Don't panic. Just testing something out here at Mission Uncool Control. Meanwhile, enjoy this photo of Dinger trying to decide if he's really an IPA dog.
 |
| If it was good enough for Snoopy ... |
Ralph Kiner never met the dog I named after him. It probably wasn’t a loss for either of them but it saddens me.
Twice in my life, I crossed paths with the baseball Hall of Famer, who died yesterday at the age of 91.
Just a quickie to note Murphy had an excellent appointment with Vet No. 3 yesterday. She thinks his nasal fungal infection from hell is finally all gone, despite the still occasional snot rocket he fires with a sneeze.
She said she was also most impressed with how good his coat looks after his most recent bout with the infamous autoimmune disease that renders him bald.
Which got me looking back at some photos.
Which made me wonder how I have ever managed during this crisis not to brush him into non-existence.
Except I was walking in my kitchen at the time.
I trekked upstream to the laundry room and pushed back the door. Inky liquid dribbled over the edge of the swamp we used to call “the slop sink.”
“Just what does this have to do with your dog?” you say, inferring correctly from the headline and photo.
Well, everything.
An emergency call to the plumber and a few hundred dollars later …
defective expensive needy in the health department.
So of late, I think of our first dog, Kiner.
We had Kiner, another yellow Lab, for about two years before his spoiled world of endless games of catch and pig ears was invaded by Li’l Diva’s arrival. One of the most frequently asked questions My Love and I would get about bringing up baby was not about diaper cream (Dr. Smith's), projectile vomiting (only once ... at a place of former employment – ha!) or strained peas (eeewww). It was:
A Claritin here, a Zyrtec there, Benadryl everywhere and all will be fine in a couple of weeks, so I thought.
Then the sneeze.
A quarter-size red bubble on the white tile floor.
Off to the doctor we went.
Not my doctor.
My dog’s.
All you need to know about a dog having blood come from its nose is this: It is never good.
Good news today – no disasters, thefts or near poisonings. Murphy even got a paws up from the doggie dermatologist.
Let’s celebrate, doggie style, with another giveaway of one of Murphy’s favorite TV shows.
The fine folks of Fox Home Video found out I have a thing for many of the original series on the USA Network, so they asked me to give one of you a 4-DVD set of White Collar: The Complete Second Season, a show about a former con man helping the FBI in New York City.
White Collar has a little bit of everything.
Sigh.
Then again when she played bad bad girl on Beverly Hills 90210.
Or later as the object of desire of The Ladies Man (a highly underrated SNL movie spinoff, mind you).
The lady is versatile.
Oh, why is White Collar Murphy’s favorite show?
Who gets to follow around Tiffani Thiessen like so.
All righty, nearly the same rules as yesterday’s Lake Compounce amusement park ticket giveaway:
One winner to be picked at random. Others will be humped by the dog.
I don’t delude myself. I know most of you come here for a grin and giggle, not to be impressed by:
However, I’m not feeling all fun and games these days. Oh, let me count the ways:
The list goes on but I’m depressing myself. Maybe I’ll detail it more online (I will most definitely give you the scoop in person if you buy me a beer because I’m just a loose-lipped harlot for the hops as you know), but as of right now I need a little happy in my life and if it can’t be me, why not one of you. Hence:
LET ME GIVE YOU STUFF!
A brilliant PR company (i.e., one that actually read my blog and put a few things together) has offered to let me give one lucky reader
4 FREE PASSES to
Lake Compounce amusement park
in Bristol, Connecticut
Lake Compounce is the oldest continuously operating amusement park in North America, having started in 1846. (I know you folks are used to my typos, but I did really type one-eight-four-six.)
It is home to Boulder Dash, which has been voted the world’s No. 1 wooden roller coaster and is liked even by the stodgy New York Times. Lake Compounce even has Connecticut’s largest water park (no, not Long Island Sound -- we have to share that with, you know, Lawn Guylanders).
The park is a gem from what I hear from friends and I’ve read online.
That’s right. I’ve never been.
Not that I didn’t want to go and give you a firsthand review.
I tried to go last week with the Things and My Love and the four free tickets the PR folks gave me to use, but 30 minutes sitting in a traffic accident on I-84 made me turn back.
And yes, you may add that to the list.
Anyway, here’s da rules:
I’ll pretend to give an extra entry if you like the “Always Home and Uncool” Facebook page, which occasionally includes bonus photos, links, bon mots and extra moanin’ and a-bitchin’ from me.
One winner will be picked at random. As will my nose.
They say dogs tend to look like their owners.
You do.
Well, maybe it’s vice versa.
