My Baby Molly

Friends, I generally try to keep things light on this blog. Being funny is one of my favorite pastimes, right up there with reading, writing, and randomly dancing in public. However, if you've come into this blog post hoping for verbal shenanigans and pictures with silly captions, I urge you to skip this post and try another. This is not going to be a funny post. This is a post where I mull over the loss of my best friend and an irreplaceable piece of my heart, Miss Molly the Wonderpup. Writing is how I make sense of the world, and if I can explain my thoughts, then I can understand them better. So down this post lies only nostalgia and sadness. Turn back if you must. Go forth if you wish. But whatever you do, don't bitch in my comments. :P

 The first picture I ever took of Molly, fresh from her first bath.

I adopted Molly when I was 19 years old, not long after starting my second year of college. I had moved into a rental house in Tallahassee with two friends, and it just so happened that my room had a door leading into the backyard. My roomies immediately saw that this as a compelling reason for me to get a dog. For my part, I was not adverse, but I wasn't completely sold on the idea. I knew a dog was a big responsibility, and I hadn't even been that good at caring for myself up to that point. So when they talked me into going to the pound that day in September 1999, I had decided to humor them, but had privately come to the conclusion that I would not come back with anything but fond memories of all the cute dogs I'd seen. 

Proud mama. 

Ah, the best laid plans of mice and coeds. I suppose I should've known better, because I've always had a soft spot for animals, but I couldn't have imagined meeting a pup as wonderful as Molly. She was Kryptonite for any sliver of resolve I might've had left at that point. She was this teeny thing made up almost entirely of a floppy-eared head and spindly legs. She was there in a litter of five, in amongst two brown siblings and two others that were also all white with spotted ears. However, while her other white siblings had a spot around the eye, she was stood out from the crowd by having a dollop of brown splatted right in the middle of her head between her ears. That right there spoke to me, and she was the one I reached for. When I picked her up and she nestled into my arms like she belonged there, I knew I wasn't leaving there without her.

It turns out that I was wrong about that. While I filled out adoption papers and paid the fee, Molly had to be medically cleared at the pound and then sent to a vet to be looked over before she was free to come home with me. So I had to part company with her, but I promised her we'd meet again soon.

In the meantime, I put an obsessive amount of thought into her name. It couldn't be just any name, it had to be her name. I considered and rejected a million options and was beginning to worry she'd spend the first month of her life thinking her name was "hey, you!" Then, as I was walking along Landis Green, thinking about picking up my puppy the next day, I heard two girls talking in front of me.

"Well, that's what Molly said," one girl said to the other.

It was like there was a swell of golden light and a choir of angels started singing as that name rang out. It was my dog's name. It had just been lurking in the ether, waiting for me to discover it.

Rather than in the sky with diamonds, 

Molly did her best sparkling on my bed with teddy bears.

I couldn't wait to take her home when I went to pick her up from the vet. Unfortunately, once again, we were thwarted in our mutual desire to have her home with me. When I walked in to pick up the puppy the pound had sent to over, I found myself looking into a face featuring a big brown spot around one eye. I was forced to call shenanigans on the switch. Don't get me wrong, this other puppy was adorable, but she wasn't the one that belonged to me. So my roomies drove me with this litter mate back to the pound to exchange her for my girl. I cried the whole way there, because I felt so bad that this puppy was so excited to be with me. But she wasn't mine. We weren't meant to be, and I wanted my puppy.

When I traded her off for Molly, though, I got some comforting information. It turned out that the pound couldn't afford to treat every dog that came in unless there was an obvious need for treatment or a formal diagnosis of an illness. Because the vet had looked over Molly's sister and discovered that she had worms, she had to be treated. This was something the pound had not previously been aware of and might not have otherwise discovered until it was too late. So the mix-up saved the puppy's life, and I got to help two for the price of one!

Molly v. Flora, Danaleigh's cat

It didn't take long for me to realize that I had found the love of my life in this dog. I came home every single day and was thrilled to see her. It became my routine to burst into the house exclaiming like I didn't expect to find her there, gushing, "Oh my goodness, is there a puppy in here? What a beautiful puppy! How did you get this beautiful? Were you just born beautiful? I bet you were. I can't decide what part of you is the most beautiful. Is it your spotted ears? How about this nose? These paws are awfully cute, too! And look at this pink belly! How did you get this beautiful pink belly, huh? And this tail! Oh, I don't know, I can't choose."

Clash of the fuzzy Titans.

In the meantime, Molly would walk around in delighted circles, wriggling while I rubbed her belly and scratched the place behind her ear or under her chin, flopping down on my lap or running off to fetch one of her babies to play tug-o-war. And I would spend time chasing her around in circles pretending like I was gonna "eat her to pieces" or "get her baby tail." It always ended in kisses and hugs and effusive professions of love. 

As Molly got bigger and bigger, only other people doubted that she was still a lapdog. 

Molly and I, we knew she would always be a lapbaby.

My dog traveled far and wide with me, as I went through significant changes in my life. She helped me survive three years of college, a year of unemployment thereafter, then working for minimum wage at a bookstore and living with my dad. She also saw me through two years of teaching middle school, three years of law school, and two and a half years of practicing law before I came back up to North Florida to become a judicial clerk. She moved from Tallahassee to Jacksonville to Tallahassee to Jacksonville to Tampa to Fort Lauderdale and back to Tallahassee again with me.

And no matter where we were and what I was doing, she was always delighted to be with me. Whether it was in the rental house with the huge backyard or the tiny closet of an apartment in Fort Lauderdale or my current spacious apartment with the nice grounds to walk on, it was all the same. It wasn't how nice it was that made it home for her, it was me. And vice versa. When I was with her, she didn't have a care in the world. It was only when she was left with someone else that she became a little white Eeyore with a rain cloud over her head, not wanting to play or eat much until I was back again.

Molly around a year old. Still a lapdog, still adorable.

