Even though every day at my house is Dog Day, I figured I hadn’t posted a picture of Duncan in a while. Here he is, the Devil!
Even though every day at my house is Dog Day, I figured I hadn’t posted a picture of Duncan in a while. Here he is, the Devil!
With an artist brother and a sister-in-law, you’d think I’d be more involved in the art world. Sadly, I’m not.
I used to be more of a gallery girl, loved nothing more than spending time in any one of the wonderful museums and galleries near where I lived or worked. And the galleries I got to visit while living in or traveling to Europe could fill a book. Still, going to a museum with either Fred or my sister-in-law, with someone who knows a lot about art, well, it is a wonderful treat.
But with my Crohn’s disease as active as it is these days, I don’t go very often.
For anybody without access to art, though, I recommend following my blogging buddy Mark, of Exile on Pain Street . He works in NYC and frequents museums, galleries and auctions and frequently writes about it on his blog. Mark does it with wit and without the snobbishness that usually accompanies folks who talk about art.
But nobody posts about art quite like I do. Or about art theft, because that’s really what this post is all about. Art theft pure and simple.
The international art heist I’m talking about occurred in Spain, just outside Madrid. I’m pretty sure it involved neither Audrey nor Peter. Nor, probably, would the stolen object ever find its way into the Louvre.
Still, if you know anything about art, the beauty of an object is all in the eye of the beholder. It may also be dependent on the species. Or on the leash holder.
Torrelodones, a town near Madrid, paid 2,400 euros ($2,726; £1,885) for this sculpture:
The article I read says:
The three-metre high inflatable bought as part of a campaign to encourage pet-lovers to pick up after their dogs went missing, El Pais newspaper reports. The bizarre inflatable disappeared after it had been packed away in its carry-case and the police are now on the trail of the 30 kilogramme dog poop, town officials say.
Speaking to the ABC newspaper, town councillor Angel Guirao said staff were shocked and perplexed by the theft, and a replacement excrement was already on order because “we know that the campaign has been a great success”.
I wish they’d asked me. I could have provided plenty of models for this piece of art.
Don’t hesitate to ask me anything about art. Or poop.
Have you heard the delightful news? Dr. Heimlich, of Heimlich Maneuver fame, got his first chance to try out his, ummm, thing on a real, live, choking person.
Dr Heimlich is 96 and living in an assisted living facility in Cincinnati. On Monday he was sitting at lunch next to a new resident, Patty Ris, 87, who started choking on a pre-Memorial Day burger. So Dr. Heimlich did the Heimlich maneuver on her, and likely saved her life! He had never before done that sort of Heimlich on an actual choking person before. Here’s a link to the story.
Cudos, Dr. Heimlich. You’ve saved many, many people over the 50 years since we’ve been using the Heimlich. And a personal thanks from me.
Never one to pass up an opportunity, I thought I’d use this news story to retell a Goliath story. Many of my newer readers haven’t read about my 120 lb alcoholic psycho dog, so here’s your opportunity. Older readers don’t need to continue. There will, however, be a quiz.
Normally, I am the best person to have around in a crisis.
I keep my head. I think the problem through. I react intelligently, organize other helpful responders and do what needs to be done. Yes, that’s just the sort of person I am in real life.
Generally, I also manage to keep a running humorous commentary which is invaluable to the hoards of folks standing around doing the wrong thing at the wrong time. Because, let’s face it. Not everyone handles stressful situations without becoming certifiably stupid.
Of course every rule needs an exception, and this story is no exception to the exception requirement.
* * *
It was just after John and I bought a house for Goliath because nobody would rent to a young couple with a gigantic dog.
We were incredibly lucky in buying our first house. It was a tiny split level cape cod type that defied description. But it was just right for newlyweds. The whole inside had been redone – we bought it from a contractor who’d lived there. The kitchen was new, the paint unmarked. Everything was bright and clean. The coral colored carpeting was newly installed and didn’t have a single blemish on it.
It had been a long stressful day at work for me, so after John and I walked Goliath and had dinner, I decided to take a long, hot, relaxing bath. The one bathroom was on the “second floor” which was four steps up from the living room. As it turns out, it was my last relaxing bath. Ever.
So I wasn’t far when John announced from the living room below
“Uh, Lease? We have a problem.”
John was fairly calm, actually. Of course that would change.
“What’s the problem?” I said. The water was still warm and I was just starting to wash away the day.
“The red ball is stuck in Goliath’s mouth.”
Shit! I thought as I got out of the tub and grabbed my robe. Why couldn’t he just pull the damn ball out and let me have my bath? I was a tad annoyed at my new husband at that moment.
I went down the two steps to find John holding Goliath steady, calming him down, even though Goliath was relatively calm.
Goliath turned towards me and I immediately saw what John was talking about.
