby was simply a terrible puppy.

But by the time she was about four, she settled down, and she became fun. She loved to run and play, and any time a man would come to the house, she was a full-on flirt, wagging her bum in their faces and licking and showing off. (My brother Ken found this amusing; my brother Kyler did not.)

By the time Libby was four, Mallory was starting school full time and that little dog kept me company every day, curling up beside me if I was on a couch; at my feet if I was on a chair. She patiently waited every day as I ate lunch, knowing that she would always get the last bite of everything. Most Sundays, Dave would make us a pancake breakfast and Libby would only start to whine as we finished eating because she knew that she would eventually get her own dish of cut up pancakes and bacon -- once she heard the scrape-scraping of her food being cut into bite-sized pieces, the anticipation would start to get to her and that was the only time she whined. 

About five years ago, I started to feel like a lazy slob, and Libby and I started taking a daily walk. Before long, our walk was usually 6.5 km/day (5 if I felt lazy), and this hour and twenty minutes was a good time for listening to audiobooks. Libby went from a 10-year-old, creaky old lady dog to fit-as-a-puppy in no time, and no matter the weather, Libby would waggle that bum whenever she heard her leash (and often would stamp and snort impatiently if I made her wait much longer than nine in the morning to get going). She really didn't like other dogs and too many other walkers wouldn't recognise that, no, my dog doesn't want to be sniffed by yours, but always, Libby was well-behaved on the leash (no tugging or lagging or stopping to sniff everything). There were many humans who got to know Libby, too (especially the old man who said, "There's my buddy" every time he saw us), but she didn't feel the need to submit to their attentions either; she was on her leash and just wanted to walk; head down and marching through sun and snow.

In June of this year, Libby just kind of collapsed as we were arriving back at our house from our daily walk. It had been a hot day, so I wrote it off as heat stroke, and didn't think too much more of it. It happened again a couple of days later, and a couple of days after that, it happened sooner in our walk. Again, I assumed she was just getting older, and I figured at 14, maybe she was done with strenuous exercise.

A couple of weeks after that, Libby collapsed inside the house and couldn't get up. I couldn't be in denial any longer: I knew something was wrong. I called the vet and my voice was shakey as I said, "I'd like to have my dog looked at please." I explained the problem and the person said to me, "I'm afraid we're booked up until Saturday."

I said that I thought I had an emergency, and if they couldn't help me (after nearly 15 years of taking my money) then I would have to call around. She wished me a nice day. (I do realise that this was just a receptionist and maybe an actual vet would have made the call to squeeze me in, but it was still the experience I had.)

I googled veterinarians and chose the first one that promised "same day and emergency appointments". We were soon on the way to an appointment, and after an exam, he was thinking arthritis. That sounded reasonable to me (it's what I had been hoping to hear, actually), so I bought the medication he recommended, and also went along with ordering a blood panel. Those results were in by the end of the day, and that's when he diagnosed liver disease, assuring me that after 4 - 6 weeks on the right medication, Libby would be fine. He also noted her very low glucose and recommended I bring her in for an emergency iv treatment.

We went back with Libby the next day and were bemused that an "iv treatment" meant sticking a needle under the skin of her back (not into a vein) and forcing in a bag of Ringer's Lactate that eventually pooled down from her ribs, wobbling back and forth until her body absorbed it (we were warned not to touch the skin around the injection site in case the solution all started leaking back out). That wasn't terribly confidence-inducing, but the vet had assured me that the blood work pointed to liver disease, and with the medication in my hands, I was prepared to see what 4 - 6 weeks would bring.

Pretty soon, Libby was turned off her Urinary S/O kibble and I started buying her canned food. When she started having uncontrollable diarrhea in the middle of the night, I blamed the switch in diet, and was just grateful that she always chose the hallway tiles to relieve herself; it was gross but totally cleanable. 

Unrelated to her other issues, but just one more thing, I noticed Libby licking at her leg one day, and by the evening, I could see that it was bleeding. We wrapped it up in gauze and medical tape (happily Ken's house is filled with such medical supplies after Ella's recent accident), but in the morning, Kennedy pointed out that Libby had bled all over her duvet in the night. I figured it just needed to heal -- assuming that the licking had caused a sore -- and I rewrapped the leg and bought Libby a head cone. The next morning, Libby had bled on Kennedy's duvet again, again I washed the bedding, and since this was the day of Libby's grooming, I gave her a bath before rewrapping her again. This was when I noticed that Libby had snagged a dew claw and that's what was bleeding. I called the groomer (to see if it made more sense to see a groomer or a vet first) and the groomer thought that she could fix Libby up, and she did. 

