And I Will Sing A Lullabye...

It's been a while since my last blog entry, I know. I apologize. But you see, I've not been feeling well.


I've come to terms with the idea that I won't be defending Courtney Lane from the evil-doers on the ARC committee for much longer, but I'm not sure Mom & Dad have.

They've put up with my shenanigans for so long that they're convinced that they'll actually miss me when the time comes. Which, sad to say, will be soon.

As some of you know, after being overbred as a young girl, I was tossed aside and ended up in the Jersey City Animal Control Center and put on what amounts to their version of Death Row. It's not their fault -- idiot people, bad press and a lack of funding is a bad combination for urban Pit Bulls like me. I was literally rescued at the 11th hour by sweet, kind Erin who brought me to Mercer County. She couldn't foster me in her apartment, so I had to spend most of my time in a kennel, breaking out only on Saturdays to hang out in front of the PetSmart in Princeton, hoping someone would take me to a forever home. A lovely lady from Trenton gave me a try, but when I chewed up her magazine rack, she returned me. Really, I didn't know any better! Plus, wicker is just so dee-liscious! If she'd just taught me how to behave in a house...

Everything happens for a reason, though, because after no one else wanted me for another year or so, things started looking up. Mom & Dad were going to Best Buy to buy a computer when Mom spotted me from the car. "Let's just go to take a look", she said. She saw me outside that PetSmart sitting back in Erin's camping chair "like a little person", she said. She didn't see my droopy belly. My runny eyes. She didn't see the concrete-bed sores from the kennel. The skin condition. The cyst on my ear. She didn't even know I was a Pit Bull. I let her hold the full weight of my head in her hand, "Heavy in the hand," she said. "Produce Pete says that's how you know they're sweet", she said. She just knew, she said...

They've put up with a lot from me. The breaking-out-of-the-crate episodes, the chewing, the cancer. The peeing. The never barking. They say that my stubbornness is something they'll miss, too. I've been stubborn since the beginning. Hearing but not listening is a trick I learned from my pals in the kennel. It's the posture you need to take "on the inside", but it doesn't usually help us if, and when, we get out. I was lucky enough to find maybe the only two people in New Jersey who would accept me for me...

I must admit, I've been given a good life. Fancy food, great medical care (thank you, Drs. Bacon & Quin at Cedar Lane Animal Clinic and Dr. Clifford down at Red Bank Veterinary Hospital), beds galore, a fireplace to warm my golden slumbers. I loved to dress up and march in the Princeton Halloween Parade (and win prizes!) I met Santa at the mall. I've been to Baltimore, stayed at a fancy hotel in Cambridge and rode the "T" in Boston. Josh Hartnett gave me some lovin' down in the Village. I had my Make-A-Wish day on Coney Island where I rode the Wonder Wheel (really, you can check my YouTube Channel if you don't believe me... twenty thousand hits and counting!) I even got to meet the famous dancin' Candy Man, Uncle Belve!

Great friends along the way, too... The Renegades: Dr. T & RR, Jim & Kathy, James, Jacques, Cliff, the Smiths, The Rosenthal - Hubleys, and especially my best buddy Lenny! (By the way, thanks, everyone, for all the pizza crusts!) Moe & John Shepancy (I still blame that smell we smelled on the NJ Turnpike -- on the NJ Turnpike!), my favorite neuroscientist and fellow Chowhound - Marnie Phillips, Marcia Wilson (my personal portrait artist), babysitters Patty and Alan Newell (sorry about chewin' up the woodwork, guys), Frankie from Sheffield Court (I kissed a girl bulldog and I liked it... )

As you know, I'm a survivor (melanoma, surgery, radiation, experimental vaccine, lung metastases), but after almost four years... I'm afraid cancer's finally gotten the best of me. I'm stubborn, but no matter how much I fight -- and I've fought -- it's time to say goodnight. I'm comfortable and in no pain. No worries. Really.