In either case, Murphy, Murph, the Murphinator, Murphilicious, sometimes Murpy or just plain Murp (because the first time I ever made a name tag for you, I inadvertently forgot the “H” in your name), you do your species one better.
Your girl has a relapse of her autoimmune disease, so you – dear dog – a few weeks later, you go ahead and have a relapse of YOUR autoimmune disease.
And your re-diagnosis comes, yes, on your birthday to boot.
Now you and your girl are on some of the same meds. Again.
“You hear that, puppy?” she says snuggling her rashy face against your pocked noggin. “We’re in this together!”
E.B. White once wrote:
"A really companionable and indispensable dog
is an accident of nature.
You can't get it by breeding for it,
and you can't buy it with money.
It just happens along."
You certainly have been an accident of nature, Murp.
And we couldn’t be happier that you happened along in our lives.
Happy 5th, my four-legged friend.
Now stop licking me there!
I mean it.
Quit it!
* * *
Throw Murphy’s girl a bone. Donate to Cure JM to support our family’s efforts to make sure no children suffers from juvenile myositis diseases ever again.
a) Contemplating membership to an order of canine monks?
b) Pining for the days of Soviet rule by Mikhail Gorbachev?
c) Plotting revenge against an over-caffeinated groomer?
Actually, it’s d) suffering from a stress-related hot spot after being boarded in the animal hospital’s kennel for five days while the Uncools took on Chicago.
Ah, Chicago.
Where we helped with a Cure JM educational conference for young adults with juvenile myositis (they sent me to the store when then need more Pepsi – hey, every little bit …).
Where a team of JM family and friends raised more than $75,000 in conjunction with the Chicago Half Marathon and 5K (I sat in our team tent in Charity Village inflating and tying balloons, and definitely NOT taking hits off the helium tank then attempting to sing “Bohemian Rhapsody.”)
Where Thing 2 ran his first 5K (tying me for total 5Ks run in a lifetime):
Where I ate of the deep-dish, gazed upward at your man-made vertical beauty from a riverboat and soaked in a final nine full innings of Major League Baseball (even if it was the White Sox vs. the lowly Royals).
Where Thing 1’s doc did not freak me out about any vague discoloring of her eyelids or bone structure (and not just because I made My Love sit through this check-up for a change while I took Thing 2 out for lattes and cinnamon rolls).
But back to Murphy.
The doggie dermatologist said yesterday that he appears to be recovering well from his bout with sterile nodular pyogranuloma syndrome, which I’m renaming “OhMyGod – your dog’s face is going bald” disease because that’s pretty much what everyone says when they first see him.
STRANGER: “OhMyGod – your dog’s face is going bald!”
UNCOOL: “Yes, and if you rub your face against his, it might help you with that mustache problem, lady!”
So now we taper Murphy’s medication again while I rub ointment into his blessed little head three times a day.
And we wait again on blood results to learn about whether we can taper Thing 1’s medication.
And life has returned to normally abnormal around here again. Pretty much.
As a father of two and master of none, the rugrat-less of society occasionally seek my advice on how to best prepare for parenthood. My answer is always the same:
Stay on birth control until you have raised a dog.
Like human babies, dogs require you to drastically alter your lifestyle to meet their every need. For both species, those needs generally revolve around eating and the inevitable body functions resulting thereafter.
Gerber versus Kibble `n' Bits, buying Pampers versus renting a Rug Doctor; poe-tay-toe, puh-tah-toe.
Regardless of species, you must also attend to either's education. I don't care how easy those "Hooked on Fetch-onics" or "Puppy Einstein" videos make it look, it takes considerable time and patience to teach a dog essential life skills such as, well, when and where to go potty. Then come the important moral lessons about right (chew on this squeaky toy!) and wrong (don't chew my CD collection -- NOOOOO, not my Michael Buble!!!).
Even if you have a doctorate in teaching, you will still want to puppy-proof your home. This includes moving chemicals to a place out of reach, gating staircases and -- most importantly -- storing your dirty laundry in a locked closet. The last is for your protection, not your pup's. You seriously don't want Fido prancing around in front of company wearing a bandana fashioned from a pair of your least attractive tighty-whities.
Trust me.
Puppy-rearing sound like an expressway to a stomach ulcer? At times, yes, but here's the catch. While some children may never stop giving you agita (hi, Mom!), many dogs do.
With good guidance, lots of love and daily exercise (because a tired puppy is a good puppy, as a professional trainer once told me), dogs go through their wild and crazy stage in a fraction of the time real children do. In addition, canines seem much better at realizing the advantage of being good to those who bring them treats and scratch them behind the ears. Having been a teenager once and having one child ensconced in tweenhood, I can vouch that we humans aren't quite that quick on the draw.
