Sunday, January 30, 2005

Saturday, January 29, 2005

What is Forever in Dog Years?

As we approach the sixteenth celebration of Harrigan’s birth, certain responsibilities start clanging my subconscious bells. We’ll need pictures. And an Iams Cake. What about a party?
Obviously, for his audience, he must be presentable: clean, neat, bangs trimmed, claws clipped, glands purged. (That may sound a little dog-show-ish, but really, he feels much better after a grooming. The breeze flows through his long multihued fur as he assumes a jaunty canter. I myself feel much more streamlined after my semi-annual $14 haircut next to the Wall Street Subway entrance. Though the next morning, looking in the bathroom mirror, I admit to creeping homicidal tendencies towards the scissors-wielder. Of course, that is really transference of the more appropriate quinquagenary-phobic suicidal inevitability. But I digress.)
Anyway, this being an excuse to post a couple of really cute pictures of Harry “then” . . . so that when we see him later “now” we’ll be sufficiently moved by the grinding passage of time . . . without further dissemblance . . .

Saturday, January 22, 2005

Nose Deep

In less than a month, Harry will be celebrating his 16th birthday. I promise a big party and costumes. You’re all invited.
This morning he woke up around noon (it’s Saturday after all) and, trotting into the front yard, soon began reconnecting with his Tibetan roots, sniffing at the snow starting to fall as predicted. I shoveled once today, just to keep it from building up too much; the effect was short lived. After an evening of dire warnings on every channel and a venture into the 9 inches of stuff (Harry is just a small-medium, photos below) now we’re off to bed. Here we are in the middle of a record snow blizzard, they say, and the worst is yet to come.
I will dream of the full moon and high tide and unusual sunspot aurora. Harry will gallop across fields of white, his suddenly long wolfhound limbs splashing crystal rainbow sprays, as he allows the Irish setter of his fantasies to catch up, in exquisitely slow motion.

Nose Deep

Tibetan True

Sunday, January 09, 2005


One of Harry’s favorite nocturnal pastimes is to troll for used tissues or paper towels. These are the usual paper products you keep in the bedroom for the usual bedroom purposes: flu and allergy byproducts, whatever. It’s not exactly an attractive habit, but, after all, he’s a dog. (Cats, as we know from TV, will unreel perfectly fresh toilet paper just for the hell of it, but turn up Her collective nose at bodily output. Especially Her own.)
If Harry’s lucky, he may find an errant sneeze catcher that has fallen on the floor by the bed. But failing that, he will click clack from room to room at 3:00 A.M. trying to gain access to various wastepaper baskets and their constantly changing treasures. We have adjusted as best as possible and elevated several beyond reach. You may have wondered why our wastebaskets are conveniently at eye level; now you know.
Periodically, inevitably, he will find a reward. Then the never-off internal parental sentry wakes us to contented grunting, shredding, and swallowing sounds from somewhere in the darkness beyond the foot of the bed. We may jump to intervene, tell him he’s BAD and attempt to grab what bits remain, in the process quadrupling our heart rate. Or we may roll over.
The following day is the best part, with several trips to the front yard, first by Harry, then by one of us to pick up (whoever wins the bet, in my opinion). I am fascinated by his creativity and revel in the interesting formations of his striated fecal papier mâché. Not to dwell on it, but the tonal range and marbling are exquisite. Certainly not as colorful or garish as when he ate a bag of jellybeans, but more like the attractive wood grain in some weathered oak, twisted by the forces of nature and time (four hours or less).
I have suggested that, with this paper fixation, Harry is actually being thoughtful and neat (even catlike?), cleverly arranging to automatically wipe his ass as he shits. Of course, Laurel disagrees.

White Brick Lino

I have billions and billions of pictures of Harrigan. I even span the analog-to-digital eras during which Kodak got really nervous. Harry has done his bit to keep them profitable, from Kodacolor neg shots I used to C41 process myself, to their nifty digicam dye-sub printing kiosks. I am trying to balance the woodlewog posts between journal and photog, cloying and factual. So here are a couple of pictures that contrast his demeanor, spanning a few years on the very same linoleum tile that graced our tiny kitchen on 89th Street. I’m sure that even now, if you dig a little under the Russian landlord’s renovation that evicted us, you’ll find a shard of white brick lino. And maybe a crunchee.



Saturday, January 08, 2005

Harrigan SMS Diary

A couple years ago, Harrigan "borrowed" Laurel's cellphone, joined the wireless community on Upoc and started sending SMSes to “Harrigan Diary.” He documented some of his exploits, including getting into a package of Roach Motels and a visit from my sister’s family. Then he dropped out when no bitches holla’d back.

twoday I hmped my male persun looeys leg bkaus I luv him

tonit I went for a wok in NY but ther was nothing to eat in the gutr.

Tonite I barkd for fud but all I got was cruncheez. It sux.

Never eet litl blak plastik boxes beekaus they smel gud. They ar bad!

If you hav to pee at nite, do it in a pile of clothes, so your humans dont know!

inlaws r visiting. i luv visitrs! they smel so difrunt! not nooyork. not brukln. sum plac calld pencilvanya. wuz i born ther?

Today I peed inside the house. Then I went back to bed. The end.