Mr. Doodle's Dog

Sat - February 2, 2008

Break Out The Fizzy Water

Grab a bottle, get in the mix.
Pour a bit and mix it up.
Hoist a glass to our favorite pup!
Gimlet Rose turns 10.

Impromptu illustration by Gimlet Rose
Where she gets her inspiration, no one knows.

Gimlet is the color.
A shade of green,
A state of mind.
A little white dog. A big black nose.
A resounding ... bark!
Triumphant
in the park.
Gimlet.
Rats tremble.
Politicians dissemble.
House is in shambles.
Toys tumble.
But Gimlet ... the color of joy,
A Springlike treat.
So tiny, so sweet ...
Gimlet, our delightful wire girl.
Happy Birthday, my sweet.
--The Doodles

Posted at 12:51 PM

Sun - December 30, 2007

The Doodle Dialogues

Why does PETA hate us?
What does PETA have against wire fox terriers, purebred dogs, companion animals, people and ... oh, you get our drift.
We take a horrified look at the world PETA wants for us, a place we'll call PETAWORLD.

Illustration by Gimlet

Nigel: OK, we lied.
Gimlet: We did?
Nigel: Yes. We're misleading everyone. We aren't exploring the positives of PETA. PETA-positive? Not us.
Gimlet: We're misleading people? You mean like PETA misleads people, so that they contribute money to "the cause"? You mean we're not coming clean with our agenda, just as PETA likes to do?
Nigel: Yes.
Gimlet: Gotcha.
Nigel: Let's look at one aspect of the PETA mission: no purebred dogs, for instance .
Gimlet: Ouch. That one hurts. We're purebreds. Several of us here at Mr. Doodles Dog are wire fox terriers. That means PETA craves our destruction.
Nigel: Yes. Yes, it does.
Gimlet: Why does PETA hate little dogs? What have we done? It makes no sense.
Nigel: I've no idea. I'm not a psychiatrist. I'm a purebred dog. And, although PETA's website casts aspersions on our health and temperament, purebred dogs are smart enough to know what PETA's really up to.
Gimlet: Wire fox terriers are bred to be independent thinkers. PETA is threatened by that?
Nigel: Apparently. Use your nose for vermin and follow the PETA guidelines for "companion animals."

From PETA:
Mixed-breed dogs are typically healthier and more even-tempered than purebred dogs, but if you’re determined, you can usually find purebred dogs at shelters.

Gimlet: Ah, yes, I see what you mean.
Nigel: Let's take a quick jaunt into a place we'll call "PETAWORLD." Suspend logic. Suspend human and canine emotion. But remember to take out your checkbook.
Here we go!
PETAWORLD has ... No purebred dog breeders of any kind. No purebred dogs. Shelter dogs are spayed and neutered. After a while, there are no more shelter dogs. There are no more companion dogs. There are just wild dogs, and it's ... Darwin Time.
Gimlet: Survival of the fittest.
Nigel: Correct. The surviving dogs run free and fend for themselves. The stronger and more aggressive dogs survive.
Gimlet: That's insane.
Nigel: That's your independent thought speaking. Purebreds also muse.
Gimlet: Muse it or lose it, Nigel. What are you musing?
Nigel: I'm imagining a world without purebred dogs, without companion animals, and the people who take care of them.
Gimlet: What's a world without companion animals and the people who love them like?
Nigel: There are rats everywhere.
Gimlet: Rats! My favorite!
Nigel: There are rats everywhere because no terriers have been bred to hunt them. No cats are free to hunt them, either. Sorry, Joe.
Gimlet: Go on.
Nigel: Franklin Roosevelt didn't have Fala to help him during World War II. Winston Churchill didn't have his poodle, Rufus.
Gimlet: I see where you're going. PETA wanted us to lose World War II.
Nigel: That's right.
Gimlet: Hmmm. And so PETAWORLD sounds like a very dangerous, grim place.
Nigel: It does. There are no Thin Man movies, by the way. Not in PETAWORLD.
Gimlet: Because Asta is one of the reasons that movie series became so popular.
Nigel: Bingo.
Gimlet: Oh, you can't use the term "Bingo" in PETAWORLD. That is derived from the song about the farmer and his dog. "Bingo was his name-o."
Nigel: Now you're catching on. In PETAWORLD, there is no farmer with a dog, and so his name can't be Bingo. In fact, there is probably no farmer, because the rats have grown to monstrous size and devour everything and everyone in their path.
Gimlet: Rats again! Let me at them!
Nigel: No. PETA believes rats have more rights than purebred dogs or companion animals, remember.
Gimlet: PETAWORLD might sound Buddhist if it weren't for their hatred of devoted purebred dogs and companion animals.
Nigel: It is a world unlike any other. It's a crazy world.
Gimlet: Like Krazy Kat ? No. No, I guess not. There are no cats in PETAWORLD.
Nigel: No cats. No tame dogs. No people with dogs. No one has pets of any kind.
Gimlet: There is no "All Creatures Great and Small." No James Thurber and "The Dog Who Bit People." There is no Eddie on "Frazier." No Asta. No Rin Tin Tin.
Nigel: No Lassie.
Gimlet: Oh!
Nigel: Timmy fell into the well ...
Gimlet: And he never came out.
Nigel: I also read a bit about Ingrid Newkirk, one of the founders and current leader of PETA.
Gimlet: And?
Nigel: We shouldn't worry too much about how people fare in PETAWORLD. You see, Ingrid Newkirk doesn't think there should be any people in the future, either.
Gimlet: Do tell. Nothing surprises me about this PETAWORLD now.
Nigel: Ingrid Newkirk would have no people in the world.