Then a couple of weeks ago, on the Civic Holiday weekend (August 2nd), the girls went to a triple-feature drive-in, and as they were to be out 'til dawn, Dave and I took Libby to bed with us. She couldn't get comfortable, and as she paced around the bed, I could sense her wobbling at the edge, so I put her on the floor. I was vaguely aware that she was circling around the room, but I eventually got to sleep. At some point, Dave and I were awoken by Libby scream-barking and she started racing around in circles; running into the walls and furniture. Dave dove onto the floor and he grabbed Libby, trying to calm her down. 

"What is it Libby? What is it?" he pleaded and I asked him if he thought she had gone blind or something; that was the only thing that I could think of that might have scared her so badly. Dave was nearly crying as he brought Libby back to bed, and this time, she settled down and went to sleep. In the morning, she was fine.

And still, I was waiting for that magical 4 - 6 weeks until improvement; the blood work numbers couldn't lie, right? This was definitely liver disease and she was getting the right medicine/ .7 mL/ twice daily.

Last week, Libby had one of those scream-barking episodes in the middle of the day, and I panicked as I saw her tearing around the house, smashing into the walls and furniture, trying to climb through impossibly small spaces at high speed. I picked her up and soothed her, and the Libby I knew came back to me.

It hadn't quite been 4 weeks yet, and those numbers couldn't lie, right?

Two days ago, Libby had a full-on classic seizure just as Kennedy was coming in the door from work. Libby was laying on her side beside me, her legs were pawing through the air, her mouth was chomping side to side -- looking as though she was barking although she was making no sound -- and drool was building into a ectomplasmic pool on her beard. It lasted only a minute, and as Kennedy was trying to soothe her, she said, "What's that splashing me?" We looked, and Libby had emptied her bladder all over the couch. With a bit more soothing, Libby was back to normal; the only evidence a bit of blood on her mouth from a presumably bitten tongue.

It was then that I googled "dog seizures" and learned that her scream-barking/running around blindly were simply another form of seizure. That night, Libby had a rather noisy and frightening freak out that pulled me and Dave from our bed, and yesterday morning I wanted a  second opinion. My dilemma was: Do I call her original vet and take a chance that they would see me the same day? Or go to the new vet who had underwhelmed me with his care? In the end, I chose the brand new Animal Hospital (based on a recommendation from a friend) and from the minute I entered that bustling and professional-looking practise, I felt reassured that I was going to get some answers. And it was never liver disease.

Libby was such a good dog.

We are grateful that we had a new diagnosis before Libby's last seizure; it was terminal before she showed her first symptoms and we couldn't have done anything different (I am also relieved that even the new vet, looking at the blood work, had immediately ruled out cancer; this tumour wasn't obvious from the information at hand). We really did want to have that one last good day with Libby, but we can't deny that she gave us thousands of good days already. I'm feeling very sad for myself right now, but not for the full and happy life that Libby led. For a dog that, to be clear, was not his dog, Libby was always very special to Dave, and I am so appreciative that he did the difficult job of seeing her off when I couldn't do it. Mallory was affected in her own way -- making jokes about avoiding watching Marley and Me through her tears as we waited in the car -- and although Libby rarely slept with her and only sometimes chose her to cuddle up with on the couch, Mal doesn't remember a time in her life before Libby was around, and that leaves a hole. It's probably hardest on Kennedy: I don't think she was exaggerating the other day when she said Libby is her best friend; I wasn't exaggerating when I replied that she's my best friend, too. I honestly thought we'd have three or four more happy years together, but I remain thankful for the nearly fifteen years we did share.

Just such a good dog.

Arthur & George

The first sight which I ever had of Mr George Edalji was enough in itself to both convince me of the extreme improbability of his being guilty of the crime for which he was condemned, and to suggest some at least of the reasons which had led to his being suspected.

I went into reading Arthur & George knowing nothing about it – I picked it up because it was a Man Booker nominee in 2005 and  I remember really enjoying author Julian Barnes' Man Booker winning title The Sense of an Ending from 2011 – and I would recommend my total ignorance to any other potential reader (and will attempt to be spoiler-free). 