I do need to set the record straight, though. I know I just said that cancer had gotten the best of me -- but I was wrong.

That part -- the best of me, I have given to Mom & Dad...

Once there was a way to get back homeward

Once there was a way to get back home

Sleep pretty darling do not cry

And I will sing a lullabye.

Golden slumbers fill your eyes

Smiles awake you when you rise

Sleep pretty darling do not cry

And I will sing a lullabye...

Love That Dirty Water!

I'd decided that I needed a break from my hectic schedule and figured I'd tag along with my parents on their annual trek to Boston and Cape Cod in August.

Our first stop was M.I.T. where we picked up Marnie at work. She was happy to see us, sure, but mostly I think she was just happy to take a break from her job!

We parked the car and headed over to the North End. Joe and Rose had recently made a new ritual out of stopping for pizza at Pizzeria Regina when they first arrive in town.

Great brick oven pizza! Cold Beer! Surly (but in a nice way) waitresses! Authentic!

I wasn't allowed in to Regina's, though. But as luck would have it, there was a doggie daycare place right across the street -- The Dogfather.

This great place let me stay while Marnie, Rose and Joe had lunch. I was a little nervous at first -- all those free-range dogs! -- but it turned out to be just fine. Karen, the owner said she usually doesn't take dogs she hasn't pre-screened, but she made an exception for me! Everyone was very nice. Although, I'm not quite sure why the Pug was giving me the stink eye...

Can't say "thanks" enough to everyone at this really wonderful place. I'm recommending it to all my friends!

Marnie had to go back to work, so we dropped her back at the lab and headed for the hotel.

Their hotel, The Marlowe in Cambridge, is dog-friendly. They put out a bowl of treats and fresh water for you when you arrive and even put your name on the weiner-dog board out front.

They have free wine in the lounge at 4 o'clock, but I think that's just for the humans. (I know I didn't get any).

The room was nice, especially the leopard patterned carpet...

After a short nap, I was up for a little sightseeing.

We hopped the "T" and headed for Harvard Square...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2PYLxv59Y-Ytube.com/watch?v=2PYLxv59Y-Y

Hung out in the station for a photo op...

Video of me at the station...

Waited outside the Coop.

Got a good picture of the landmark Rosebud Diner...


Re-created the Abbey Road album cover on the 40th anniversary of the photo...

and crashed...

After a long nap back at the Marlowe, we met up with Marnie at the Cambridge Brewery Co. for dinner. They have outdoor seating and I was allowed to join in. This place has a pretty large patio area and even larger beers. Which may explain the following actual conversation my dad had with a woman in the restaurant...

Woman: (Upon catching sight of me, resplendent in my tie-died "Pits-for-Peace" t-shirt) "Oh, how lovely! What is it?"

Dad: "She's a Pit Bull." Adding (embarrassing me as usual), "But don't tell her that."

Woman: "A Pit Bull? Ohhhhh. It makes a lot more sense that she'd be allowed here, then."

Dad: (Puzzled) Huh?

Woman: "I thought she was a goat!"

Did I mention how big the beers were at this place?

This entry's getting long. More to come.

On to the Cape!

Wake Me When It's Over

Seriously, I think my Dad's nervousness about the election is getting to me. I'm practically unable to get my full 23 hours of sleep most days, what with all the hand-wringing and the constant yelling at the T.V.

I do my best to try, though.

They say that dogs dream in black & white. I know that I do.

And for all you blogger-types out there...

"Mermaid In My Backyard", by Roxanne Murtagh

Random thoughts from Courtney Lane…

I’m in the middle of watching the final of the three Presidential debates and I realize that I may have made a mistake by deciding to throw back a Kamikaze every time John McCain calls us his "his friends". Time will tell if I also made an error by pledging to down the whole pitcher if he says "my fellow prisoners" again…

Being female is the only thing that’s adequately prepared me for the way the Mets keep disappointing me…

I feel I have enough foreign policy experience to be Vice President because I can watch Cricket matches while sunning myself on our new patio…

Is it wrong to love your Oncologist?