I’m not only uninterested in having children. I am opposed to having children. Having a purebred human baby is like having a purebred dog; it is nothing but vanity, human vanity. New Yorker magazine, April 23, 2003.

Gimlet: Purebreds again. She certainly has purebred on the brain. We wire fox terriers, however, have our independent thought. Should we think that PETAWORLD is anything but a grim, dour place, devoid of both companion animals and people?
Nigel: Perish the thought.
Gimlet: Sardonic.
Nigel: Perish PETAWORLD.
Gimlet: Following the logic of Ingrid Newkirk's PETAWORLD is torturous.
Nigel: It is. It's a bit like Dante's Inferno, isn't it? All those twists and turns, but you eventually wind up, or should I say down, in the place where Cerberus , the three-headed dog of the underworld, lives.
Gimlet: Is Cereberus a purebred?
Nigel: No. And that's the beauty of it. Cereberus is a three-headed dog, the product of natural selection. No breeders in PETAWORLD, remember?
Gimlet: The road to Hell is paved with contributions to PETA, then.
Nigel: My good breeding prevents me from agreeing with you.

Happy New Year, and a Wonderful 2008 from all the wire fox terriers, purebred dogs, companion animals and large black cats at Mr. Doodles Dog.

Posted at 09:46 PM

Thu - December 20, 2007

Martha Stewart Wonderland

You say shortbread.
I say: "fav'rite cookie."
You say it's Christmas.
I say "oh, goodie!"
Shortbread. Cookie.
Christmas. Oh, Goodie.
It's Gimlet in a cookie bake-off...

BABY, It's
Cole Porter
Inside

Don't have sugarplums, but we have the cocoa.
Gots the motivation, but do we have the mojo?
Confectioner's powder all over the place.
Make them in the Cuisinart. There won't be a trace.

We're baking more shortbread to fill our sleigh.
There'll be no humdrums on this day.

What's that you say?

Shortbread! Chocolate. Best cookies ever.
It will be that way till the Twelfth of Never.

On Butter! On Flour! Aforementioned sugar...
Did we mention the rolling can be a booger?
Dash of vanilla (the good kind, ok?) and a dash of salt.
The other batch disappeared. Is that our fault?

Oh, Gimlet's in the kitchen.
She's baking chocolate Falas.
Could they be for some White House gala?

Never! Santa's not stopping at Pennsylvania 1600. Not this year.
That little man has been naughty, we hear.
What else we heard? Barney's run away.
He caught himself the first taxi-sleigh.

Gimlet's in the kitchen.
She's method-baking.
She's an Alton Brownie, and she's not faking.
There's a little Stuart Davis in her rolling pin action.
Gimlet has that Daddy-O traction.
Her wooden pin glides all over that chocolate cookie dough.
The cookies are perfect, well, wouldn't you know?

Gimlet's nod to the shock of the new:
Notice the Silpats. They number two.
Both Made in France and not "in China."
As far as Gimlet's concerned, nothin' could be finer.

And now the kitchen smells like five pounds of dark chocolate fudge.
Is that good? You be the judge.
Oh, Gimlet's in the kitchen on a cool December day.
Visions from Martha above her head sway.

Sugarplums? No. As we said, we don't have them.
We have the cocoa, the butter, the action....
We have all it takes to make shortbread, my sweet.
On, Gimlet! On, Fala! On, Barney (poor soul)!
There's a fresh batch of cookies
For the Man from the Pole.

Posted at 08:33 PM

Mon - December 17, 2007

Are we nuts?

We're in fine literary form and it's the holidays.
Why not take advantage of it?
Take the haifru challenge.

Taking a nod from Jeff Houck, food writer and interactive reporter (well!) at The Tampa Tribune, we offer a twisted seasonal treat and friendly adventure.
A literary fruitcake competition gone to the dogs.

Take the haiku:
a form of Japanese poetry comprising a pattern of 5, 7 and 5 syllables in 3 lines. Use commas and hyphens at your discretion.
Take the fruitcake:
a form of cake. Use fruit and nuts at your discretion.
Take the dog.
But only for walks and rides!
You have the haiku/fruitcake, known forevermore as the
haifru.
Let's try:

Red sugar orbs cry
Out for more green gooey glaze.
Cake is left behind.

Another (this is catching!):

Not a biscuit. No.
What kind of dog would eat this?
Fruit. Nuts. Batter up!

More?

Bowl full of brown cake.
Faithful Fido shakes his head.
No! Not this! Rats, please?

Create some haifrus and you take the cake! No, not really. But you do get this badge of honor for your blog or desktop...

We are sending this along to several clever dogs, and we hope they'll pass it along to their clever dog friends.
The world, you see, is full of clever dogs, and so many of them are more than just plain nutty.

Posted at 09:49 PM

Sun - December 16, 2007

LONG AND SHORT OF IT

Chocolate shortbread cookies.
It's what's on our Yuletide training table.