The book starts interestingly: with the first memories of two alternating little boys, and as they grow and go to school and then set out into the world, we learn that they are opposite sorts of characters. Arthur is adventurous and athletic, a popular student and beloved son, born into a good British family that has fallen into genteel poverty. George, the son of a vicar, is controlled and withdrawn, accustomed to loneliness and the bullying of his peers who repeatedly tell him, “You're not a right sort”, despite George having been raised as a proud and patriotic Englishman. It took me nearly the entire first section of this book to start realising that I had been misdirected a bit, that things weren't exactly as they seemed, and it was with wonder that I eventually discovered that this is actually a true story; that Arthur and George were historical figures whose story, told here, was huge news in Edwardian England.

And for a true story, this one is filled with irony: The lawyer who trusts the law completely and is utterly failed by it; indeed, George is an expert on railway law who finds himself railroaded. Whereas Arthur was a boy who grew up on tales of chivalry, but who initially declined a knighthood; he is a failed ophthalmologist who used his knowledge of the eye to attempt the reputational rehabilitation of an innocent man; he values a chaste passion and is unwittingly lectured on the psychocriminal effects of repressing sexual urges. For overall plot, is there anything more uncomfortable than watching a terrible injustice happen to an innocent man? Most especially when the story is true?

The writing in Arthur & George perfectly captures the formality of its era and I was often struck by the lovely effect of passages like the following:

The mystery of the victim: something was now changed in his way of thinking. He continued to shoot ducks from the snowy sky, and felt pride in his marksmanship; yet beyond this lay a feeling he could grasp at yet not contain. Every bird you downed bore pebbles in its gizzard from a land the maps ignored.

And there were very many funny bits, as when Arthur was courting Touie, taking her around sight-seeing:

Miss Louisa Hawkins had not realised that courtship – if this was what it was – could be so strenuous, or so resemble tourism.

The first two-thirds of this book blew me away, but then it sort of petered out. Once all the legal wrangles and detective work was finished, the energy was lost from the plot, and although I appreciate that life went on for these two characters, I don't know if it was necessary to follow them to the end of these lives. The amount of research that Barnes put into this project is incredible, but it was his own art that brought both Arthur and George to full and fleshy life. It's this art that elevates a trailing-off plot to a four star read.

Tunesday : 1985/Nineteen Somethin'

After finishing Ready Player One this week, I thought I'd leave the more or less chronological order of my Tunesday songs to make a general post about nostalgia and what lingers after all these years. In order to do that, I'm going to put up two songs that define slightly different times. For me, I've chosen 1985, and for Dave, Nineteen Somethin'.

1985

(Scherr, Mitchell / Allen, John) Performed by Bowling for Soup

Woohoo
Woohoo

Debbie just hit the wall
She never had it all
One Prozac a day
Husbands a CPA
Her dreams went out the door
When she turned twenty four
Only been with one man
What happened to her plan?

She was gonna be an actress
She was gonna be a star
She was gonna shake her ass
On the hood of White Snake's car
Her yellow SUV, is now the enemy
Looks at her average life
And nothing has been alright

Since Bruce Springsteen, Madonna
Way before Nirvana
There was U2 and Blondie
And music still on M-T-V
Her two kids in high school
They tell her that she's uncool
'Cause she's still preoccupied
With 19, 19, 1985
Woohoo
(1985)
Woohoo

She's seen all the classics
She knows every line
Breakfast Club, Pretty In Pink
Even Saint Elmo's Fire
She rocked out to Wham!
Not a big Limp Bizkit fan
Thought she'd get a hand
On a member of Duran Duran

Where's the mini-skirt made of snake skin
And who's the other guy singing in Van Halen
When did reality become T.V.
What ever happened to sitcoms, game shows
(On the radio was)

Bruce Springsteen, Madonna
Way before Nirvana
There was U2 and Blondie
And music still on M-T-V
Her two kids in high school
They tell her that she's uncool
'Cause she's still preoccupied
With 19, 19, 1985
Woohoo

She hates time make it stop
When did Motley Crue become classic rock?
And when did Ozzy become an actor?
Please make this
Stop! Stop! Stop!
And bring back

Springsteen, Madonna
Way before Nirvana
There was U2 and Blondie
And music still on M-T-V
Her two kids in high school
They tell her that she's uncool
'Cause she's still preoccupied
1985

Bruce Springsteen, Madonna
Way before Nirvana
There was U2 and Blondie
And music still on M-T-V
Her two kids in high school
They tell her that she's uncool

But she's still preoccupied
With 19, 19, 1985

1985 was the year that I graduated from high school, so it totally feeds my tendency towards magical thinking to have had a hit song released about such a seminal year in my life. The pop culture references were all there for me in this song (I totally rocked out to Wham!, was not a big Limp Bizkit fan...) and it was very cool for me to be able to turn it up (on the radio of my minivan no less) and have my girls sing along with me. It must have been very cool for them, a few years later, to finally both be in high school themselves and sing out the line, "Her two kids in high school, they tell her that she's uncool" (you're uncool Mom! Uncool!). That's just the way it goes; the circle of life.