Congratulations MoJo Shepancy! (They know who they are)…

I came up with a cool, trendy name for Sarah Palin’s future grandchild – Shotgun!

The difference between a pit bull and a hockey mom? A pit bull is smart enough not to indulge their kids by allowing them to pick a sport that requires their parents to buy a freakishly large Yukon XLT just to lug all that soon-to-be-outgrown and never-used-again equipment which, by the way, is too heavy for their kids to even carry themselves. Forget this overly expensive, unbelievably time-consuming "sport" -- throw a ball, teach them to bring it back to you, give them a cookie. Problem solved.

I’m giving up on McCain and "my friends", he’s only said it twice. I’m going with "Joe the Plumber" now. I need this to end soon and twenty six shots ought to be enough to put me out of my misery.

How many Libertarians does it take to organize a rally?
(Don’t answer that… Libertarians organizing is just too obvious a premise for a joke. Sorry.)

Final thought… A dog shouldn’t talk about being put out of it’s own misery. I know, crazy, right?

Pit Bull Mauls Baby

Faithful readers of my blog also know of my YouTube videos. I always appreciate whenever you guys follow the links to check out my latest entries. It warms my heart. Really.
However, like all great media whores, I lusted after more recognition than I was getting from just my core fan base. I was completely jealous when the video I posted of my friend from Coney Island got way more "hits" than any of my videos. More than all of my videos combined, actually. I went into a funk. I followed that up with a downward spiral, first into a deep well of self-pity, followed quickly by full immersion into a steaming vat of self-loathing. (Crazy, right?)
Luckily, my therapist, "MC", got me to understand that the problem wasn’t with me at all. "Let’s be honest", she opined, "you’re as bitchin’ as you’ve always been!" "True", I thought, but what was it, then? Why "Coney Island Dog Throws Up" and not "Roxanne Goes For A Ride"?
The answer was staring me in the face. Let’s set the scene, shall we…?

INTERIOR: SEMI-FINISHED BASEMENT, CONVERTED TO BEDROOM - DAY
Disheveled twenty-something dude sits at juvenile-furniture-style desk in front of a flickering computer screen. Red Bull cans litter the room. Sun-faded Farah Fawcett poster hangs on the wall above. An obviously newly-purchased Fantastic Four Silver Surfer action figure prominently displayed so as to be seen in webcam’s viewfinder. Warrant’s "Cherry Pie" blasts from his earbuds…
WEB SURFER DUDE
(mutters to himself)
"Let’s see… "How To Build a Pipe Bomb", nah. "Reverend Wright and The White Devil", who’s that? "Roxanne Goes For A Ride", booooring… "Coney Island Dog Throws Up", yo, dude, CHECK IT OUT!"


I’d found the answer. I quickly changed some of the titles of my videos. I abandoned the cutesy "Roxanne…" theme in favor of the more crowd pleasing "Pit Bull…" motif. "Roxanne and Her Chicken" became "Pit Bull Mauls Chicken". "Roxanne and Her Baby"? You guessed it—"Pit Bull Mauls Baby"!
Some of you are groaning right about now. That’s OK. I understand. But oh, my! how the number of hits has skyrocketed! "Roxanne and Her Baby" had 50 hits, tops. "Pit Bull Mauls Baby" – over 3 THOUSAND hits and counting! I know, you think it’s wrong to mislead those poor troglodytes who while away long hours in their parents’ basements surfing for a good mauling, but screw them, baby! I’m gettin’ hits!!
It’s interesting to read some of the comments posted to the newly re-named videos, too. Guys who’d found my videos ONLY because they’d searched using "Pit Bull Mauls…" as a keyphrase are leaving comments about how wrong it is for me to eat a baby’s face…
C’mon everyone. Say it with me. I know I’m not the only one who feels this way…
Ready… One… Two… Three…
"… I LOVE THE INTERNET!!!"