Goliath’s favorite tease-toy, a hard red rubber ball with a bell inside, was there in his mouth. But it didn’t look like any big deal. I looked at John with an I can’t believe you can’t handle this without me look. John didn’t notice.
Still available. Photo Credit
That ball really was Goliath’s favorite. He’d pick it up and taunt us when he wanted to play. He’d wag his tail ferociously, and drop the ball, catching it in his mouth long before we could grab it from him to throw it. It never hit the floor. Goliath would drop and catch, drop and catch, drop and catch. The bell inside would ring and he would wiggle his eyebrows and his back end. Come on, grab the ball, he was clearly saying. Let’s play. But of course, he would never let us.
This time, as I dripped on the new carpet and assessed the situation, I could see that Goliath had caught the ball too far back in his mouth. He couldn’t drop it again, and the ball’s size was just a little bit larger than his windpipe.
First I petted Goliath, soothed him, although he wasn’t really terribly upset. In fact, he was just a little bit confused and uncomfortable. I looked at John, astonished that he hadn’t just reached into Goliath’s huge mouth full of huge teeth, and pulled out the ball.
So I did. Or at least I did the first bit — I reached into Goliath’s mouth, firmly placed my thumb and forefinger on the ball, glancing at John to make sure he would know what to do next time. John and I watched in horror as the dog-slobbery ball slipped out of my fingers, lodging further into his mouth, right at the top of his windpipe, blocking most of his throat.
No longer able to breathe comfortably and no doubt pissed that his Mommy had made things worse for him, Goliath began to panic. He started running around the house with John and I chasing after him. Trying to catch him, trying to pry the damn ball out of his mouth.
I’ve never felt so helpless. So terrified. It was later when I felt like an idiot.
John and I tried everything we could think of – we put the stem of a wooden spoon behind the damn ball and tried to pull it out. But it didn’t budge. The spoon broke, naturally. We went through a lot of kitchen equipment that night.
Stupidly, in spite of the fact that it hadn’t worked, we kept reaching into his mouth and trying to pull the ball out. Each time we made it worse and the ball went down further. With each effort we only made it more difficult for him to breathe, and the more panicked poor Goliath got.
Goliath ran back and forth between the kitchen, the dining room and living room – the three tiny rooms of our tiny little house. John would catch him as he ran by and try something. I would catch him on the rebound and try something, anything else. Poor panicked Goliath raced across the three rooms, a half-dozen times. And then a half-dozen times again.
Once when he caught Goliath, John reached into Goliath’s mouth behind the ball. Goliath’s gag reflex, in constant action by that time, led him to clamp down on John’s right index finger.
“Shit!” John shouted as he pulled his hand away from Goliath and let him go. Blood dripped from John’s hand.
Almost immediately I caught Goliath and did exactly the same thing, only Goliath bit my left pointer finger. Then it was John’s turn again to be bitten, and Goliath got John’s left middle finger. Blood was flying all around our new house, our new carpet. We didn’t really care, though, Goliath’s panic had spread to John and me.
Goliath was going to die.
There was nothing we could do. My boy would choke to death on that goddam ball in front of us. And with each movement that Goliath made, the cheerful bell inside of it rang. Alfred Hitchcock was directing the scene.
Maybe the image of Alfred Hitchcock led me to do what I did next. Yeah, let’s just assume that that’s what happened. It is the only explanation.
I had to do something or my crazy, psychotic, beloved life-saver of a dog was going to die. I was about out of ideas, and then I remembered a show John and I had watched on TV just the night before.
I went into the kitchen and took out our largest knife, knowing I had to give my dog a tracheotomy.
At the time, I was not yet a fake medical professional. I had never done a canine tracheotomy. I did not, in fact have a clue if dogs have tracheas, and if so, just where Goliath’s might be located. I didn’t know if it would make a difference if I, ummm, otomied it.
But just the night before, Radar had done a tracheotomy on a wounded soldier on M*A*S*H. And if Radar O’Reilly, another animal lover, could do it, well, so could I. Goliath needed me.
Besides he was going to die. That reality had become crystal clear. I had to do something. Something drastic. And likely messy.
So I took the butcher knife from the kitchen to the living room to perform my surgery there, on the new carpet in the room that was now looked like a crime scene. My blood and John’s was speckled all over the living room and dining room rug and smeared onto the walls and door frames. I stood, knife in hand, and looked around the living room for a clean spot on the rug.
Also still available here where I got the photo
John had at that time caught Goliath who was still terrified, still panicked, but running out of energy and oxygen. When John saw me with the knife in my hand and heard my plan, he must have thought
“This woman can never get near my (future) children.”
But “Are you nuts?” was all I recall him saying. Perhaps there were expletives mixed in there, somewhere. Maybe.
At just that moment, Goliath keeled over.
“Oh my God,” I shouted. “He’s dead.” And I began to sob.
