My copies of Bark Magazine came a few days ago with my essay “Evolution” in it. From submission to publication it took about a year and a half. Not too crazy about the lay-out and they didn’t use the bio I sent them (instead clipping info from my query, which is kind of sterile and not in the least bit exciting), but I am thrilled nevertheless.
The original essay I wrote was 17-pages (or 23, I can’t remember. I lost the original in My Great Computer Crash of October 2007). One day, while I was standing in line at Whole Foods, I saw a cover story on William Wegmann, and picked up the magazine. I immediately decided to do something I had never done before – trim down something specifically to gear it toward a magazine. I got the essay down to 6 pages from 17 (or 23, but who’s counting). It was quite a learning experience. For anyone who is a writer I strongly suggest it.
I have a tendency to be longwinded in my correspondence. Fast brain and fast fingers – sometimes I can’t control the two. Many of my emails end up being novellas… Anyway, I am still mourning the loss of some of the material I cut out – but overall I feel it’s much cleaner and more appropriate for the magazine. So, some of my family oddities were left out, and the true demise of some of the animals, and some of the unfortunate events that occur when you have farm animals, (one was poisoned by the neighbors, and another had to be put down because he was running in a pack and killing other animals: chicken, ducks, sheep). But I also didn’t get to say how one of our ducks (Luke Skywalker) was in love with one of our dogs (Fritz). And how J.D. used to bite all of my dates. And how we used to dress up Gretchen (who was entirely cut from the article) in aviator goggles and a cape whenever we went to the town dump, and how she’d stand in the back of the truck on the garbage with her front paws on the cab and her cape blowing in the wind… And I completely cut out other animals (this was about ALL of our animals). How our cow, Showboat thought she was a sheep, and used to get loose, eat all of our neighbors roses, and then wander into their living room and go to sleep (in the summer, in the country, you keep your doors open). Or Tri-State, the rooster, my dad’s co-workers gave to him in an empty KFC bucket after a weekend of fishing and my dad complaining that they ate all the damn chicken. Tri-State couldn’t be left alone and would pace back and forth on our kitchen counters “talking” to us non-stop until mom couldn’t take it anymore and had to take him out to the garage to be with my dad. And how, after any period of time of Tri-State being alone he’d rush up to nuzzle at our legs. Or how I raised my pet lamb, Macarthur from a bottle and he lived in our utility room, wore a collar, and did tricks. Or how my mom liked to take out the seats in our custom-colored turquoise Dodge van, so we could take our pony, Shadow for rides into town (he’d rest his head on mom’s shoulder as she drove) so he could “see the sights.” The list goes on… but perhaps those are better left told in another personal essay… I’d like to write more, and hopefully one day will…. At least “Evolution” is a start.
So, yeah... you can pick up a copy of Bark Magazine from May 15 to July 15 at Barnes and Noble, Borders and Whole Foods. There is actually an interesting article about a dog and cheetah that live together in the Cincinnati Zoo (dying to tell Ibeatya about this) and a great one about The Prison Pet Partnership Program in my home state.
Thanks! For those who read it, I hope you enjoy it.
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I wrote this post Friday night before I went to bed. I didn’t have time to post it… I wanted to scan in the cover, and I had practice in the morning, and had to get ready for Fete Fatale the next night.
When I finished writing it, I climbed in my bed and continued flipping through Bark Magazine. There was an article called Rites of Passage by a PhD, who recommended spending some time with the body of your dog after he/she died. That it was important for you, and your other animals, to have closure. She wrote about letting her dead dog lay on the living room floor for the night to ease the bridge of saying good-bye… I found the notion somewhat disturbing. I have always had a hard time dealing with death, and especially with dead bodies. I went to sleep thinking about it… Never did I imagine that less than 24 hours later, 30 minutes before I was to leave for Fete Fatale that I would be in an emergency veterinarian room with one hand stroking my dog, Dita’s head, and the other on her chest, as I felt it rise and expand until the last breath went out of her body….
Dita is a dog I have with my ex, Michael. We split a year and half ago, but shared custody of her and our weimaraner, Wiggy. When I met Michael, Wiggy was six-months old. We got Dita together a year and half later.