It wasn't until she was pushing 14 years old that she ever showed her age. Although the vet told me that she was considered geriatric at 7 years, the only concession she'd made to age even at 11 or 12 was a slight awkwardness in her movements when she squatted to pee. Up until her last two weeks of life, she ran around like a greyhound in bursts, went for long walks as many times a day as I was willing, leaped up into my spot on the couch as soon as I abandoned it, and would gallop randomly around the apartment flipping her toys in the air for her own amusement. Being pit bull and cocker spaniel, it was particularly amazing that she was as healthy as she was for so long. She was a 50-pound dog, a larger breed, and they usually only get maybe 8 or 9 years. Molly was pushing for double that.

My furry copilot on one of our many car trips.

She was diagnosed with cancer on April 12, 2013, about two months and change before her 14th birthday. I'd had to rush her to the doctor and I was terrified, because she'd never had so much as a broken bone or ever gotten particularly sick since she was a baby. Mind, when she first came home, she'd had two kinds of worms, a respiratory infection, and was severely anemic, but after that, she'd been nothing but hardy. In fact, it used to be that she'd go into her old Tallahassee vet and they would marvel all over again that this big, robust dog was the same teeny little thing that had once been so sick.

From 2005 in Jacksonville.

Molly loved me even though I looked like an overripe tomato with red hair.

When her doctor told me the news, I asked him what her outlook was if I went through with all the chemo and the surgery he was recommending. He told me very bluntly, "Oh, it's not good. I expect this to be a progressive disease, and to spread. But there's a chance." I told him as long as there was a chance, I was going to take it. So we started chemo.

Tampa in 2009 or 2010

The first dose of chemo didn't even faze her. After having that crap injected into her veins, she still went on three 20-minute walks every day, ran laps with me around the apartment, and occasionally spazzed out throwing her toys around the room. When she was out walking, her ears perked up high, her tail swished, and she trotted like she was filled with the same old joie de vivre she'd always had. My mom and sis came to visit me during this time and remarked on it approvingly. She was herself. Nothing had changed.

She continued to astound the people at her new vet's, who hadn't expected her to respond so well to treatment. They all loved her instantly, and they were all rooting for her. She had that effect on people.

Molly and Piggy Cow: Best Friends and Mortal Enemies

It wasn't until the second dose of chemo that she began to feel poorly. I ended up take her in for an unscheduled visit one day because she was pale and withdrawn. The chemo, it seemed, had begun to attack some of the other quickly regenerating cells in her body, like her stomach lining and her platelets. It left her without much appetite or energy. By this point, I'd been carrying her up and down the stairs to go to the bathroom, and she was having a hard time going very far once she was down there. She got meds to help boost her counts back up, had some IV fluids, and I got prescription dog food that I fed her by squirting that mashed up meat paste through a big syringe into her mouth. She loved the stuff and took to devouring it. I was thrilled that she was soon she bolting across the floor to beg for turkey pepperonis and cheese again after a few days of care.

Tampa in 2010

I took her home with me that weekend to Jacksonville. She was still creaky and had trouble putting weight on all of her feet and she still needed to be fed the meat paste, but she seemed content enough to be my copilot on the journey again and to go sit in my dad's backyard and majestically observe the birds and squirrels. And my dad patted her and was kind to her, and she had always loved him dearly. It was a good trip. 

Queen of the Backyard (2012)

Then, this week, she started to get worse when I'd expected her to get better. Going outside winded her. She came back in panting and pale and couldn't eat or drink for a while. I called the emergency vet more than once, convinced that I needed to bring her in, but she always got better while I was on the phone. Still, I made an appointment to bring her in Friday morning, May 24, 2013, to make sure that she wasn't having more complications from the chemo.

Attentive, and possibly begging for cheese.

When I went in, the news was worse than I could've ever expected. Her doctor, Dr. Walker, who I regarded with respect and gratitude for his kindness through this whole ordeal, came into the exam room looking genuinely upset. He told me that he had expected to see some swelling in Molly's lymph nodes from the cancer because he'd assumed that was the culprit, but what he'd found was that her tumors were shrinking and she was beating the cancer. She had had a one in three shot of surviving it, and she was on track to be the one in three. Unfortunately, she had developed a heart condition wholly unrelated to the cancer, and it was fatal. At best, she had three to four months to live, and only by the grace of several medications. She was at a high risk of sudden death, which meant I could just come around the corner one day and find her gone. 

My "big brave baby," as I liked to call her.

I spent the rest of the day driving around town, spending the last of my savings on the expensive medications she needed, and occasionally stopping in a parking lot to sob until I was hyperventilating. I had to do all of this before I picked up the dog, because she was sensitive to my moods I would only upset her by being upset, myself. But when I came and retrieved her, she was perked up and refreshed from a day inside the oxygen tent. Her buddy, Nicole the vet tech, carried her to the car and gave me the number and address for the best emergency vet clinic in Jacksonville to make sure I knew where to go if she had trouble. And I was sure I had bought her those three or four months, and I was going to be able to take her to Jacksonville this weekend to see the family and tell them goodbye.

Ever long-suffering, Molly put up with a great many random things 

being tied to or placed on her head throughout the years. 

However, as soon as I got home to the apartment, Molly became uncomfortable. She was having diarrhea and it wouldn't stop. She was straining and fretting until she worked herself into a fit of exhaustion that was not good for her heart, and I was working myself into a fit of exhaustion carrying her up and down the stairs to try and go again. Then I put her in the bathtub to clean her up a bit and when she came out, she was white as a sheet and shivering. I wrapped her up in a blanket and rushed her back to the vet.

Snuggly sleeper in her nest

I won't go too much into this time period. I will say they never did figure out what made things start going wrong so quickly. Her back legs and belly were swollen, her throat was swollen such that she could barely swallow, and she was in so much discomfort that she was having an increasingly difficult time resting. My mom and her husband came to Tallahassee to be with me, hoping to bring us both back to Jacksonville once she stabilized. But she never did.

Ultimately, after Molly had spent a night and a day at the emergency vet, with an air of utter defeat the doctor told me about consulting with Dr. Walker and that they had some things they could try to restore her to some semblance of comfort. But they couldn't really treat the underlying problems, and they couldn't promise what they proposed to help one problem wouldn't exacerbate some of the others. And the condition that was causing her the most pain, they didn't seem to know how to treat. So after spending hours talking to her and petting her and taking her outside to sit in the grass, I finally made the call to let it all stop.