(No Actual Babies Were Harmed For This Post)

ARC of the Covenant (and By-Laws)

Most everyone who’s ever met me knows that I’m really quite a sweet girl. A lot of people who don’t know me but just see me walking down the street tend to cross to the other side just to avoid me. I guess I’m OK with that. I mean, the "visual deterrent" aspect of being a pit bull does come in handy as Dad pretends to restrain me from attacking a group of young hoodlems every now and again.
If I were vicious, though, I think I’d save up my unbridled rage and unleash my 1500 lbs. per-square-inch-strong jaws in the direction of the Architectural Review Committee (ARC) and the Board of Trustees here where we live.
Mom and Dad had their hearing with the Board to appeal the decision of the ARC to enforce their arbitrary rule against window boxes. They’d been going back and forth (by letter) for quite some time, but this was their big face to face showdown. Dad prepared a presentation pointing out the inconsistencies of their rules manual (the boxes were only "prohibited" after we put them up) and used their own mission statement to point out how window boxes "enhanced amenities and preserved property values" and "contributed to making our community a more pleasant" place. Mom was optimistic about the hearing. She knew that the ARC was a misguided group of anal retentive, power-obsessed, student-council-president-wanna-be’s (think Tracy Flick in Election) but she also knew that our argument was iron clad. The presentation included pictures of our beautiful boxes (in bloom, of course) and even showed a window box on a house like ours from another Renaissance community.
Going in, Mom thought that any reasonable group of people who’d been elected to make rational, reasoned, informed decisions for the entire community would see the error of the ARC’s ways and rule in our favor. Dad, on the other hand, didn’t share her optimism. He’d been dealing with this situation for a while and hadn’t told Mom of the bad feeling he had. The storm clouds were gathering thicker every time he’d spoken to the Community Manager, Tyler. Tyler was in agreement with us but is basically just the office manager for the community. He’s also responsible for sending out the violation letters. He’d been sharing some inside dirt on the workings of the Board, about how they’re inherently lazy and how they let the ARC do all the work. In exchange, the Board basically rubber-stamps decisions made by the ARC.
I’m BORING you, right? I know. Sorry. I'll stop now...

All I know is, the hearing put my Mom in the hospital!

To be continued…

Happy Birthday To Me!

I celebrated my birthday this past Sunday, Mother's Day. It's the day Mom & Dad have "designated" as my special day. They've assigned Mother's Day to me because, as you know, they found me on the street (in front of a PetSmart, actually) and nobody knows when my real birthday is.

The adoption papers went through pretty near Mother's Day in 2002 and I was also really saggy after having pumped out a bunch of puppies, so the Mother's Day commemoration seemed a good tie-in.


This year's celebration was kinda special for me. It was about a year ago that I began showing the symptoms of what would eventually turn out to be my malignant melanoma. Untreated, I wouldn't have made it to my Dad's birthday in July of last year, statistically speaking. I knew I would, though. I just love birthdays!

I got to eat a Frosty Paws, which is an ice cream-like concoction for dogs. Yum! This video doesn't really capture the essence of my joy, but it'll do.


How old am I, you ask? Shame on you. A lady never reveals her age.


Besides, how the hell should I know!?!?

Happy St. Patty's Day!

Spring is nigh! Green pee in the mornin' ta ya!

"Today?", replied the boy. "Why, Christmas Day."

"I haven't missed it."

We've been in the new house for a year now, a year ago yesterday, actually. Mom and Dad keep saying that this year went by so fast and that they still can't believe that it's been more than two since they first got it into their heads that they'd be able to buy this place.

They hired a guy, Gerry, to paint the whole house and it was fun for me 'cause he'd bring his puppy, Duncan, with him once in a while. I liked playing with him (and with his super-cool velcro-covered soccer ball), but I didn't much care for getting blamed for his "accidents". Gerry implicated me in the "Laundry Room Incident", but I don't think Dad believed it for a minute. If my Dad was anything like his Dad, he'd have had the belt off his pants, makin' like Buddy Rich on my backside before you could say "scarred for life".