Michael had his heart set on getting a Harlequin Great Dane, so we scanned the paper until we found an ad for Great Danes. It didn’t say what kind they were. Michael called the number, and the mother of the couple selling them answered. Michael asked her if they were Harlequins, and she said she didn’t know what that meant. He said it meant that they were black and white. “Oh sure,” she responded, “they are black and white.” We then set a time out to drive out to MS to see them. When we got there, I took one look into the back of the truck and knew they weren’t Harlequins, they were actually Bostons. My heart dropped because I knew Michael specifically wanted a Harlequin and can be very stubborn when he sets his mind to something. But Michael instantly fussed over them. They had brought four puppies: two girls and two boys, even though we said we wanted a girl. Michael was immediately drawn to Dita, the largest of them all, whom like the rest of them was mostly all black with a few white splotches. “What’s this one like?” he asked, picking her up. “Oh, she’s nice,” the lady replied, “but she sure is feisty.” Michael and I both laughed. There was nothing feisty about this sweet puppy cuddled in his arms. And we continued laughing about the whole drive home with Dita in my lap.
We quickly discovered there was everything feisty about this sweet puppy. Dita attached herself to Wiggy with a rapid pace. At the time, we lived in The Bywater and had a back room with a couch, and a dog door leading out to our large fenced-in yard. Whenever we left, we’d shut them in the back. Dita used the couch to not only lounge in and shove Wiggy off of, but to also perform and perfect her “happy dances,” which were spontaneous acts of gleefully wriggling, rolling, and jumping around whenever the mood struck.
Dita’s first Barkus was when Michael was out of town. It was drizzling and I didn’t want to go. Michael argued over the phone how upset Wiggy would be to miss it. Okay, I would take him. But Michael said I couldn’t take Wiggy without taking Dita. Fine. Okay. I took Dita’s pink tutu costume, which I had purchased a couple of weeks before and slipped it on her; it was already snug (she was gaining four pounds a week). Then I slapped my blue Adidas windbreaker on Wiggy, instead of his costume, and headed out. This was before the enormous success of Barkus when only a couple hundred dogs participated and we met at Good Friends. On the way over, we walked through some sketchy neighborhoods where questionable youths commented, “Hey, I like your dog’s jacket.” Great, I thought, I am going to be mugged because of what my dog is wearing. In the end, since it started to rain, I had to end up carrying Dita since she refused to get her paws wet. She weighed about 40 lbs at this point. Eventually, I ran into a friend who helped. She was carried throughout her inaugural Barkus… Luckily, it wasn’t the same after that and she walked the rest of her Barkus’ dressed as a nun, jester and even a cowgirl (as one of The Village People).
Dita was lazy. Lazy, lazy, lazy. And while day or night, or one minute or hours, Wiggy would always get up and greet us at the door whenever we came in. Dita couldn’t be bothered, she was lying on her bed (or Wiggy’s) and although she was happy to see you, you had to understand she had her priorities.
Dita and Wiggy had many adventures. They drove cross county and stayed in many of the National Parks (and were snuck into many of the Motel 6s). They spent a summer on the water in the Northwest. They went to Florida at least twice a year, to lay in the hot sun and be fed treat after treat by their grandparents. They made countless trip to Colorado and frolicked in the snow and hiked in the mountains. In fact, it was in Colorado where they first learned to swim up at a mountain lake. Wiggy, who never quite got the hang of it, and was humiliated when everyone laughed at him for trying to walk on water, got out and refused to go back in, where Dita not only jumped in, but took the rope on the intertube. Michael was sitting in and pulled him around the lake… Wiggy and Dita both did a pretty god job of seeing the sights.
When Michael and I split it was mutually agreed that he would take both the dogs. Dita could not be separated from Wiggy. The few times she had, she went into absolute hysterics. When we took Wiggy to the vet, Dita had to come. When I had to take Wiggy in solo for a pre-check up for an operation, Dita lay by the front door of our house and howled miserably, refusing to move. Michael kept calling me when I was at the vet’s saying how upset she was. I told this to vet who said it was normal, but when I held the phone away from my ear and she heard the anguished moaning, she gave me a surprised look and wrote Dita a prescription for tranquilizers. The next day, when Wiggy went into his surgery, instead of having a 165 lb traumatized dog waiting at home for him, we had a stoned, 165 lb traumatized dog who refused to leave the front door and shit all over our mail… The second Wiggy came back, she rushed over to him, kissing and licking him non-stop. Then a few minutes later she kicked him out of his own bed and took a nap…
Wiggy and Dita still visited, and whenever Michael went out of town they stayed with me. After a year of missing having a dog, even though a part of me felt like it was cheating, I picked up an adorable puppy I christened Fannie that I met at the SPCA kitten adoption drive that BERG was helping out with. The first thing I did before I even took her home was drive her to meet her brother and sister. Fannie adored them! Wiggy and Dita, now in their senior years, tolerated her. When she wasn't jumping all over them, she was showering them all with affection. They would lie on their beds patiently as Fannie would lie in between the two of them and roll back and forth to randomly kiss or chew on their faces.