Couch sleeper. Not to sound like Sheldon, 

but she was in my spot.

They did it outside in a patch of grass she'd come to prefer, under the light of a full moon with my mom and Ben and I gathered around her. I talked to her and petted her until the last. It was one o'clock in the morning when my girl left me on May 26, 2013. And all that night, and every night since, I've had a lyric from one of my favorite Fleetwood Mac songs playing through my head over and over again.

"Lightning strikes maybe once, maybe twice."

Funny face.

I was so lucky to have her. There was never a moment in my life where I was unaware of that. My girl was housebroken within days of coming home, was never much of a barker, loved every human being she ever came into contact with, and was instinctively gentle with children no matter how rough they were with her. She wasn't a huge fan of other dogs, but she didn't even pay them any mind when they barked or growled at her. She minded her own business and trusted to them to mind theirs. And no matter how uncomfortable she was and how she was being prodded at the vet, she never growled, never murmured, she just endured it all with endless patience because her mommy said it was all right. The emergency vets said she was one of the easiest dogs she'd ever had to deal with.

Baby supermodel in 2013

But it was more than that. She loved me. I knew she loved me, that I was the center of her world and she was the center of mine. I was never lonely when she was near, and even if I was sad, I couldn't stay that way with her tenderly licking my knee or cheek, or just lying against my leg lending silent support. She couldn't stand to see me upset, and she picked up on my joy when I was happy. She really was my best friend. She listened to me talk to her constantly and, though she didn't know what I was saying all the time, she was attentive and pleased to have my attention. When I sang to her, it made her happy or calm, and she actually would prance like a little show pony when I sang her "theme song." (This was to the tune of the Spider-Man theme, and went a little something like this: "Molly Bear, Molly Bear, She jumps here and there and everywhere. Hear the clicking of her nails. See her wagging baby tail. WATCH OUT! Here comes the Molly Bear!")

Prancing Molls, Hidden Manda

We really did share a life together. She wasn't just a pet who lived in my apartment or my backyard, she slept in my bed for most of her life (until my thrashing started to bug her in the old age, and then she slept in her own plush bed). We shared food and travel and exercise. I kept up a constant stream of chatter, and I told her as many times a day as possible that I loved her and she was wonderful and beautiful and magical. And she told me as much back by being so dazzlingly excited to have me near, often watching for me to come home in the evenings from my apartment window.

And I will never forget all the little things about her that made my heart warm with love, like how zen she looked when I rubbed the spot between her eyes or how she pressed her cheek against my lips and make little whistling sounds through her nose when I kissed her. I never want to forget those silken ears beneath my fingers or the heart-sharped birthmark on her belly or how much she liked it when I scratched her "itchy butt." I will forever smile when I see a school of tiny fish skimming through the shallows, remembering the time at the beach where she was tempted into pouncing on some and then realized in abject horror that those idiots were IN THE WATER! And I will always like to picture her out in the grass in a patch of sunlight, sunbathing like she loved to do, grinning with her tongue lolled out of her mouth and her ears perked to attention.

I will miss her every single day that goes by, but I will always, always know what a wonderful creature she was. She made this world a beautiful place to live in, and it will never be as beautiful without her in it. But I'm just going to keep reminding myself that I got to have her. I was so, so lucky to have her in my life for even a minute, let alone nearly 14 years. 

She will always be my baby Molly. She will always be my princess and my love, and I will never forget her.

"Gypsy" by Fleetwood Mac
"Lightning strikes... Maybe once, maybe twice."

NOTE: I'd also like to add that one of Molly's parting gifts to me was to show me that we are both so well-loved, not just by each other, but by our family and friends. The outpouring of support at work, on facebook and Twitter, through phone calls and texts has made what should've been unbearable bearable. Even when I couldn't bring myself to keep responding to all the kind words that came flooding through social media, it made me so grateful to have so many kind, wonderful people in my life. 

And my family has absolutely dazzled me. The way my mom dropped everything to run to me when things got bad, and stayed with me, lying on the floor with my dog in the emergency vet for hours keeping Molly and me company was beyond amazing. Her husband was also supportive and understanding, and so gentle with my pup. 

And when my girl passed and I went to see my family in Jacksonville for my niece's christening, not only did my nieces and nephew manage to push all of the sadness from my heart for a while, all of the hugs and condolences and kindness came in from the folks in attendance in just the quantity to lift my spirits without making me break down. 

I can never thank all of you guys enough. You are the miracles in my life my dog reminded me of, which is just one more thing I have to be grateful to her for.

Book Review: The Last Unicorn

I know what you probably think when you hear the word "unicorn." You picture a violet-eyed, snow white horse with a golden horn and glitter in its candy pink mane. It would giggle and frolic and fart rainbows and generally be the most asinine, girly member of the pantheon of mythical beasts. Surely, most of us would rather read about dragons, griffins, or even a nice sea serpent.

If it had the thumbs to hold a pen, this unicorn 

would dot its "i's" with little hearts.

Original image found here.

It's difficult to imagine someone who could take the Lisa Frank/ My Little Pony-esque sting out of the image that the unicorn has acquired over the years, but that's exactly what Peter S. Beagle does through the pages of THE LAST UNICORN. Whatever quaint notions you may harbor about these creatures being the over-caffeinated cheerleaders of the fantasy world, prepare to abandon them. These aren't your mothers' unicorns.

Pick up a copy here.

Beagle's unicorn comes to life on the page as a strange, majestic beast capable of wonders and horrors, violence and mercy. Her mind is a logical, deliberate place, her view of the world tinged with a cool detachment. Being a supernatural being with the casual arrogance that comes with magical prowess and the wisdom of having seen the centuries pass, she lacks a truly empathetic nature. When she encounters our mortal griefs, the best she can manage sometimes is pity, because our human emotions and concerns are strange to her. Unlike we mere mortals, the unicorn explains to us early in the book that her kind are incapable of feeling regret. 