Photo by Joe the Cat (who needs a new camera)
Gimlet gets all her ingredients together to make another round of her
world-famous, not-made-in-China, globally gobbled, chocolate
shortbread cookies.

Short 'n' Sweet
It's the middle of December, and as long as we can remember, it's the best time to bake cookies.
--wire fox terrier adage

The butter was waiting, unsalted in the fridge.
Cocoa in the cabinet. Use Dutch process, kids.
Confectioner's sugar, all fluffy and white.
A bit of Madagascar vanilla, to give it flight.
A dash of salt from the cabinet, and you're just about there.
Flour, flour, and more flour... that all-purpose fare.
On, Cuisinart food processor! Shake for all you're worth.
Don't forget that last bit of something ... a wee bit of mirth!
Some rolls of the pin, a few stamps of the cutter ...
Time spent in the oven... forget all the clutter.
Chocolate shortbread cookies, all over your plate.
If we just smiled, it was something we ate.
--Gimlet Rose

Ritual, thy name is cookie.
We found our chair and hauled it into the kitchen. I like to see what I'm doing.

The kitchen decorations were out. This year's theme: "Wireween Christmas." Don't worry: the orange tree is made in India.

Use the food processor method with these cookies and it does most of the work for you. Julia Child loved to use food processors whenever she could, and we're not ones to disagree with her.
Once the Cuisinart did most of our work, we discussed the perfect rolling method; 1/2-inch thickness was our goal. No longer a novelty, Silpat lines our cookie sheets. There's no scorching, but shortbread is a capricious thing. Butter, butter and more butter, you know. Butter burns, so use your timer.
Religiously!

We had some time, so we discussed politics. Where's an FDR when you need one? Come to think of it, where's a Fala when you need one? He at least could appreciate a fine chocolate Scotch shortbread cookie.

We put the cookies into a 300 degree oven to bake 25 to 30 minutes. That's as difficult as this recipe gets. We had to move the chair and the cookies across the kitchen to the oven. We used all sorts of dog magic to accomplish this.

The trick to perfect shortbread is watching.
The trick to perfect chocolate shortbread is more watching.
Will anyone but our Doggie Dad get to sample these cookies?
Not on our watch.

Posted at 07:30 PM

Thu - December 13, 2007

MINUTAE MINUET

Take off those suede shoes.
They're blue.
Like you.

BLUE. PERIOD.
Tough times. But more than enough time to think.
Thought is a dog's folly. Especially at this reflective time of year.
Holly? We can't touch it. Poinsettias, the same.
We are distanced from the rites and beauty, but close enough for temptation.
Blue. The collective color of the sky, and of collective sighs.
Why did Picasso do it, that Blue Period of his. It couldn't have been a paint sale.
Much too logical.
No, there was something else. Exploration, introspection ... drama.
Drama.
Introspection is never dramatic, never appearing on stage in full paint, never dancing with the stars.
We dance with the dogs.
We twirl our follies and announce our woes, but do so quietly. We are dogs of reason.
Such a rambunctious time of the season, with its insistence on mirth and giving. Our keener noses detect desperation under the smell of gingerbread. The smell of singed credit cards fills the air.
Dogs seldom ask for credit, knowing credit cannot be given. It must be earned.
Now our thoughts have partnered with us long enough, and they signal to us that they'd like to sit the next one out. It's time to make that gingerbread, those chocolate shortbread cookies. We have our places in the kitchen. We have our bed and our toys, our bowls of water and biscuits.
There's the Christmas cactus. Not blue. Pink. Fuschia. White. We can admire it, sample it if we want to. But we don't destroy rough beauty.
There are shades of blue, and there are shades of thought. Picassso churned blue to life. We will mold our blue into something else entirely.
Blue wires. Picasso Christmas. Gingerbread dogs.
We'll bake chocolate shortbread tonight. The Scottish remedy: butter and sugar for what ails you.
The whisky can wait another day.

Posted at 08:55 AM

Tue - December 11, 2007

BITE. HARD.

We bite, we tear, we grind our teeth.
We have so much more than we can chew.
What is the impulse that drives us to
Eviscerate that old shoe?

How long has it been since the muzzle came off?
We think it's been a few ...
Plainly, Evil still stalks the land.
We wish it weren't true.

Still, the times are hard, the villains cheap.
They guard their shekels so.
We are but a band of dogs...
why do they tempt us so?

There is no choice but to stand our ground,
Our teeth bared and at the ready.
We tell you things are bad indeed
When the fools there are aplenty.

You want a pup? You do the work.
Don't just "order" one online.
This isn't Ancient Gaul, you know.
Slave traffic is a crime.

Google, NextDay, the Terrier folks...
They know what they do.
They do it often, and oh so well
They'll pull one over on you.

Bite. Bite. Bite.
Bite back and hard.
That's what wires do.
And our owner are so much worse..
I'd behave, if I were you.
--Gimlet

Posted at 11:00 PM

Mon - December 10, 2007

PAGAN PUPPERIES

O come all ye doggies.
Faithful, all ye Fidos!
Gather round the orange thingy
That is clearly made of blingy.