I've had quite a year, myself. I won't go over the details again in this posting, though. I know how it makes some people scared and others just sad, but it's not such a depressing tale of woe, really. I'm having a great time! Mom and Dad got a tree (my first) and I got to open a few presents early! (They weren't home and the presents weren't really for me, but, hey, if they're on the floor--they're mine!) I even have a Christmas video on YouTube...

Mom and Dad said that since I've been such a good girl, Santa will come tonight. (I hope they left his name at the guard shack). I suppose a velcro-covered soccer ball might be nice, but Santa, if you happen to read my blog, just between you and me, we already have everything we could ever want...

Merry Christmas, everyone!

What About Me?

I'd overheard Mom & Dad talking about how they were going to go away for another long weekend before the end of the summer. Actually, I snooped Mom's history on AOL and figured out that they were planning a trip to Ithaca, NY. It's a quaint college town nestled up in the foothills in the Finger Lakes region. It's got small town charm energized by a large student population from Cornell University and Ithaca College, rustic B&B's, good restaurants and BLAH,BLAH, FREAKIN' BLAH...

Hey, what about ME??!!!

Now, you all know that I'm not the complaining type, but geez, yet another jolt of radiation and right back into the kennel for another swell weekend of concrete smackin' good times! Come On!

I put my foot down and demanded that they do something for me for a change. Mom thought that it sounded like a good idea, but Dad asked "Do you think all the money I've spent on radiation and vaccines was for ME?" Since I'd finished the last of the treatments a few days before all of this came up, I felt emboldened enough to join Mom in "laughing him off". Looking back, I don't really remember anyone laughing...


When Mom asked me where I wanted to go for my special day, I could think of only one place -- Coney Island. I'd been dreaming of the day when I could relive my mispent youth by hanging out on the boardwalk, drinking beer from a can hidden in a paper bag, getting wasted and going for a ride on the Wonder Wheel. They agreed to take me, but Dad said that I couldn't have any beer because of my meds and that he would get drunk for the both of us. I clearly remember Mom NOT laughing at that.


Boy, did we have a swell time. I put on my "Pits For Peace" shirt and strolled the boardwalk for a while. A few people even stopped to take my picture! The live-human-target "Shoot The Freak" paintball attraction was closed (bummer), so we headed to Deno's Wonder Wheel Amusement Park. I went on the Bumper Cars and the Spook House Ride and tried to win some stuffed animals at the "One In Wins" stand. After we noshed a few red hots at Nathan's, we all went up for a ride on the Wonder Wheel! It's a really tall, really cool, 85+ year old Ferris Wheel, but I wasn't scared at all!
You can see for miles from up there! The wide beach and ocean, Brighton Beach, the New York Aquarium, the Cyclone roller coaster, soon to close Astroland Amusement Park, the old Parachute Drop ride... even Manhattan! Come along for the ride with me!





We were up so high up and were having so much fun that, even if for just a few spins around that big old wheel, it felt as if we were soaring far away from all the sad things we'd left on the ground. And hey, you know, from waaay up there, everything looks a million miles away...

Still Here...

Alberto Gonzales? -- gone. Tony Snow -- gone. Karl Rove -- gone. Roxanne Murtagh?-- still here!

You, the loyal readers of this blog, seem well aware of my medical condition. You know that I was diagnosed with cancer and that I've had to undergo a course of radiation treatments and vaccinations that have taken a toll on my delicate Pit Bull constitution. Could one of you PLEASE inform my parents??? They did it to me again. They once again decided to go on vacation in the middle of my health crisis and toss me into a kennel. Oh, that's right, I forgot -- "Don't get sick in the summer!" Two vacations within the month? What are they all of a sudden -- FRENCH?