I'm not saying post-puppyhood is a cakewalk. For example, our family has raised two Labrador retrievers over the years. While these vacuum cleaners of the canine world are great for mopping up floors or pre-rinsing plates after mealtime, for their health you never want to give them access to an uncovered garbage can or a park carpeted with Canada goose poop. For your sake, you also never want them to lick you after either experience.
Finally, researchers have found that having a dog -- unlike having teenagers -- appears to offer owners health benefits. These include lower blood pressure, improved cholesterol and triglycerides levels, decreased risk of developing heart disease or other cardiovascular problems, and a better ability to cope with stress. Some of these come from the strong bond and unconditional love that develops between owner and dog; others are a result of you assisting Rover with his regular exercise through walking, running or playing "come back here with that, you mangy mutt!"
The bottom line: Science shows owning a dog contributes to your continued enjoyment of beer and cheese.
Let's see your kid do that for you.
* * *
I wanted to end this by embedding the video for “Bitch School” by Spinal Tap, but UMG prevents doing that. Instead click the song title for the short version or the band name for the long version.
I’ve just mopped up urine in the foyer for the second time this morning. Dusty containers of tile and grout sealer, unopened and mocking, sit just behind the hall closet door.
Now, on to clean the couch cushions. Even in his urgency, Murphy followed his ancient instincts to lift his hind leg, high and proud, like he still holds his noble head on days the medication doesn’t leave him stretched sideways seeking the cooling comfort of the marble floor. You have your dignity, boy, even in the moments I know the shame drapes your shoulders like an anchor chain.
“That’s normal,” the veterinarian had warned. The steroids will makes him want to drink more and that will make him go more often. “Even if he hasn’t had one in years, he might start having accidents,” she said.
I’m hoping that’s not the only part of her prognosis that is right.
* * *
Let’s rewind.
It’s a June morning. Murphy is violently rotating his head back and forth like the Things do when I have the audacity to place a vegetable that is not a raw sliced baby carrot on their plates.
“I thought Murphy was sleeping in your room last night?” I say, turning to Thing 1 over breakfast.
“He was,” she says, “but he started shaking his head and rubbing his face on the bed and all over the floor.”
“Better than scooting his butt all over your sleeping face ...”
“Dad-deeee!!”
“So you let him downstairs?”
“Yep,” she says. On cue, Murphy pushes the side of his snout across the rug, his rump up while his hind legs perform a spastic box waltz around the dining room table.
Later, Murphy rolls on his back, eyes closed and paws up. He’s telling me, as he does too often, to stop staring blankly at the computer screen and give affection where it will be handsomely returned.
My hand reaches for his barrel chest and I notice marbled black lines around his mouth. I get him to sit up so I can take a better look.
His fur is thinning out along the folds around his mouth, and in a subtle patchwork all around his nose and eyes.
* * *
Our vet has vainly scraped the lesions that have recently ballooned on Murphy’s head in six different spots, abrading them until his blood seeps out. Her microscopes and mystery machines have found nothing. She sends us, via the winding backcountry roads to the north, to a dog dermatologist over the state line.
This is the animal hospital to the stars. Glenn Close calls in with a question while I’m talking to the receptionist. “Oh, Chevy Chase, Joe Giradi, they all bring their pets here,” the woman tells me. “Luckily, they just usually send them in with a housekeeper or something or else there would be a commotion.”
I imagine Chevy Chase bumbling through the automatic doors. He stops, takes a hard look at Murphy, and his eyes bug. He looks at me and calmy says: “I'm gonna need some pliers, and a set of 30-weight ball bearings. It's all ball bearings nowadays.”
Instead, the docs do biopsies, leaving three Frankensteinian stitches on Murphy’s face and a foppish blue Victorian collar around his neck. He’s the picture of pathetic.
And we wait.
A week later, I hang up my cell phone with a snap, then flip it back open and speed dial My Love.
“Hey, hun,” I say. “Looks like we have a daughter AND a dog with an autoimmune disease.”
* * *
You won’t find much on the Internet about sterile nodular pyogranuloma syndrome. From what we we’ve been told, it’s treatable if not curable. It just takes steroids plus time and patience in dealing with their side effects.
The scars are not overtly noticeable on Murphy’s face these days, six weeks since it all started, and his coat is a bit mottled but smoothing out. Missing fur notches the edges of his ears; it reminds me of the worn patches that decorated the ears of the stuffed rabbit I kept close to me at all hours as a little boy.