Ah, Tailwaags time of year.
Dogs, dogs, dogs ... in pure abandon.
It's that time of the year, let us make clear...
Dogs do what they will... sit on that sill.
Bask in the sun. Steal that bun!
Roll, roll, roll ... and have your fun!
--ancient and mysterious canine carol

Gathering round what we thought was an orange Christmas tree (made in India) we begin our celebration of Tailwaags.
Excited though we are, we realize the "Christmas" tree is also a Halloween tree. Those are tiny, grinning pumpkin sequins. Those wily Indians have managed to combine holidays with the aplomb of Tim Burton.
All the better to celebrate the canine holiday that is devoted exclusively to joy and abandon.
Blue, red, green and white dogs... pink, green and silver wreaths. The season, like no other, for pure, exuberant COLOR!
You can leave presents on the rug, or bark to your heart's content.
This is the time of year to snatch a biscuit or write a book.
Up to you, entirely.
Take your masters for a walk, and tell them how good they are. Praise them to the heavens.
For it's Tailwaags, and it's the perfect time for that tonic and lime.
It's the tailwagical time of the year!
The celebration ends January 1, or whenever you feel like it!

Posted at 11:25 PM

Sun - December 9, 2007

Only Angels Have Wire Fur

Nigel gets his Doodle Dog due at the Tree of Memories.

Nigel as ornament. Eat your heart out, Pier 1.

What an afternoon.
I traveled with two loyal staffers by car to Anderson-McQueen Funeral Home in St. Petersburg. We were going to place ornaments for Nigel on their Tree of Memories in their Pet Passages room.
Were we spiffed up? Yes, of course. Nige would have it no other way. The debonair bon vivant is Nigel.
A green velvet bow graced my leather collar and fortunately my wire fur is coming back, thick as coconut matting.
One of the Doodle staffers had called Anderson-McQueen and asked if dogs could come to the Pet services. (Why wouldn't they? Why hold a memorial for pets if pets can't attend?) The reply was yes, I could come, if I could tolerate about 150 people at a social event.
Could I? I was born to it.
I was carried into the funeral home (alive and well) and an usher noticed that I was a dog, so we got special treatment. Yes, we were whisked away to the Pet Passages room; it had lots of people and three trees, each packed with remembrance ornaments.

We paused for bit, realizing that each ornament was really the life of a dog or a cat. There were dozens and dozens of the ornaments on the trees. You could feel a bit of a buzz in the air, too.
Many, many, unseen, wagging tails and twitching whiskers. The barest flutter of wings. That's what I heard and felt. The room was full of cherished animals.
So many of the hand-written tributes on the ornaments read "I love you," "I miss you terribly," "There was no one like you."
Well.
Devotion is a funny thing. The word itself has such a delicacy, but the reality of the word is steel. It has a strength and purpose. Devotion. Enough that people flaunt convention and demand that their pets be recognized in life and in death. Devotion brought so many people into the Pet Passages room this afternoon. Many came over to speak with me and pet me. We had to inform them over and over that I am a wire fox terrier, not a schnauzer and not an airedale.
Does no one remember Nick and Nora Charles?

After a while I sat on one of the couches. People turned and looked at me. There were smiles, and I'm glad for that. Everyone in that room was missing a loved one, and thinking of them, so I'm glad my wire fur and green velvet bow pleased them.
We began writing on Nigel's ornaments. Just quick notes to him ... On each one there was "Mr. Doodle's Dog" and I did a quick sketch of him. I can draw Nigel with just a few strokes. A few strokes and he's there for me. How lucky I am.
Two of Nigel's ornaments went on the trees. I advised my people not to place Nigel next to any cats. The ornaments were placed, and we kept one to take home for Christmas.

A woman in a long, cobalt-blue gown wheeled herself over to pet me. She spoke with me about her dog, who had died this past summer. She laughed when she tickled my beard. Then her husband came over to meet me, and then a friend of theirs came over. They were all talking about special dogs they'd known. Someone even whistled at me, and I turned my head: it was one of the funeral directors! He walked over and kneeled in front of me, and asked if I could get on the floor with him. I said sure, and we had a nice chat.
Then we had to leave, but not before we'd had a walk through the main room to listen to the harpist. Wouldn't it be interesting if Joe and his Black Cat Trio had been asked to play at the Pet Passages event?
Maybe next year.

Then it was time to leave, but not before we bent the ear of the funeral home owner. Yes, I spoke with the owner, and he did pet me. Never underestimate the appeal of a small, white, terrier dog.
We spoke business for a while, of how their Pet Passages program had far exceeded their expectations, and how The Tampa Tribune was now running Pet Tributes. Paid pet obituaries and memorials debuted two weeks ago in The Tampa Tribune. One of the Doodle Dog staffers had the idea and pitched it to them.
They bit.

So Nigel not only got his wings (hello, Frank Capra) but he partied again. Nigel and parties and plush sofas and cocktails ... they are forever linked. He could walk into any room and find any lap and sit on it. No one could take over a room like Nigel.
That was this afternoon. Now I'm still wearing my green velvet bow, and Sammy, who couldn't go because of his high anxieties, is sitting with me as I type. Joe the Cat is in the living room, guarding the house.
And Nigel? He's here with us. As always, the life of any party. And the one he's at now just won't quit.
--Gimlet

Posted at 09:18 PM

Thu - December 6, 2007

Clara Bow? Or Clara Bow Wow?