Added to this alien viewpoint is her awareness of her own beauty, which she enjoys admiring in ponds, and her consciousness of her legendary status, which merits parades and fanfare in her view. And yet, these almost unpleasant-sounding characteristics come together across the pages to create a creature who is not one whit unlikeable. Indeed, her vanity has an odd charm to it. And given that she is a creature whose horn can cow a dragon, return the dead to life, and shatter illusions, the reverence she expects is well-deserved. Besides, there is an odd vulnerability to her, beneath all of her supernatural badassery. Like a hermit making her way into the bustling wide world, you find yourself nervous for her as she sets out on her quest, and catching glimpses of the unexpected sensitivity hidden beneath her seemingly dispassionate nature.

Don't hate her because she's beautiful.

Original image found here.

The story revolves around the unicorn's startling discovery that she is the last of her kind left in the world.  Unicorns are solitary creatures, so she has not been concerned by the fact that she hadn't seen another unicorn for some time. Then she overhears a conversation between two hunters, who know that they're in a unicorn's forest and lament that the poor beast is the last, as all the rest have vanished. And while she initially can't believe that it's true, she has to know for sure. If something has become of her people, she either has to find them or join them in their fate. And so begins her quest.

It is jarring for the unicorn to leave her forest. Her presence there kept it safe and peaceful and the odd, anachronistic world beyond its limits does not seem kind. Indeed, men in the world no longer know her for what she is, and there are dangers that threaten even a creature like her. However, like any good hero, our unicorn gets by with a little help from her friends. She is ultimately joined on her quest by Schmendrick the magician, a bumbling magic-user with an unusual curse, and Molly Grue, a sensible middle-aged woman who was formerly a cook for a group of Merry Men wannabes. Schmendrick charms as a secret softy who employs the skillful patter of a used car salesman to escape disaster when his magic fails him (as it often does). Meanwhile, though she sometimes comes off as pushy, Molly is a marvelous, practical foil for a grandiose personality like Schmendrick's, with a deep sense of compassion to soften her and save her from severity. These colorful cast members add humor and humanity to the tale, giving us a more familiar lens through which to view the world.  From the macabre wonders of Mommy Fortuna's Midnight Carnival to the twisted towers of King Haggard's castle, these travelers keep us amused, invested, and entertained. 

The unicorn's nemesis in the story, the Red Bull, 

will NOT give you wings. He will, however,

try to steal your unicorns.

Original image found here.

The writing in this book is beyond amazing. Peter S. Beagle's words have a strange music, where unicorns are the "careless color of seafoam," cats look like piles of autumn leaves, and no matter how much a magician may seek to school his expression, his nose always gets away from him. My writerly heart when pitter-pat with envy as Beagle described how the spiral staircase of Haggard's tower squeezed in on them like a sweaty fist and later conjured images of a brisk wind that "leaped here and there in the room like a gleeful animal discovering the flimsiness of human beings." A master wordsmith, the words he strings together are seldom words you would expect to see standing shoulder-to-shoulder in any sentence, and yet their combination makes perfect sense. Much like a good poem evokes feeling using unexpected imagery, so, too, does Beagle's artful prose stir one's heart and imagination to a gleeful frothing.

Likewise, his dialogue has the kind of lovely, poetic logic that makes perfect sense in a fairy tale. In this story, young girls are the ideal questing beasts and one look in a woman's eyes suggests that she is either mad or just born that morning. 

Overall, Beagle's imaginative and unexpected work was like a beautiful and haunting dream. The combination of his legendary, medieval setting peppered with oddities like a butterfly singing of trains and a prince reading a magazine made me unsure of what world I was dwelling in, but I was absolutely certain that I never wanted to leave it. The plot unfolded with expert pacing, subplots cropping up in flourishes like dashes of paint on an artist's canvas, and everything tied together in the end exactly as it should. And in the same way that he made a unicorn so much more than a pretty beast, Beagle transformed this fairy tale into so much more than just a bedtime story. There was an epic quality, and yet a humility and a humanity to it. And much in the way that a good song will echo in your mind long after you first hear it, the themes and images in this book resonated in my heart long after I turned the final page. 

In the end, I understood the quote from Patrick Rothfuss written along the bottom of the cover: "The Last Unicorn is the best book I have ever read. You need to read it. If you've already read it, you need to read it again." 

Hear hear, Mr. Rothfuss. I heartily agree.

Reflections on a Furry Companion

This morning, I was in a huge flaming hurry and managed to slice my kneecap open as I did a tidy-up shave. It didn't hurt that much, but it bled profusely. Still, I didn't pause to bandage it. There was no time. I had to get my dog to the vet. 

I wouldn't have been in quite such a rush if I hadn't spent the night before sleeping on the floor, snuggled up in a pile of blankets with Miss Molly the Wonder Pup, the furry love of my life since 1999. Periodically through the night, I woke up and rolled over to check on her, sometimes offering her her water bowl and others, running to fetch her meds to help her get comfortable enough to fall back asleep. 

The end result was that when my alarm clock began screeching from its temporary new home on the arm of my couch, I found myself casting about futilely for something heavy to throw at it. As nothing came to hand, I settled for rocking up and smacking the buttons on the top. Having slain the beast, I went back to sleep for a bit. 

The second time the alarm started bleating, I barely let it make a peep before I smacked it again and settled back down, questing eagerly after unconsciousness again. Let it never be said that I'm not a quick study. 

Then a snout nudged my arm, and I looked over into muzzy brown eyes.

"I don't know what you're in such a hurry for," I told Molly. "They're going to stick a scope up your lady bits."

She stared at me soulfully and gave a pleading lick. 

I sighed and rocked back up again, turning off the alarm clock and starting to get ready to go.

This is not the sort of face you say "no" to.

A charge through the fray of Tallahassee traffic brought us, in short order, to the fancy new vet my old vet referred me to. It lies hidden in the woods on a weird twisty road you can only reach if you are pure of heart or have a functional GPS. For me, I had to rely on the former, because I haven't updated the maps in my GPS since sometime in 2009. Consequently, when I asked it to lead me to the new vet's office yesterday, it took me repeatedly and insistently to a funeral home.

"Not funny, ass hat," I told the GPS lady. Luckily, I got the directions all sorted out in a quick phone call. By comparison, today's trip was smooth sailing, aside from the odd old lady putzing along in the left lane going 15 mph under the posted speed limit with her right blinker on. 