“No,” was all John said. But he started punching Goliath in the stomach, which did not seem like a very respectful thing to do to a dead dog. To my dead baby.
Out popped the ball. John, holding tightly to Goliath’s muzzle with his two bleeding hands, breathed into Goliath’s mouth. Magically, Goliath’s eyes opened. Goliath took a very deep breath indeed. So did we.
The Heimlich maneuver. It works on dogs.
There’s another thing I should tell you about the Heimlich maneuver. It’s best to try it before attempting a tracheotomy.
* * *
Other Goliath Stories:
“A haircut will make you feel better, Lease,” my niece, Jen, said as we wandered the mall. We were together in Florida to organize and attend my dad’s funeral. It was December, 2000.
For reasons I still don’t fully understand, my brother Bob, who was Dad’s primary caretaker at the end, was insistent.
“Dad wanted to have Bobby Darin’s Mac The Knife played at his funeral,” Bob insisted. So in the days before YouTube, Jen and I were on a mission, looking for a CD of the song. It was no easy feat, let me tell you, finding that recording.* Record stores were fading, and the stock held by the few remaining didn’t include too many hits from 1958. Jen and I were getting tired and frustrated.
But Jen was right, I looked awful.
My hair is my best feature and always has been. It’s strawberry blonde, thick and curly. It does what it wants to do, which is good, because I don’t like to fuss with it. And I always let whoever cuts my hair do what they want with it. It always looks better than when I tell the expert what to do.
Into the salon Jen and I went.
Mellie, the hairdresser I ended up with, was young — 19, she said. Her hair was black and pink, and she wore thick makeup and brass hoop earrings the size of hula hoops.
I looked at Jen skeptically.
“It’ll be fine,” she reassured me. Of course, she wasn’t getting her hair cut.
I told Mellie to trim my hair, that I was going to a funeral and needed to be presentable.
“How about …” Mellie started talking about different looks. But really, I didn’t care.
When she finished, she twirled my chair around like a playground carousel.
“There you go! You look … sassy!“
She’d given me the ugliest hairstyle I’ve ever seen — Jennifer Aniston haircut from friends. Cut short in the back, with long sides. It’s not a nice look on a human.
John and Jacob hadn’t been able to get to my Dad’s funeral — there were no flights available. John was gentle when he saw my new do, though. After all, I was grieving. A month later when I had all my hair cut off to get rid of the stupid style, John said “I was really surprised to see you with that style. You looked like Cooper [our English springer spaniel.] Long curly bits around your ears and nothing in back.”
Yesterday I had my long hair cut to chin length. When he was done, my longtime hairdresser Ric, who has never given me a bad cut, spun my chair around and proclaimed:
“Elyse, you look sassy!”
* We were, happily able to find a recording of Mack The Knife:
You know, there may be a good reason why the GOP hates science.
Sometimes it is just plain gross.
As a dog lover, my “gross-me-out-the-door” threshold is actually quite high — I can stand some pretty gross things. Only today my dog Duncan did the following:
Let’s face it. Dogs are gross.
But we humans? We are gonna give these pups a run for their, ummm, money. Their kibble. Actually, I’d like to give Duncan a run for that pair of shoes he’s always stealing, but that’s another story for another day.
Today’s story involves poop.
Remember last January when I told you guys all about how you can make big bucks with your butts? Really! I did! With this post:
Are you so rich that you’ve forgotten this already? Forgotten that I told you that you can clean up by donating your poop so that it can be transplanted into
Poor suckers infected with c difficile, particularly nasty bacteria that is really hard to get rid of.
I even provide a chart by which you can measure just how useful you’re being:
The idea behind poop transplants, in case you’ve forgotten, is that scientists believe that we’ve made our guts too clean — we have too few of the good bacteria that lead to healthy poop left inside our guts.
Today I have an update! Wait, wait! Keep your pants on!
Unfortunately, this update will not increase your revenue making opportunities. Still, scientific advances are awesome.
Because now, thanks to scientific advancements, those same poor suckers can now eat shit!
Really! I read it in the New York Times:
There is a non-profit organization called OpenBiome that is dedicated to providing poop transplants to needy patients with c difficile. And they came up with a poop pill. These poop pills will go a long way towards flushing out the bacteria.
Wait! Wait! No they don’t! They flush in good bacteria. I mean you eat poop pills with good bacteria in them. And probably some of the nasty stuff too. Like poop.
And some day, poop pills may be available for folks like me with Crohn’s Disease and other crappy GI diseases. They are testing poop transplants in folks even as we speak.
Personally, I’m keeping a close eye out on this treatment option. Because with my Crohn’s Disease, some day I might just have to say, “Hey Doc, do I have to?”
* For the record, I do not put relish on my dog’s genitals. Duncan is not a dachshund.