Dita and Wiggy had been over a few days before, and I kept having to scold Fannie for jumping up on the furniture in an attempt to be the same height as Dita so she could kiss her on her face. I had agreed to watch Wiggy and Dita for seven weeks this summer while Michael was teaching in Germany, and I knew this was just a preview for the entertaining hell I would soon be experiencing.
I had just stepped out of the shower and had 30 minutes before Chess was coming to pick me up to go to Fete Fatale. I had planned on arriving an hour and half before the event to help Asian. Chess had called and offered me a ride, and when I said thanks, but I was going in early to help, she paused and said, “Cool, Dude. I’ll go in early too and we can all hang out together and help.” When I answered the phone, at first I couldn’t understand what Michael was saying because he was so upset. I finally pieced it together as best I could. Dita was sick. She couldn’t move. He couldn’t move her in the truck by himself and needed my help.
I called Asian and Chess in tears and told them I wouldn’t make it, and by that time, Michael called to tell me that the neighbor helped him get Dita in the truck and he was on his way to get me. When I climbed in the back of the truck, Dita lifted her head to greet me and plopped it back down, never to lift it up again. Her breathing was heavy and labored and her abdomen was swollen to three times its normal size. I sat in the back with them, consoling Dita as best as I could while Michael raced to the emergency vet. When we got there, the staff came out and carried Dita in. I stayed in the truck with Wiggy trying to comfort him as he anxiously barked and whined. A short while later, Michael came out, barely able to retain his composure, and said Dita was suffering from advanced bloat – her stomach had twisted up – a lethal condition typical common in large breeds. The doctors could perform a surgery, but it was highly doubtful with her age and condition (we also found out that she had cancer) that she would even survive the surgery. Furthermore, it was no guarantee, and practically a sure thing that within a week it would return and be even more painful.
Michael carried Wiggy into the room with Dita, who was laid out on the examining table, still unable to move. He picked him up and held him close to Dita so they could see each other. The doctors gave us time alone with her while we sobbed, stroked her, said our goodbyes, and told her how much we loved her. When the time came, Michael was stroking her face and kissing her, I was petting her head and resting my hand on her chest, and Wiggy was by our side….
I don’t know how Wiggy is going to handle all of this. It’s hard because I have been preparing myself for Wiggy’s death this last year. Twelve years old and riddled with tumors, his back legs frequently give out on him and he’s unable to use them… but his spirit and heart is still strong. I don’t know how he will ultimately take all of this, and I don’t know how this will affect his already declining health. But like the article had stated, like us, he too had a chance to say goodbye to our Dita. And I did something I thought I could never do, and that was knowingly watch the life go out of a living creature… Especially a creature as unique and special as our dog, Dita.
And I don’t know why I am writing all this. And I am sure if I end up posting it, I won’t know why I did that either. Perhaps it’s because I have always felt more comfortable expressing anger, love, and happiness than I have heartbreak. And my heart is broken… Perhaps this is my chance to learn something… I don’t know just yet. But what I do know was that my life was better for sharing it with Dita, and that I will miss her always.
This is from a profile I wrote on Dita years ago, and posted on Michael’s website based on the Playboy Centerfold Interviews…
Full Name: Dita Louise
Nicknames: Boobanubus, Miss Sweet Spot, Boobakins, Little Girl, Buttercup
Best Friend: Wiggy
Birthdate: November 29th; Sagittarius
Breed: Great Dane
Favorite Foods: Cheese, hamburger, anything that Wiggy is eating
Turn Ons: Swimming, butt rubies, extra soft beds, getting brushed, cubby holes, road trips, the park, sleeping in, and getting dressed up for Barkus.
Turn Offs: Baths, rain, diet food, flying, being told she’s fat, dogs behind fences, leashes, getting her toenails clipped, and cats.
Talents: Able to squeeze herself into small spaces, the ability to look guilt-free regardless of the evidence against her.
Ambitions: To be served breakfast in bed for the rest of her life.
Favorite Quote: Let them eat cake!
Dita giving her friend, Molly a kiss at Barkus
Wiggy & Dita