The hard part was picking up my 51-pound dog and carrying her from the car into the vet's office. It's not so much her weight. I have dealt with lugging her up and down the stairs off and on for the past month, and that doesn't bother me much. It's the change in her demeanor as I carry her. Molly is not a fan of being hauled around like luggage. On a typical day, if subjected to such an indignity, she goes rigid in my arms, both front paws splayed out as if braced for impact and her back end all a-swivel when I start to set her down. 

This skeptical look was probably her Spidey senses a-tingle with the 

notion that someday, somehow, I would blog about her vagina.

However, since our little scare yesterday, in which her hoo-ha started dripping blood and I ended up rushing her in a frenzy to the vet, she's been resigned. I pick her up, and I know that she still hates it, but she lays limply in my arms like a sack of potatoes, her feet dangling beneath her. Today, when I put her down in the vet's parking lot for a minute, she was still not quite sure how to use her paws. Looking dazed and uncomfortable, she put her front feet out in front of her at awkward angles, her hips twisted slightly such that her weight rested on one back leg. 

Given the number of people who started cooing with sympathy as I carried her into the vet, though, I began to suspect she was playing an angle. Never let it be said that I have a dumb dog. 

Never let it be said that I have a bad dog, either, though. In the past few days, she's had fingers, thermometers, and scopes jammed in her orifices. Despite being in pain and being manhandled by strangers, never once did the faintest murmur of protest escaped her. There was no growling, no curl of the lip. Nothing but soulful eyes and a tucked tail. 

"She's such a sweet girl," everyone kept saying. 

No need to tell me that. I've known it for nearly 14 years now. 

At the end of the day's procedure, I learned that we still don't know what's going on and we won't until the results come back from the lab. But after a guided video tour of my dog's insides, I began to feel cautiously optimistic for the first time since this all started. The doc says it may not be cancer, and that if it's cancer, it may not be malignant. He expedited the processing of her labs, and we expect to find out what's going on on Friday morning. 

In the meantime, Molly was looking more alert already as we left the vet's office. She walked out under her own steam and even tried to take advantage of my sympathy by pulling me through the flowerbeds on an impromptu walk. Though I carried her up the stairs to get into my apartment, she seemed more interested in following me around like she usually does, always with the hope in her doggy heart that whatever I'm doing will involve dropped food. 

Through thick and thin, blonde and brunette, Molly has been my best pal.

We were both in better spirits by the time I sat cross-legged on the carpet beside her to pet her ears and eat my lunch. I was relieved to see her looking more like her old self, and she was making soft whistling noises through her nose as I petted her- her happy sound. 

It wasn't until I was sitting there, watching cartoons and petting my dog, that I finally remembered cutting my knee that morning. Finishing my sandwich, I dusted the crumbs from my hands and pulled up my pants leg to inspect the damage. It really wasn't that deep, but there was blood all across my knee. I probably should've at least put a Band-aid on it.

Smelling the blood, Molly raised her head to inspect the cut. And then my dog, who had spent the past 24 hours in varying levels of pain, began to tenderly lick my wound clean.

Just in case I ever wonder if it's worth it (and honestly, I never do), it's moments like this that remind me that a friend this devoted is worth paying any price for. And God willing, I will see her well enough to run laps around my living room again.

Behind Blue Eyes: Reflections on the Demise of Merle Dixon

The death of Merle Dixon echoed through the "Walking Dead" fandom like a gunshot. For a moment, there was only stillness and horror as we watched Daryl dissolve into sobbing, inconsolable grief. Then, as the younger Dixon stabbing his zombified brother's face into a messy goo and the credits rolled, the internet erupted.

Admit it. If you ran into a zombie with a knife hand, you'd poop yourself and die.

Even dead, Merle scares the crap out of us.

Original image found here.

Some folks were pleased. They never liked Merle. And honestly, what was there to like? Merle was a drug-using racist asshole who was introduced to us in season 1 as the guy playing alpha male and popping shots off in the middle of zombie-filled Atlanta. When he turned up as the sadistic right hand of the Governor, no one was really surprised. Merle had "henchman" written all over him. The way he pummeled Glenn into mush and then shoved a walker in to finish him really cinched it. Merle was the devil. He recognized that everyone must see him that way, himself, in "This Sorrowful Life."

"Buck up, son. This is still better than if it came to arm-wrestling."

Original image found here.

But Merle had always given hints that he was more than just a redneck stereotype fit only for slaughter. For one thing, whether you love him or you hate him, you can't deny that he's  a complete badass. I don't think a single one of us can imagine having the stones to saw off our own hand, stumble downstairs without fainting, and cauterize the wound on a stove. And even if we could even manage such a thing, I doubt the average Joe would be able to fight his way out of Atlanta one-handed and haul ass to safety while weak from blood loss. No, I think in Merle's situation, most people would've curled up into a weepy, shivering ball of human misery and waited for death to find them.

"I have feelings. Shhhh. Don't tell anyone."

Original image found here. 

Coming back as a hallucination in season 2, Merle was as antagonistic as ever, haranguing a fallen Daryl with a varied and colorful array of insults to his manhood and fortitude. But even as a hallucination, there was a  sense that Merle considered himself to be acting for Daryl's own good. And indeed, through his stinging hail of verbal barbs, he drove his weary brother up and out of the gorge so that he could seek treatment for the injuries he sustained in his fall.

"And if you do not go, I shall taunt you a second time!"

Original image found here.

When we finally catch up with the corporeal Merle and his shiny new knife-hand in season 3, the only thing our pal Merle can think of once he knows Daryl's still out there is finding his baby brother. And you have to wonder why. Merle's been painted as an unsentimental hardass up to this point. He's not a nice guy, he's not a caring guy, and we'd never actually seen these two interact in the flesh. It seems like a harsh question to ask about any human being, but I had to wonder, did he want his brother back because he loved him or was it a control thing? Did he miss his brother's company, or did he have to have him because he was HIS brother?

*singing* "I can't liiiiiiiive... if living is without you!"

Original image found here.