This time they went on a short trip to, of all places, The Adirondack mountains. Now, I understand the 'Dacks are beautiful and all, but let's face it, when you think of my parents (not that you do, but if you had to), images of them hiking through the woods, "bagging peaks", canoeing and rock climbing don't automatically spring into view. More likely, and rightly so, this is the appropriate picture. They accepted a gracious offer from some friends to join them at a house they'd rented in "the middle of nowhere" (Dad's words). It was pointed out to them that while the house was situated on an unpaved road that was a turnoff from yet another unpaved road, it was closer to "the edge" of nowhere than the middle of it. I think Mom and Dad felt a little more at ease after hearing this -- until they were told of the recent Black Bear sightings, that is.

Here's a short video that was taken on one of the ledges on Pitchoff Mountain.

Dad went on the hike.

Mom went to the Art Fair.

Hungry after the hike (and the Art Fair), everyone gathered around the kitchen and dining room for a lot of great food... Leila's mini BLT's, Emily's appetizers and Marnie's corn salad and whole wheat fruit tarts (two separate items) were highlights. RR's breakfasts of apple pancakes, french toast and cheesy omelets were amazing -- so I'm told. So I'm told, because while they were relaxing up in the mountains, I was in North Plainfield freakin' New Jersey contracting Kennel Cough from that annoying Pomeranian in the next "suite". Suite? A quarter-inch thick, placemat-sized, artificial-lambswool-throw-rug and something called an "elimination patio" isn't exactly what I'd imagined a suite to be. ("Excuse me, Massimo, which way to the spa, per favore?)

Enough about them. As for me, I went for my last radiation treatment a couple of days after they got back. I think the combination of my being overly tired from the kennel coupled with the expected cumulative effect of the treatments left me kinda wiped out. I wasn't hungry (apparently a major cause for concern) and for reasons I won't go into, was put on a regimen of Pepto-Bismol and Immodium.

Thankfully, after a worrysome few days, I started eating again and was back to my "regular" habit of eliminating, not on the patio, but on the edge of the Bear-free woods just across the paved street in front of my very own house.

Patios, if you ask me, are best left for BBQ's and beer...

Where's The Love?

Sorry it's taken so long for me to bring you this update. I thought that the silence from this end would heighten the dramatic tension that all of you were feeling. I thought it would trigger an avalanche of well-wishing cards and letters, encouraging comments to the blog, phone calls. Increased traffic to my YouTube videos, maybe. As it turns out, I thought wrong. No calls, no cards, no comments. No extra hits. Truth be told, I was feeling pretty down about it. "Nobody cares about me." "If only I'd been born a Jack Russell Terrier!" and "Why, oh why, did I have to go and get sick in August when so many people are away on vacation?" were among my many self-pitying thoughts. I was inconsolable.

I think, in some bizarre way, Dad was just trying to cheer me up when he shared his theory that people weren't "showing me the love" because they thought I'd already... how do I put this, well, you know... been tossed my last biscuit. That's crazy! Just because people knew that I'd been diagnosed with a malignant melanoma, given a bleak prognosis and been informed that the proposed treatments were deemed both experimental and expensive and that Mom and Dad were planning a vacation immediately following a scheduled visit to the vet... oh, crap! I was beginning to see his point. I'd heard the whispers at the Dog Park about "the farm". The saying at the park was "The PeeBee's get the meds, the Freebies just get dead." The old timers would explain to the pups that owners of the PeeBees -- the purebreds -- always went the extra mile for their prized investments while the mutts, mongrels and shelter dogs -- the Freebies -- were shipped off to this farm..."upstate". Hey, it may make you may feel better to sugar coat bad news, (the worst news, really), but look, we're dogs, not gullible 4 year old kids. We know the score.

Luckily for me, though, Mom & Dad are suckers for my adorable belligerence and my weepy doe eyes and decided to treat my like a PeeBee and pull out all the stops. Currently I'm in the middle of a course of 4 targeted radiation treatments and I'm scheduled for my second vaccination Friday afternoon.