We're tagged. We're it. We're at a loss.

Illustration by Gimlet Rose.
She'll steal your heart. But don't steal her art.

A snowball hit us.
Gob-smacked. Not a flurry in a hurry, but a Snowball Princess .
Yes, we were tagged with an award. Which we'll hoard and lord over, except that...
Everyone and his person has these awards.
We may be at the end of the dog leash, conga line, award-wise. The rules are that we must state eight random facts about ourselves and then tag eight other wards of the awards court.
Can't be done ... there is no one left to tag.
But, the eight random facts? Piece of biscuit.
Oh, the rules of the tag?
1. Link to your tagger and post these rules.
2. List eight (8) random facts about yourself.
3. Tag eight people at the end of your post and list their names (linking to them).
4. Let them know they've been tagged by leaving them a comment on their blogs.

Here we come to random fact 1: we are not a follower of rules.
Random fact 2 also emerges: we noticed in rule 3 that we are supposed to tag "people." People? Really? We are animals. We are not people. That would be random facts 2 and 3: we notice things and we are not people.
Fore!
Tagging eight people, or dogs, or a combo? We're not in the mainstream, but in a tidal pool. Not to estuary, we will certainly try to scare up eight.
By the way, that's random fact 4: we are not mainstream.
Note that "eight" brings up pieces of eight, the eight ball, "Dinner at Eight" and "Eight Is Not Enough." (Enuf of that one.)
We'll stick with "pieces of eight," dredging up pirates, which can only bring us to ... Captain Blood, Errol Flynn. We're huge Flynn fans. He owned a fox terrier when he was a lad, and we think he also owned one while he was filming "The Adventures of Robin Hood."
That's our random fact 5, our love of Flynn.
Are we in like him yet?
Have you seen it? The Be The Blog Award?

Are we with the in crowd with this award? Probably "Far From the Madding Crowd." We're not far from Thomas Hardy now, since he's the author, and he had a wire fox terrier named Wessex.
Why, we're wire fox terriers! That's a fact. In fact, it's random fact 6.
We're becoming anxious now.. all the randomness. Random acts of kindness, Random House, Lady Randy (Lady Randolph Churchill, Winston Churchill's mother). Do you think the term "randy" is derived from the wild Lady Randy? Oh, you've guessed random fact 7, have you? We're like a Churchill (although she was American). We're wild.
Wild things, Oscar Wilde (irish), Wily. You know it: we're wily. Random fact 8.
Eureka!
Eight random facts, not six degrees of bacon, but facts ... and you hardly know us.
Let the tagging begin:
The Daily Dave
Sarah Says
The Tiny Tots
Jill the Lakeland Terrier
Summer
The
End.
Sorry.

Posted at 09:06 PM

Sun - December 2, 2007

A call to action.

The man behind the infamous Blainville Wires puppy mill operation has been convicted on two counts of animal cruelty.
Trouble is, he may get one or more of his dogs back if we don't take a stand. Now.

It's Mr. Doodle's Dog, in the ceramic flesh. That only means one thing: an important announcement.
We'd like to interrupt the usual whimsy of Mr. Doodle's Dog and ask for your help. We won't waste your time, we won't ask you to do much, and we only link to, and not display, the photos of abused wires. But you will need to join us and take a stand.

November, 2005, Blainville, Québec, Canada.
Ninety-seven wire fox terriers are seized in a police raid of a puppy mill.
Most are neglected beyond description, feces in their matted, wild fur. Some are found eating the carcasses of their fellow cellmates.
All are in a canine version of Danté's Inferno.
The wires are seized, and almost forty are euthanized, killed out of mercy.
The residence where the dogs were "living" is subsequently condemned and demolished.

November, 2007, St. Jerome, Québec.
The owner of the Blainville mill, Marc-Andre Laporte, is convicted of two counts of animal cruelty and two counts of neglect . He faces up to six-months in prison and a fine of up to $4,000.
Laporte will be sentenced on Feb. 22.
Of the wires who survived the puppy mill ordeal, around thirty were adopted and 18 have been living in foster homes.
The fostered wires remain in jeopardy. They remain Laporte's property and so were not available for adoption for these two years.
On Feb. 22, 2008, Québec Court Judge Jean Sirois will determine if any or all of the wire fox terriers are to be returned to Laporte.
Would you like to be the wire or wires who are returned to his "care"?

December, 2007.
Let us demonstrate to the judge that the wire fox terrier world, the dog blog world, and dog and animal lovers care very much about what happens to these wire fox terriers.
1. Please sign the online petition.
2. Please take the additional step of writing a letter to Judge Jean Sirois, requesting that justice go hand-in-hand with prudence, and that none of the wires be returned to Laporte, nor should Laporte ever again be allowed to own a dog. If you feel so inclined, please include a photo of you and your wire fox terrier or other animal, so that Justice, although blind, may see the faces of those she must answer to. All letters received will be put in a file (for the court) and also handed out to the media.
Letters to Judge Jean Sirois should be mailed to:

Elizabeth Pierce
119 16th Street
Roxboro, Québec
Canada
H8Y 1P1

Elizabeth Pierce has been instrumental in finding foster and adoptive homes for these wires. She has been the person acting on this case and watching out for these dogs for two years. Now she needs our help.