Honestly, I didn't know until the two Dixons left the group to fend for themselves in "Home." Predictably, despite Daryl leaving the people he'd come to care for and respect to be with Merle, Merle continued to berate and deride his brother. And seeing Daryl spurred to heroics to help stranded strangers escape from walkers doesn't make Merle any kinder. He clearly regarded his brother's bravery as the worst sort of foolishness. But then their conversation takes a turn. Merle is aghast to discover that his brother had taken the beatings Merle used to suffer at their father's hands in Merle's absence. It sets him back, throws him off his macho game, and leaves him fumbling for equilibrium. You can tell he hates that this happened to his brother, and he wants to make things right somehow, but he knows that he'll never be welcome at the prison. In the end, he goes back, because Daryl makes it clear that he's going back with or without him.

"This Sorrowful Life" then gives us Merle in his death throes, thrashing like prey in the jaws of an alligator. He knows how they all see him. Even as Daryl tries to talk Glenn into forgiving Merle for that whole attempted murder business, Merle is aware that the group looks at him as the bad guy and probably always will. There's something particularly wild in his search for drugs in the prison bedding. I saw someone who can't stay still, who can't stay within his own skin without the benefit of a little medicinally-induced dullness. 

He seemed to welcome the grim, murderous task of delivering Michonne. This was the best they could expected of him, that he would do their dirty work for them. And he decided, when Rick asked him to do it, to live up to their expectations. If they wanted him to be soulless garbage, then he would be soulless garbage and do the thing that none of them had the stomach for. And Merle decided there would be no going back on this. Rick wanted him to be the hooded executioner taking the taunts and jeers of the crowd for him, and he was going to carry out his orders even if they were rescinded. So he took Michonne and bore her off to be their sacrificial lamb.

She did get under his skin, digging in about how he wasn't the man he tried to pretend he was. That he wouldn't lament being a bad guy if he really was one. And truthfully, it was telling that he had never killed anyone before the apocalypse and that he kept count of those he did since then. The count suggested to me a man who felt each death leave a mark on his soul, which wouldn't be the case if he had no soul to speak of. 

When Merle let Michonne go and went on his sniper mission against the Governor's men, we all knew Merle had decided then that he wasn't coming back to the prison. That he wasn't coming back anywhere, if he could help it. But the why of it had people confused. And yet, while I wholeheartedly agree that the motivation behind Merle's final mission could have been much more clearly developed, I completely understood it.

In this episode, Merle realized that his brother had a new family. Daryl had a place in the prison, with these people who cared for him and respected him. They would never feel that way about Merle. He could only linger in the shadows, pissing them off and accepting the brunt of their hateful stares as his due, and be the outsider there by Daryl's grace alone. And chances are, he was going to screw it up for Daryl. I think when he was hunting up drugs, he could feel the restlessness that drives him to sin stirring, wanting to fight and rant and raise Hell. And he may have been trying to resist it, to dull it, but he'd give in eventually and ruin everything. Then he'd put Daryl in the position of choosing between Merle, who didn't know how to treat him well, or the group of people who did. 

It was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Merle had come to see himself as the others did, to believe himself incapable of better. And because all he could do was drag Daryl down with him, he did the only useful thing he could think of: he decided to take himself out of the picture and bring as many of those Woodbury bastards with him as possible. 

What he couldn't do was go back and face the group after doing exactly what was expected of him. He couldn't pretend like he was capable of being a better man. He just had to fight as cleverly and as brutally as only he knew how, and hope that his brother would be better for it. 

Which actually showed that he would have been capable of being a good man, if he had only been able to believe it, himself.

"You've got to play the hand you're dealt. I only got one."

-Merle Dixon in "This Sorrowful Life."

Original image found here. 

I wasn't happy that Merle died in the end. I was torn apart by Daryl's reaction, and by the notions of what might have been if Merle had just had an ounce of faith in himself. And for myself, I suspect that even if this had to be Merle's end, it could have done him more justice if we'd gotten to see a few more glimpses of the man he really was beneath the bad guy, the henchman, the racist redneck and verbally abusive older brother. There was more to Merle, and we only scratched the surface. But I was happy to have the answer to my question in the end. Merle did love Daryl, and he loved him more than his own life.

This one's for you, Merle.

"Behind Blue Eyes" by The Who

The Agony and the Ecstasy: What Makes a Tragic Romance Worth the Pain

It seems unhealthy to seek after feelings of crushing anguish and bittersweet misery. Normally, we don't walk into situations and hope to walk back out weeping. And yet, there are times when even the best-adjusted individual may pine after a bit of romantic angst, told so beautifully than one can't even fully regret the ending. So what does it take to tell a tale that destroys hearts, and yet keeps us coming back for more? Well, I'm going to run through three well-known favorites in the realm of tragic romance and analyze what it is about these tales that, in the words of the great Mr. Mellencamp, makes them "hurt so good."

ROMEO AND JULIET

Call it cliche, if you wish, but this story is a classic example of love gone epically wrong. From the moment the young lovers meet and get nailed with a lightning bolt between the eyes, the universe seems to be plotting against them. It's bad enough that their families are bitter rivals who will never let them be together. They manage to circumvent that little obstacle by marrying in secret with the help of a friendly neighborhood priest. But then Juliet's cousin, Tybalt, has to go picking fights and bumps off Romeo's pal, Mercutio. Which, of course, calls for a healthy dose of revenge in the form of Romeo killing Tybalt. So now the in-laws definitely aren't going to approve.

To make matters worse, Juliet's dad has promised her to another man. To avoid bigamy, the poor girl is forced to fake her own death. Unfortunately, back in the day, you couldn't send a letter certified mail with return receipt requested, so her poor hubby-in-hiding misses the message that should've let him know that the rumors of Juliet's death have been greatly exaggerated. Thinking his beloved dead, what else is our smitten young hero to do other than buy a dram of poison and pop by the visit the little woman's alleged corpse for some smooching and suicide? And, because their luck would draw dreadful odds in Vegas, Juliet wakes up just as Romeo downs the poison. As the apple of her eye expires, Juliet hurries after, plunging his dagger into her heart.