The route down to the vet's office takes us past a few farms and, I admit, they do look pretty nice. Somehow, though, they look a lot more beautiful to me... on the ride back home.

The "C" Word

In case you haven't heard by now, my test results came back from the vet last week, and just like my Dad in his first semester of freshman physics at NJIT, I got a "C". The BIG "C", actually.
The tumor on my tongue turned out to be a malignant melanoma. We were hoping for something benign, or at the very least, a somewhat less aggressive form of cancer, but alas, what was made painfully clear by that "C" in freshman physics (and by the conspicuous absence of a Jaguar convertible in Dad's Christmas stocking), is that you don't always get what you wish for.


My vet, Dr. Bacon, recommended that we consult with another practice, the Red Bank Veterinary Hospital, in Lincroft. He said that they are the most advanced facility in the state and feature, in addition to many other specialties, an oncology department. He prepared my records and my films (doctor lingo for my chest x-rays) and wrote a letter about my case for the new doc. Mom was reading the letter and I thought the worst when, right at the end, I caught her wiping a tear from her eye. It wasn't so bad, really. Well, yeah, the diagnosis was bad, and the prognosis wasn't good, but I felt a lot better when I found out that what made her cry was that Dr. Bacon ended his letter with... "Roxanne is a nice dog and deserves your best care."

He said I was a nice dog. Now I think I'm gonna cry.


We trekked down to this mecca of pet medicine the following Saturday morning. The place is amazing! It's freakin' ginormous! Automatic doors, flat screen TV's, separate exam rooms for Dentristy, Opthamology, Oncology, Allergies and Skin Disorders, Emergency, Surgery... you name it. Granite everywhere! They even have their own Pharmacy. We checked in, watched a little Animal Planet on the TV and waited to be called.


We met with the Oncologist, the tall, cute Dr. Clifford. He had a diploma on the wall from Penn, which, I'm told, is one of the foremost Veterinary Schools in the country. I liked him a lot. He didn't come across like one of those Med School dropouts who went into pet medicine because it would just be way too embarrassing to become a chiropractor. He really seemed to like animals. Well, he liked me, anyway.


My bloodwork looked good and my lungs sounded OK, though I may have a bit of a heart murmur. He recommended radiation therapy for my tongue and said that I was a good candidate for the new vaccine (yea!). Mom and Dad asked about any side effects and Dr. Clifford said I shouldn't have any problems, that I was "a tank." A tank! He then must've remembered what Dr. Bacon wrote about me because he added, smiling, "a very nice tank..."



Mom looked to set up the appointments for the treatments and Dad went to the cashier to, as he put it, "pay for some of this fine granite..."

Next entry: Under The Gun: My Drugged Up Rendezvous With Dr. McDreamy

Cat Got Your Tongue?

Well, as it tuns out, it's entirely possible that they just might have fed a piece of my tongue to one of those crazy cats at the animal clinic. Let me explain...

Some of you may know that I went in for surgery this morning to remove a growth that had appeared on the underside of my tongue. Mom & Dad (JoeAndRose to you) noticed a little bleeding coming from the right side of my mouth a couple of weeks ago, and at first thought it might be a problem tooth, or maybe some gum disease. When I finally let them take a really good look for the cause (I'm not keen on people poking around inside my mouth), they found the growth. I'll spare you the gory details, but it didn't look good, what with the blood and the puss and the... oops, sorry, no gory details.

So back to Dr. Quin at the Cedar Lane Animal Clinic we went. Avid Oh, Roxanne! readers will remember that I'd just been to the vet and had gotten a clean bill of health. Since it was a last minute appointment, we couldn't get Dr. Quin, instead getting his boss, the founder of the clinic, Dr. Bacon. (If you have any suggestions for a funny line about a vet named Bacon, feel free to pass it on.) He took a quick look (and feel) and didn't like what he saw (or felt). While Dr. Quin has an easygoing, "everything's gonna be O.K., pass the hookah", child of the '60's way about him, Dr. Bacon has a more "There's no point in me painting a rosy picture about things" way about him. While I know the information and prognosis being passed along would be the same either way, I think I definitely prefer "groovy" to "doom and gloomy".