On the other hand, I heard the following song on Mallory's country music station for the first time a few weeks ago (even though it was apparently a huge hit when it came out), and after I sent the video to Dave, he agreed it could be his theme song:    

Nineteen Somethin'

(Lee, David/Du Bois, Chris) Performed by Mark Wills

Saw Star Wars at least eight times
Had the Pac-Man pattern memorized
And I've seen the stuff they put inside
Stretch Armstrong (yeah)
I was Roger Staubach in my backyard
Had a shoebox full of baseball cards
And a couple of Evil Knievel scars
On my right arm
I was a kid when Elvis died
And my momma cried

It was nineteen seventy somethin'
And the world that I grew up in
Farrah Fawcett hairdo days
Bell bottoms and eight track tapes
Lookin' back now I can see me
Oh man, did I look cheesy
But I wouldn't trade those days for nothin'
Oh it was nineteen seventy-somethin'

It was the dawning of a new decade
We got our first microwave
Dad broke down and
Finally shaved them old sideburns off
I took the stickers off of my Rubik's Cube
Watched M-TV all afternoon
My first love was Daisy Duke
And them cut-off jeans
Space Shuttle fell out of the sky
And the whole world cried

It was nineteen eighty-somethin'
And the world that I grew up in
Skatin' rinks and black Trans-Ams
Big hair and parachute pants
And lookin' back now I can see me
Oh man, did I look cheesy
I wouldn't trade those days for nothin'
Oh it was nineteen eighty-somethin'

Now I've got a mortgage and an SUV
But all this responsibility
Makes me wish
Sometimes

That it was nineteen eighty-something
And the world that I grew up in
Skatin' rinks and black Trans-Ams
Big hair and parachute pants
And lookin' back now I can see me
Oh man, did I look cheesy
I wouldn't trade those days for nothin'
Oh it was nineteen eighty-something
Nineteen seventy-something
Oh, it was nineteen somethin'

That's Dave up there, of course, in the Elvis jumpsuit, beside his 1974 Dodge Dart with its custom plates that read: 70S GUY. Because that's who he is -- a 70s guy through and through -- and even though he's only two years older than I am, he identifies way more with the 70s than with the 80s (but it's pretty cool that the Mark Wills song covers both decades for him). Dave remembers the first moon landing (while I was only a toddler at the time), he recently cajoled Kennedy and me into watching both Smokey and the Bandit and Every Which Way But Loose with him (and, my gawd, those movies don't hold up, as much as he insists that he still thinks they're fun), and he actually has Billy Don't be a Hero on his ipod (I would love to see what Dave would come up with for his own Tunesday reminiscences, but on the other hand, he kind of lives it every day). 

Dave is way more nostalgic than I am -- I would even say he's way more sentimental, which is slightly different -- and that's not a bad thing; you gotta love a guy who thinks he grew up at the right time. I, on the other hand, thought at the time that the 80s were a cultural wasteland: the music wasn't as cool as old 70s rock; movies were cheesy; fashion was bizarre. That's what made Ready Player One such a strange read for me: you can cram in all these old references, but that still doesn't make them cool. And yet...Bowling for Soup got it just right: Once the 80s are compared to what came after -- when did reality become TV, and who let Ozzy Osborne lead the trend? -- it's easy to recognise what was fun and good about my own experiences. Where is my miniskirt made of snakeskin? Woohoo!

One thing that both songs have in common is the idea that the singer might want to "bring back" 1985 or "wish that it was" 1970-something, and I certainly don't think that way. I had plenty of fun as a teenager, but plenty of typical bad times too: who would want to be that powerless ever again? If I could have frozen time, it would have been when I was 23 -- the year Dave and I got married -- because I was totally free and happy and powerful; the perfect blend of enough money, lots of laughs, and no real responsibility. But if I was 23 forever, I wouldn't have my beautiful girls and all the love and laughs that taking on responsibility for them has brought me. Were I to freeze time right now -- while I still have them with me for a while longer -- who knows what I'd be missing out on? 

It's fun to hear a favourite old song on the radio -- I'm the first to turn it up and sing out loud -- and it's also fun to hear new songs that remind us of the past, but I'm all about looking forward. No one likes an Uncle Rico.