The sentencing hearing is Feb. 22, 2008 so please write those letters and mail them soon.
3. Please pass along this information to your friends, bloggers, both dog and human, dog and animal lovers. Let's get the word out. It's not just about wires, it's about compassion and respect.
And sanity.

The photos of the wires as they were taken into custody two years ago .

Posted at 07:14 PM

Thu - November 15, 2007

The Naked and the Dead

We're back.
We like it like that.

An occasional feature of Mr. Doodle's Dog

Why were you blogless for two years?
We were blahful, and didn't want to be ahful.
Who does your Doodling now?
Use your noodle. The Doodles. We are, at present, three wire fox terriers, one of whom is dead, and one black cat. We're hiring staff as we speak, or answer.
A dead dog can blog?
Progress! Four years ago, the question would have been "A dog can blog?" The dead blog. Who has more time?
What are your plans?
Roving Rover reporters. Dogcasts. Hand puppets. More interviews with Franklin Roosevelt's Fala (he loves to disco). World doggednation.
Are you going commercial?
We're setting up shop. Selling a bill of goods .. that are good. We are wearing our best Pepsodent smiles to impress, not oppress. We're coming into the Season of Reason. No teasin'. We're social butterflies.
You're reading ...?
Aha! You're asking dogs about their literary tastes. Progressive! Hmmmm... a nice, juicy bit of history: Doris Kearns Goodwin's "No Ordinary Time," about Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt during World War II.
Fala?
Not so much in this one. Try reading "The True Story of Fala" by Margaret Suckley and Alice Dalgliesh.
Parting shots?
Buy American. I used to revere Revere Ware but most of it is made in China now. I'm boiling.

Posted at 11:02 PM

Mon - November 12, 2007

WOOFS AND WHISPERS

Perchance to dream...

Illustration by Gimlet Rose

"Gimlet Rose, Gimlet Rose.
a small white dog with a big black nose."

I'm asleep on the kitchen bed, my favorite of all the beds in the house.
When I want to dream, I go there. In my crate I am alone, no spare room even for my thoughts. That's where I go to sleep.
But when my dreams call, I am on the kitchen bed. It's round and soft, directly beneath the stove.
I am Ingmar Bergman. I am Fellini. Hitchcock. On my bed I swirl like a djinni.
Hitchcock and his Sealyhams walk past me and are all yapping. They're looking past me, at something or someone just beyond a cloud.
It's Cary Grant. He's playing with George in "Bringing Up Baby." And now he's turned and there's Mr. Smith from "The Awful Truth." They look at me and wink. A small, rubber mouse falls from Mr. Smith's mouth and I realize I am dreaming. Mice are not rubber.
My dream has ended. I wake up on my wonderful, round kitchen bed.
There is my water dish in the corner, waiting for me... the treat jar is full of Sojos. I hear a voice from another room "Where is Gimlet?"
I've been away, walking with Ingmar Bergman, Fellini, Hitchcock and Cary Grant. I've been talking with George and his other character, Mr. Smith.
If only I'd seen Franklin Roosevelt and Fala in their car, I might have asked for a ride.
But there will be another time, when I go traveling on my wonderful, round kitchen bed.

Posted at 08:13 PM

Sat - November 10, 2007

Doggerel would be better ...

What's the mindset behind some dog toys out there?

Illustration by Gimlet

Everything's coming up, Rosie!
That's right, we found a Rosie O'Doggel toy at Muttropolis. Lunch came up. You'd have thought we were all on the BARF diet here.
We are frequent window shoppers at Muttropolis . Our tails wag, our ears perk up... lots of clever goods can be found there. Sometimes they have great sales, secret discounts... good consumerism can be put into practice.
But not this.
The asking price of $15 will not buy you bliss, or a piece of Rosie's mind ... no dog will enjoy this. This is a patently bad idea.
Did Rosie sign on for this? is she getting a piece of this?
We're not biting into it.
Pity the dog whose owner presents one of these as a gift. What can the dog say? "Oh, thank you, I always wanted to bite into a talk show and daytime celebrity. What happened to Rosie's show on MSNBC? What's she up to now? I miss her on 'The View'. That Whoopi ... I don't know. Where's the Whoopi dog toy?"
The Rosie toy only follows a recent trend in designing dog toys for human tastes. Dogs know the value of a good toy, whether it's intended for tugging, tossing or gnawing. We're not impressed with testing the limits of polyfil and polyester. We know value (we'd gorge on bones if we could. That's a purely peasant attitude).
The favored toys at the offices of Mr. Doodles Dog are crocheted ChadsRags foofies, Spots Plush Flower and Ruffians . We're eclectic but we're not pushovers for overpriced geegaws.
The Rosie O'Doggel is an overpriced geegaw ... even if she comes with a bilingual squeaker (she does not, by the way). She squeaks. That doesn't even come close to the real Rosie. The real Rosie cries, rants, is probably bipolar and has a flair for breaking into show tunes.
Beyond the obvious hohumnity of this Rosie toy, we dogs are being taken for a ride by the dog toy industry. Our owners can be easily fooled into thinking that lots of money for an insipid toy translates into indulgence.
It does not.
Indulgence is being taken for a walk on a glorious afternoon, being told we're good walkers, and sitting down with our human family members at an outdoor cafe. Compliments will be served, cookies and coffee offered in small portions. Oh, yes, we dogs recognize true indulgence and it does not come in the form of a squeaky Rosie toy.
If Muttropolis could market dog indulgence, that would be fine by us. Until they do, we'll stick with our simple toys and our family walks, and we'll keep waiting for the dog toy designers to pick up our scent.

