Introducing "Loki"

A couple of posts ago, I relayed sad news about my parents' Westie Hobson. I am happy to write in this post, however, that my parents have rescued an orphan Westie puppy named Loki. I have been told that Loki is a bit smaller than Hobson, loves to cuddle, loves to run and play, and is a bit precocious. He seems to have brought my parents a significant amount of joy and we are happy that they were able to provide him a safe home.

Throwback Bruchi

Mom sent the picture below this morning. They grow up so fast!

Happy Birthday

Our friend Tara D. had a birthday yesterday and we are excited to celebrate it in whatever way we can. Since we don't have any pictures to post of you on the web, and since we are so far away, you will have to settle with us eating banana-chocolate chip muffins in your honor while we sing to you in disharmony!

In Memoriam, Horsey

Yesterday evening, my parents called to tell us that their Westie Hobson had died. This situation is particularly difficult for my parents and us since Hobson has been a part of so many of our family's memories. We adopted Hobson around the time that I was 15, and I remember clearly the day we brought him home: he followed me around as if I were the one who needed to show him the ropes. He since came to favor my parents, mostly because they sat with fleece blankets in the evenings. Hobson loved fleece blankets; he also loved to go for walks, chase squirrels and bunnies, attack fat cable men, get his belly scratched, launch himself at khaki panted in-laws (sorry Mike), eat cookies, chase his stuffed toys-especially his monkey, pose for mom's endless photoshoots, play with Nikki, take afternoon naps in the sunshine and lick his paws. In fact, during his lifetime you would scarcely hear me call him "Hobson," it was more likely "stoplickinghobson!"

Hobson was sensitive to our feelings, as most good dogs are. When we would cry, he would simply curl up next to us, never to leave until we had stopped. He would also share in our laughter, scolding us when the joke had not yet been made clear to him.

Although at times it did not appear so, Hobson loved our other Westie Nikki. This fact became even more clear when Nikki died two years ago. Since that time, Hobson would cry at us unexpectedly as though he were telling us that he remembered her and wanted her back. So we held him closely, knowing all the time that we wanted the same thing.

It is truly difficult to lose your pets, as I am coming to find. Somehow, they weave themselves into the interstices of your everyday life. You come to call them friend, companion, and comforter. They follow you when you walk out of the room, and you become aware of that presence only when they are no longer there. They come to hold nicknames, alter-egos, and carve distinct personalities for themselves: Hobson was horsey, hobbyhorse, little $@^#, bubby, honey, the list is endless. They are excited when you come home, they listen when you speak to them (unless you are commanding them), they warm you when you are cold, they create a lifetime of happiness and memories.

To my parents, for whom this is the hardest, Hobson loved you with an amazing abundance, and you loved him the same way. You will miss him, to be sure, but he resides with us in our memories.

Goodbye Horsey, we love you!

Giddyup!

Our nephew and two nieces dressed as their own little posse for Hallowen this year. Cowboy (and cowgirl) up!

We don't lie!

Anyone who has visited our house has witnessed the exuberance of one precocious beagle who seems eager to impress everyone by getting into (and onto) as many things as possible. Feeling truly bad for our dog's transgressions, P and I apologize and explain that most of Bruchi's day is spent sleeping on the couch, that he is really mellow most of the time. I have even been known to tell stories of Bruchi's symphonic range of snoring that often accompanies my long writing sessions during the day. Well, as they say, the proof is in the pudding. See below. Bruchi, under our Ralph Lauren quilt, konked. 11:00 am, Halloween.

Bruchi, a.k.a. the Love Bandit

Bruchi has had a range of love affairs in his short lifetime, the longest of which has been with my dad's forearm. He has gone through several stuffed ducks, a couple of couch pillows, a couple of beds, and the pattern that seems to recur is this: once I love you, I must destroy you. Because these activities tend to cost us money, time and irritation, P and I have recently attempted to break the cycle by scolding him whenever he begins to love on his, or our, new items. See, for example, the image below taken after a scolding following an attempted love session with his bed. His look to me says, "um, what's the problem exactly? AND why are you photographing this? Victorians!"