What makes this tale so compelling that we voluntarily let it punch us right in the feels? I suspect it's the elements of forbidden love and the cruelty of fate. No one can deny the lure of forbidden fruit. The idea that someone who inspires the glowing euphoria of true love would turn out to be an enemy is a powerful one. Suddenly, what should be joyous is threatening and perilous, and new love is pitted against ancient hatred. There are seemingly insurmountable obstacles to overcome, and the romantics among us long to see love conquer all.

Cue the cruel twists of fate that send it all spiraling out of control. One by one, tiny, often insignificant-seeming details go awry. From the skirmishes between Romeo, Tybalt, and Mercutio to Juliet's ill-timed engagement, suddenly these poor kids have a lot more on their plate than their parents' mutual animosity. 

Then the least significant event of all happens: missed mail. We've all missed a letter here and there. A bill might get paid late. A party missed. Maybe even one learns of a sale at Bed, Bath, and Beyond just two days too late to get those new sheets at 20% off. These small tragedies are bearable. But the notion that one missed communication could result in the grief-stricken suicides of two young lovers is gut-wrenchingly unfair. This is when you know for certain that the gods (and possibly the mailman) are out to get you. And  thus two star-crossed lovers become a cautionary tale for parents who let their hatred get the best of them.

Wow, I guess Pat Benatar was right. Love really is a battlefield.

Original image found here.

Further reading: Of course, you can't beat going back to the source, so pick up your copy of Romeo and Juliet today! Also, for a similar tale of family ire turned to lovelorn tragedy, check out the tale of Pyramus and Thisbe as told in Ovid's Metamorphoses.

TRISTAN AND ISOLDE

Perhaps you're a bit cynical at the notion of love at first sight. Maybe you don't buy that Romeo and Juliet could just clap eyes on each other and know they were meant to be together for the rest of their lives. So if love at first sight isn't your cup of tea, perhaps you'd like to try a little love potion # 9?

The tale of Tristan and Isolde has few variations, but it consistently begins with our handsome hero, Tristan, being raised in the court of good King Mark, who is his uncle, mentor, and father-figure. Tristan loves and admires Mark, so when the king asks him to help him fetch a wife, Tristan is at his service. Of course, rather than hopping on medieval eharmony to find a wench who also enjoys gardening and musicals, Mark finds strands of hair that are an unusual shade of red and says, "Hell, I'll take her!" So Tristan is sent into the world to track down a ginger suffering from what is hopefully only minor hair loss. 

It turns out said ginger is a radiant young princess named Isolde whose homeland is being terrorized by a dragon. To earn her hand, one must kick some rampaging reptilian ass. Undaunted by the challenge, Tristan switches gears from errand boy to knight errant and bests the beast, thereby earning the right to haul Isolde off to marry Mark.  

Unfortunately, something funny happens on the way back to Cornwall. Isolde has been given a love potion she was meant to take before her wedding to King Mark. It seems like a reasonable measure to ensure her happiness with the older king who is, at this point, a stranger to her. However, by treachery or mishap, she and Tristan end up drinking the enchanted brew and falling deeply in love with each other. And now life has become truly complicated. Because Isolde is promised to Mark, and Mark is dear to Tristan. So Tristan delivers Isolde responsibly to his uncle, but despite their best intentions, the two end up carrying on behind Mark's back. 

After much suspicion, the two are discovered, and this leads to disaster, betrayal, and the forced separation of the lovers. Tristan goes from being his uncle's favorite and the heir to his kingdom to an exile who must leave his true love behind. He does go on to marry another Isolde- this one called "Isolde of the White Hands"- but he's never really all that into her. And when he is mortally wounded, the original Isolde is the only Isolde with the healing skills to save him. Unfortunately, the new Isolde gets a little jealous about the way her hubby swoons over the memory of his ex. As he clings to life on the strength of his hope that his beloved will come, Isolde 2 is instructed to watch from the window for the ship's approach. If the ship flies black sails, Isolde 1 refused to help him. If the sails are white, his lady love is on the way to rescue him.

Seeing the white sails headed her way, Isolde 2 can't resist muttering that they're black. Tristan then dies of a broken heart and Isolde 1 similarly perishes from her grief when she finds him dead.  Thus while their lives were longer than Romeo and Juliet's, they still ended in tragic misfortune thanks to a little white lie.

This story has some of the same allure that permeates Romeo and Juliet. There's some mistaken identity issues early on and, of course, the notion of forbidden love  to make our hearts go pitter-pat. And here, too, Fate seems bent on wiping the floor with the troubled twosome, who would've been happy in-laws but for swilling the wrong bottle of wine. 

But what really sets this tale apart is the betrayal. King Mark is dear to Tristan, and Tristan would not have hurt him for anything in the world. Or so it was before love got ahold of him. Then, suddenly, he can't stop himself from spitting in the eye of the one person he loves best, all for the sake of a girl he's only just met. His love is poisoned by the knowledge that it causes Mark pain, and thus each stolen moment of joy is also laced with sorrow. And Isolde wanted Tristan before she ever met Mark. Still, she respected her husband, and she wasn't happy to see her beau suffer. The result is enough angst to make the bleakest alt rock album seem downright cheery by comparison.

In the end, while one may normally frown upon adultery, you can't help but feel sorry for these two. Love makes people do crazy things, and in this case, they're at least partly absolved of responsibility through act of magic potion. And that small magic allows us to sympathize with people engaged in illicit actions, finding a way to rationalize two people giving in to their passion at the expense of those they hold dear. This glorious misery contrasts and amplifies the flashes of bravery, romance, and nobility in a way that makes them seem even more precious, and all the more frail.

Who among us hasn't had one too many magic potions 
and done something we regretted?

Original image found here.

Further reading: I have yet to track down a really stellar retelling of this tale, but I have found at least one great resource for those interested in reading a comparison of the original source material. 

KING ARTHUR AND GUINEVERE

It is said that the Arthurian love triangle may have been inspired or influenced by the tale of Tristan and Isolde. Certainly, the architecture is similar, it's only the scale that is so much grander. In this tale, you have your noble, respected king, only he is no mere King Mark. No, this is King Arthur, wielder of Caliburn, ruler of Camelot, and one of the greatest legendary kings ever to sport a crown. Here is the fellow who the mysterious sorcerer, Merlin, enchanted for, who united the warring tribes of Britain against the Saxons and forged a time of peace and plenty for his people. His greatness was foretold before he was born. 