Posted at 05:27 PM

Thu - November 8, 2007

I am what I am.

Sam gives a lesson in post-modern dog lists.

Illustration by Gimlet (long story)

Look at me.
I don't miss much.
Some say I'm cute, in a lanky Jimmy Stewart way (I have Henry Fonda's politics).
Do I realize I'm lucky? Of course. I don't miss much.
I subscribe to several terrier dog message lists. My field of interest is the wire fox terrier, of course. It's a passion of mine.
I get cranky. I become aggrieved. I can get, oh ...nippy ... when I read what some people write.
People ... Why do people write on dog lists? Shouldn't they be for dogs? Can't people write their peopley posts on people lists?
The best dog list would be about wire fox terriers and its membership would be wire fox terriers. The wires would write.
We would banter back and forth about what to feed our people: low fat treats? BARF (bones and raw foods)? where to find the best extruded people food.
Then we could write about our cute names for our peoples, and our stuffed people toy collections, and the books about how to properly train people.
Ha!
Was Sigmund Freud a wire fox terrier at heart? What about a Pavlov's People? How do I get my people to sit on command? Most people have the whining and begging talents in their genes.
How do we have people with better breeding? Imagine saying this to a people "Your tail should have been docked a long time ago."
Dog message lists.
Ha! Ha!
So few of them are for dogs.
Oh, maybe they've gone to them ... I don't know. Most of them are silly. Nutty.
Even spooky.
Ghostly Dogs! (but none ghastly, because I think people scare easily) Dogs Who Wear Clothing! (let me tell you something ... no self-respecting dog wants to wear a dress or a bowtie). Dogs Who See Dead People! (We dogs resent this claim. We are fairly well grounded as a species. Keep your peopley delusions to your people selves).
You can read all this blather on the dog lists if you want.
But ask yourself: Who writes this stuff?
The answer is always " People."
Oh, well.
I don't miss much. I don't miss a trick. And I wouldn't miss some of those "people" posts on those "dog" lists. But until I discover a new way to get guaranteed laughs, I'll continue to read them.
Ha! Ha! Ha!
--Sammy

Posted at 10:42 PM

Mon - November 5, 2007

Capturing Hearts and Minds

An update on Janie

Janie is much improved and expects to be released from the hospital on Wednesday.
After she leaves the vet's care, there is talk of a soothing bath and maybe a little nail work. She'll be living with Lyn Townsend for a long while, recovering her vitality and taking some time to learn how to be a dog.
It's not easy, is it? Being a dog? You know what I'm talking about.
I've never had the pleasure of meeting or talking with Janie, but I know she had a hard beginning in life. She was sent to a mill, or maybe began life there. Through a turbulent (could we say Dickensenian?) series of events, she found herself being shipped off to Florida. In poor health, of course.
Let's not focus on the past, but on what life can hold for Janie, once the cobwebs are removed from her eyes.
Many in the dog blog world know of Janie's illness, and her dreadful beginnings, and she has won the hearts of many with her genuine surprise at the simplest things in a dog's life. Toys. Bowls of fresh water. A brother to play with.
There are so many hearts going out to Janie. Hearts in the right places, and yet in different places. There have been words over Janie. Some of them heated and harsh. But the words don't matter, Janie does.
Janie is being cared for, and she's safe. She's on her way, although her way will be walked slowly and with trepidation.
What is the best place for any dog? Why, with a wise and loving person who understands hurt and the time it takes to heal. Someone who knows that a hand that be soothing on a dog's back, and that a twinkle in the eye can make all the difference to a little soul in pain.
Let's give Janie our best, and some time to find her strength, herself and that loving and caring person.

Posted at 11:12 PM

Sun - October 7, 2007

Where's Alice?

It's just our nature.

It was Wonderland.
We went to the park in search of a pumpkin patch but found something very different.
When we went for a walk on the nature trails look who came out of the boardwalk woodwork! By my Alice B. Toklas, a marsh hare!
There, galloomphing beneath the boardwalk, a marsh hare in his old brown coat. It was a Tennessee Williams kind of hot and sultry day and we asked Mr. Hare if he regretted his choice of clothing.
He said he did not, that an old brown overcoat was the perfect way to blend into the marsh scenery. He could always go home and take off his coat and get a cool drink, but if he went outside without it? An owl or coyote might nab him. A little sweat was worth it to him.
Then we walked for a bit and noticed something in the grass along the ravine on what's known as the Primitive Path.

Sam wondered if it was another hare. Or maybe he thought he could find Alice.

Negative on both scores. It was a lizard.
We did see that the elephant ears had taken some quick-growing potion. They were actually larger than the ears of an elephant.

But no pumpkins. Just a hare and a trace of elephants. Not bad for a Saturday morning walk.