The neighborhood dogs he loved to romp with he barely acknowledges now; he’s either too tired or too embarrassed.
Yet there are a few flashes of his old self: chasing down a fly ball during my Wiffle ball games with Thing 2, following me every where I go in and out of the house, barking a good second before a stranger rings the front door.
Time and patience.
I’ll try to have the latter, dog, if you can promise me you will have the former.
+ + +
THING 1 STILL NEEDS YOUR VOTE
Our effort to win a $250,000 Pepsi Refresh Grant to pay for research to find a cure for juvenile myositis, the autoimmune disease Thing 1 has been battling for almost 8 years, isn’t over even though we didn’t win last month.
We finished 12th, high enough to qualify for a second go at the prize this month. After one day of voting we are fourth.
FRCKIN’ FOURTH, PEOPLE!
We need only to finish second to win the grant.
We –- me, My Love, the Things, even Murphy -- need vote every day this month. Go to the Make Juvenile Myositis a Memory application, click the "Vote for this Idea" then either vote by using your Facebook sign-in or creating a unique sign-in based on a valid e-mail address.
You can place a second vote every day by texting 100850 to
Pepsi (73774).
If Cure JM wins, every cent of that $250,000 funds research studies or pays the doctors and scientists who help children with juvenile myositis at "JM Centers of Excellence" the foundation has help set up in Chicago and Washington, D.C.
Blog, Tweet, Facebook, grab a widget (like the one I have at the top right of my home page) -- every little bit helps to get the word out. And vote!
Here is the widget code:
<iframe src="http://www.refresheverything.com/widget/?i=5cc97f04-a2e5-102d-b2ee-0019b9b9e205&w=250&mc=333333&mt=Thing%201%20needs%20your%20support%20every%20day!%21" width="250" height="255" scrolling='no' frameborder='0'></iframe>
My Love has been trying to persuade me to take up jogging since shortly after we first met which, I feel compelled to point out, was at a keg party.
In the 17 years we've know each other since, she's run marathons in Honolulu, Chicago, Washington, D.C., and New York City and half marathons elsewhere. To me, these are all certifiable acts of insanity or, at the very least, signs she needs a more stimulating and purposeful hobby. Re-grouting bathroom tile, for example, also has a clear starting and ending point, offers great emotional and physical satisfaction upon completion and results in very similar aches and pains in the lower extremities.
I have tried jogging before. My Love and some co-workers conned me into running a 5K many years back. After only a few practice runs, it felt as though John Daly had lined a tee shot directly into the side of my left knee. I eventually ran the race, but my knee stayed cranky for months afterward and that's where my running career hit the wall.
(This is the point when whenever I tell this story that My Love shakes her head and calls me something endearing like "wuss." Running, it is clear, does not build one's empathy toward the lame.)
Sometime early last year, though, I found myself forced into an occasional run that for once had nothing to do about the urgency to reach an unoccupied bathroom.
I blame our dog, Murphy.
While on our walks, our 3-year-old Labrador retriever, sometimes decides he'd rather be going in a different direction if not going at all. When these moments hit, he simply locks all four legs in "park" or just lies down all together. Since modern dog training methods frown on yanking a dog into mobility and physically lifting Murphy, who weighs about 75 pounds, offers only a solution for the literal short haul, an alternative had to be found.
This is when I'd take a treat, hold it inches from his snout then pull it back while uttering the words I never thought I'd say aloud, with any sense of enthusiasm, to man or beast:
"OK -- let's go for a run!"
These were short burst semi-sprints: a few dozen feet to maybe a few dozen yards at a time. During the winter, when the golf course by our neighborhood lay deserted except for northern winds and rotting snow, Murphy's leash would be detached and we'd run the odd fairway or two.
When I mentioned this to My Love, her face brightened like a child on Christmas morning. I told her not to get carried away by this. I said it again after my subsequent decision to purchase a pair of running shoes for it could just be a passing phase like that time I was fascinated by mutton chop sideburns.
Spring, summer and fall went by without anything more than my occasional run to jumpstart the pup. Then three weeks ago, in the dead of New England winter, I did it. I hopped onto our treadmill in the toasty basement and put in a little more than a mile.
Twice.
I did it again last week.
Once I even did a mile and a half, picking up the pace so it was less of a brisk walk and more of a vague approximation of an ungainly trot.
I can't say I loved it, but I definitely didn't loathe it, either.
Hallelujah! I've achieved indifference!
That's the same as an endorphin high, right?
Drivers -- you are on notice. 