And what would a bold figure of a king be without a queen who outshines every other noble beauty in the kingdom? His queen, Guinevere, was described as being a rare flower of a woman. And although theirs was a political marriage, prearranged for reasons other than devotion much like Mark and Isolde's, by most accounts, there was admiration and respect between them, if not love.

Enter Sir Lancelot, the bravest of Arthur's knights, and a friend, besides. The legends touted Lancelot as a formidable warrior, the medieval equivalent of the captain of the football team and the unquestionable MVP of any battle. And besides being a badass on the field, he was apparently quite easy on the eyes as well, ensnaring hearts wherever he went. (Just ask the Lady of Shalott!) And though he destroyed many of Arthur's enemies, Lancelot turned out to be the most insidious enemy of them all when he became smitten with the queen. 

It began much as Tristan and Isolde's ill-fated romance: with an act of heroism by the romantic upstart on behalf of the absent rightful husband. When Guinevere is kidnapped by another king and held prisoner, it's Lancelot who comes to save her. And because he's Lancelot and rescuing fair maidens is what he does best, he is successful. One can almost see how a woman might get swept away by a knight in shining armor who spirits her out of danger while her husband is busy elsewhere.

And so begins a passionate love affair between the knight and the queen. Torn by their loyalty to Arthur, and yet hopelessly smitten, they cannot resist a few stolen moments of bliss. Unfortunately, they're not as stealthy about it as they might have hoped. Their dalliances do not escape the notice of Arthur's knights, and it undermines his hold on the kingdom and gives his lurking enemies the opening they've been waiting for.  It all comes to a head when Arthur finally discovers the affair and orders Guinevere burned at the stake. Though Lancelot rescues her, the fallout causes warfare between Arthur and Lancelot that allows Arthur's bastard son, Mordred, to try for the throne while he's distracted. And though Mordred is slain in the end, so, too, is Arthur. Thus passion topples the mighty kingdom and the dream that was Camelot dies with her king.

Here, too, we have the usual elements of a compelling tragic romance: forbidden love and cruel fate. Arthur's doom has been written in the stars for as long as his glory has and the legend resonates with the theme that nothing so good and glorious as Camelot can last in the face of human frailty. That the source of Arthur's undoing begins with the actions of his wife and his trusted friend are just the sad twist on the inevitable end of this golden age. And so this tale of woe picks up on Tristan and Isolde's theme of the betrayal of a friend and liege in the name of love, giving our tormented lovers the guilty choice between their own desires and their loyalties. The message of the chaos caused by love is amplified in this tale by the scale of the consequences. It's not just the lovers who pay the price. Because of Lancelot and Guinevere's weakness for each other, and to some extent Arthur's weakness in how he addresses it, one error begets another until a whole kingdom is ripped apart. 

Lancelot: "So was it good for you?"

Guinevere: "Well, it was good, but 
wrecking Camelot good? Probably not."

Original image found here.

Further reading: There's a whole host of fantastic books that are true to the popular versions of the Arthurian legends. However, I've always been a sucker for a good twist. For instance, the series by Mary Stewart that begins with The Crystal Cave is a masterful retelling of the legends, but as seen through the eyes of Merlin. It starts with his childhood and upbringing on through to the fall of Camelot, placing the mysterious enchanter in a human context that makes him relatable. It also has a very historical setting that makes the story more believable and tangible without detracting from its grandeur. Similarly, Merlin's Harp chooses to recount the legend of King Arthur from the point-of-view of the Lady of the Lake's wild Fey daughter, a mage in her own right who manages to innocently meander into the legend while trying to mind her own business. It's beautifully told, and manages to be true to the spirit of the tales without being slavish. I could go on, but, um, I probably shouldn't. ;)

CONCLUSION

In the end, it's the dire consequences that makes these tragic romances so enduring. We can all get engrossed in the passion and the yearning and the poetry, but there's also something about the notion of the unspeakable grief that can be caused by such love that resonates with a reader. In Romeo and Juliet, it's enough to claim several lives on the way to the final curtain. In Tristan and Isolde, death and shattered trusts are left in the couple's wake. And in the Arthurian legends, love brings out the flaws in great men and manages to crush Camelot in a way no Saxon army could. It speaks to our own awareness of our own frailty, our wariness of being hurt. These tales express our hope that love will conquer all, and the fear that it often doesn't. And in stirring our hearts and smashing them to ruin, these tragic lovers find a unique immortality. We may not remember all the blissful happy endings, but these searingly sad ones have a way of etching themselves into our memories. Some loves and lives manage to burn all the brighter because they burn so briefly.

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FOOD FOR THOUGHT

1. What are your thoughts about tragic romances? Do you glory in the sweet misery of a sad ending or do you feel cheated, as a reader, when there's no happily ever after? 

2. As a writer, do you ever worry that choosing the bleaker ending will alienate readers or are you fairly confident that there will always be those of us who are gluttons for emotional punishment? 

3. As a reader, do you find the concept of love at first sight romantic or just illogical? Do you swoon or chalk it up to hormones? 

4. As a writer, do you prefer to nurture along a slow blossoming of affection rather than go with the love lightning bolt? If so, how do you keep the pace up and keep the reader's interest? 

If you're interested in exploring these topics further, feel free to join @sabrinaslibrary and me (@amandakespohl) on Twitter at the #Plottymouths hashtag on March 16, 2013 at 7:30 E.S.T.! We'll be chatting about crafting compelling romantic plots and subplots. 

Getting Lucky: A Chat on Writing Romantic Plots

Whether you're penning a tale where the romance is the raison d'etre or just a subplot lurking in the background, come one, come all, and join @sabrinaslibrary and I (@amandakespohl) as we chat about the pitfalls and perils of writing a romantic plot. We'll be chatting on Twitter on March 16th at 7:30 p.m. EST under the #Plottymouths hashtag. Be there or be... well, elsewhere, but still, you'll be missing out!

Back in the day, the chick who could wail on the lute always got the flyest man-candy.

Original image found here.