Posted at 10:20 AM

Wed - October 3, 2007

Klatsch Me If You Can

A show of hands for sweetness.

Illustration by Gimlet Rose. @2007 Nigel Enterprises

What's it like, to be a cookie jar?
Well, let me see ...
Do you want something sweet?
Then you must come to me.

So here I sit, and there you go ...
Scattering those crumbs to and fro.

Sometimes I meet up with a bunch of nuts;
Other times it's those with leaden butts.
From my perch, what so I see?
Lots of sweetness, yessiree.

And O the times the treats they are stolen.
Whoever opined that silence is golden
Knew nothing of the telltale krinkle of cellophane
Telling all of a snickerdoodle's fame.

A parade of creams, chews, assorted wafers and bars
Go by my nose at the pace of speeding cars.
But does no one ever stop to think
Of the cookie jar? I need a shrink!

All those cookies under my nose, guard and eye
And I get nothing...
Pillsbury Dough Boy, hear my cry!

--Gimlet

Posted at 08:41 AM

Tue - October 2, 2007

Diary of a Mad Peepist

Here a Peep, There a Pepys. Everywhere a Peep Pepys.

Illustration by Gimlet. @ 2007 Nigel Enterprises

S'More on Peeps .
Is that a new variety?
We couldn't help noticing a bit of history's caprice: Doodle and blogging wire Sam Peeps (we wire fox terriers are hoping to have Peeps made in our image) and 17th century English diarist and eminent civil servant Samuel Pepys ("Peeps").
Is history written by the winners or by the Peepists?
It can be no coincidence that Sam, our new humor columnist and consumer dog toy reporter, has adopted the non de plume of Sam Peeps. Raymond Chandlersque, you say. Yes, but travel backwards in time like H.G. Wells and you'll meet up with diarist Samuel Pepys. The most modern of men, as forward-thinking a man as can be (he did, after all, write his journal entries backwards and upside-down to spoil those who might sneak a peek) Pepys kept his journal for ten years, from 1660 to 1669. His musings provide us with a clear look at the English Restoration .
Avid diarist Samuel Pepys gave us first-hand accounts of the Great Plague of London and the Great Fire of London. He often wore a curly wig. We would say he touched upon greatness in more than one way. He certainly added to the mystique of bureaucracy.
And Sam Peeps? Novice blogger, forward-thinking (loves to pull on the leash) and on hand for the Great Destruction of the Cell Phones, Mauling of Favorite Comforter and Great Mess in the Florida Room. He often has curly fur.
Could history have given us any more of a Separated at Birth, by the Centuries and by Species?
Who will the folks at Just Born, Inc., the manufacturers of Peeps, select as their next Peep? Which one of these two is destined for Peepdom?
Sam ... wire fox terrier, blogger, humorist and often sporting curly hair, or Samuel ... 17th century English diarist who often sported a long, curly wig?
Of course, the Just Born, Inc. people might sidestep the entire Peep/Pepys controversy and go with Nigel. It was Nigel, after all, who ignited the Fox Terrier Peeps controversy .
Sweet revenge for Nigel ?

Posted at 08:17 AM

Sat - September 29, 2007

IS THAT COVERED BY MY HEALTH PLAN?

The Secret Pardon.

Serious illustration by Gimlet. @ Nigel Enterprises

The truth shall set you free.
So too can a large black cat.
If you're a mouse, that is.
As he does on an annual basis, Joe The Cat brought a mouse into our house Wednesday evening. The catch is, the mouse was alive. Another catch: Joe let the mouse free when he lost interest in playing.
There was a live mouse loose in our house.
Yes, there are two terriers living in our house. There are also approximately ten dozen assorted pieces of large furniture, bookcases, stacks of books, assorted artwork, canvases, doodads and geegaws.
It was all Gimlet could do to keep her head from spinning like LInda Blair's in The Exorcist.

We heard the mouse running around throughout the wee hours of Thursday. Up and down the blinds, in one room and out the other, knocking over little relics we didn't remember we had.
Gimlet spent much of Thursday nosing around upended furniture, hot on the knobby feet of a disoriented Joe the Cat refugee.
Why, Joe? What possesses you?
Joe has a secret. He suffers from Mausnhaus Syndrome: the undeniable, unrelenting urge to set live vermin loose in an unsuspecting household.
Mausnhaus Syndrome, discovered by the eminent Jungian catherapist

Krazy Kat in the 1920s, is an irascible pathological need for attention by a feline, usually achieved through the release of live vermin in the cat's household.
We're not making this up.
Joe has been dealing with this malady for years. Almost like clockwork, Joe heralds Fall's return with a mouse hunt in the house. Joe then loses house privileges, and is resigned to life as an outdoor cat. It's house arrest of the inverted kind.
Joe the Cat, fearless and expert ratter, rabbiteer, frogger, birder and ducker, is a Mausnhauser. There is no cure.
Joe continues to be our cat, and it is his good feline fortune to live in (but mostly outside of) a home where wire fox terriers patrol for vermin. Joe's habit, as it were, is under terrier control.

Epilogue: The mouse spent a little over 24 hours in our house. By nightfall Thursday, it had come out of its hiding place (a birdhouse shaped like a bee on a Florida room wall), been caught by humans working in concert and then relocated outdoors.