The humans in the room decided to schedule the surgery to remove the mass and have it biopsied. The procedure would involve removing a portion of my tongue, attempting to get all of the mass and salvaging as much of the tongue as possible. Right before the surgery, Dad asked Dr. Bacon if there would be a discount if he could do everyone a favor and remove Mom's tongue, too. Dad, Dr. Bacon and I were all having a good laugh until we realized that Mom wasn't laughing so much. Not at all, really. She was shooting daggers Dad's way, and quite frankly, I was pretty glad at that moment to succumb to the heavy dose of Special K they'd shot into me. Ravers use this stuff to stay up all night? Really? Me, I was out like a freakin' light.

Dr. Bacon performed the surgery and so far,I still have most of my tongue. Only a small portion was removed, really. I hope he got it all...

I'm home now, resting up, looking forward to my Dad's birthday extravaganza. He's the only one who calls it that. Mom just calls him an idiot. I think I'll take my pain medication now...

This Is A Vacation?

I thought we were going to visit my vet Dr. Quinn again. Or maybe a trip to that crazy dog park. Either of those would have been better. Actually, I really like going to see Dr. Quinn, my vet. I'm not at all like some of those dogs who whine and shake and try to squirm their way out of the car to avoid a trip to the vet. Even if I didn't like it, I'm smart enough to know that running off into traffic is probably not the smartest idea and would just result in me being brought back to the vet, with my Mom crying and shouting things like "Oh, God!" and "My baby! Help my baby!!!" and such with me all crumpled up, half moaning and half wheezing with that pathetic look on my face like those dogs you see being dragged into the ASPCA clinic on the show Animal Precinct on Animal Planet. Dr. Quinn is a really cool, caring vet and his warm, supple hands have this soothing, calming effect on me, even when he's probing and prodding me in all my most unmentionable areas. He's not quite as good as a top flight Korean Spa sponge bath lady, but almost...
I digress. I was about to tell you about how my hopes for a fun day out for a ride in the car were dashed when I realized where we were headed. I should've been paying more attention as my parents were packing bags and bickering about the packing of the bags and about how late it was, that they were going through their semi-annual ritual known around here as Trip-a-Palooza. "Do you have the tickets?""Where's the phone?""I forgot to cancel the paper!""Is that your biggest problem right now?""What time are we supposed to leave?"... Aye, yai, yai. It's like this every time! The real issue for me is that when they go away, I get shipped off to jail. I get put in a kennel to spend my days surrounded by over-indulged, separation anxietized prima donnas who's idea of a good time is barking from the second they wake up till the moment they fall asleep, exhausted. Now, I'm not a barker. Never have been. But on occasion I have been known to let out an unexpected yelp or two. And, oh, to what effect! But these sad sacks just bark and bark, with no effect and seriously cut into my nap time. I know I shouldn't, but because I get so pissed at them, I sometimes needle them into hysteria by telling them that their families have moved to Arizona and are never coming back. "It happens all the time," I tell them. (I know it's wrong, but when I'm tired, I'm cranky. And when I'm cranky, watch out!) The place is called Best Friendsand it really isn't such a bad place, I guess. I always get back at my Mom and Dad a little by running up to the workers and following them off into the kennel without even looking back. I won't give them the satisfaction of that over-the-shoulder, "don't do this to me" forlorn look they so desperately need. They want to lock me up for the weekend, they're gonna have to suffer a little, too. Actually, it's not all that bad, really, and I always look forward to that bath I get right before they come to pick me up. Sleeping in a puddle of you own urine can be fun for a couple of days, but even a tough girl like me can appreciate coming home to her own comfy bed...

I'll fill you in on their trip... after I catch up on my sleep.