The Many Pleasures of Jack le Portie

First, the blog is back. Various events conspired to keep me from the keyboard: Maggie's death, my own health issues (thankfully minor), and an overly busy schedule. I'm still waaaay too busy, but I miss blogging.

There's also the matter of having something to say, and for a while inspiration failed me--perhaps related to the struggles over my book and my grief at seeing Maggie succumb to cancer, despite my best efforts at nursing. Life is odd, though. The book finally "fell into place," and we now have a new addition to the family: Jack, a three-year old Portuguese water dog.

Jack needed a home, and we needed another dog. Jack's original owner dumped him at a grooming shop, declaring that "anyone who wants this damn dog can have him." One of the groomers, a young woman named Krystal, knew Jack to be a perfectly sweet dog, and she took him in even though she has show dogs of her own. Indeed, between Krystal and her boyfriend, they have six dogs, way too many by anyone's estimation. Nonetheless, they cared for Jack for eighteen months, teaching him nice manners and even a few tricks.

Rod first glimpsed Jack last fall. Occasionally Krystal would bring him along when she did grooming at our local doggie day care place. In January, Rod joked that we would happily take Jack if Krystal ever tired of him, and much to our surprise, she said, "let's talk." She was fond of Jack, but she also knew that he needed a different kind of home; at her place, he was just part of a large pack, which didn't suit his typically needy Portie nature. It's to Krystal's credit that she had the grace and generosity to put the dog first, something his original owner clearly didn't do.

So Jack came home with us on the 18th of January. We were immediately smitten. What is not to like about a dog that is beautiful, smart, playful, and obedient? Jack's zest for life is seemingly endless. Whether it's catching a frisbee in mid-air or playing tag, he's exuberant. Jack might also be the most affectionate dog I've ever owned. By nature, Portuguese water dogs are big, sloppy loves; even by the standards of the breed, however, Jack is infinitely doting, laying his head on your shoulder or climbing into your lap. How anyone could give up a dog this wonderful is beyond me. Best of all, Jack's presence has transformed our other dog Chloe, who lapsed into sullen despondency after Maggie's death. She's now her old self, tail upright and a little swagger in her butt.

I must admit to feeling some guilt regarding the Obama children: Jack would be the perfect dog for the first family. He's a rescue; he's three (i.e. no housebreaking); he's obedient; and he's a big kid himself. I worked hard for the Obama campaign and dutifully wrote out checks, but I draw the line at Jack. Yes, I adore Obama, but I love my new dog even more. What can I say?

Christmas in New York

We spent the holidays in New York, visiting with Rod's daughter (aka my adored stepdaughter). She's going through a rough patch right now, so I think our presence was especially welcome. The city, as always, was wonderful: Central Park still shimmered from the recent snow fall, and the stores glittered with lights. New York is fabulous year-round, but at Christmas it's just sensational.

Tuesday evening we ate with Megan at a Cuban restaurant in midtown called Victor's Cafe. It's been around forever and could easily double as the set for an episode of I Love Lucy. The food was nicely seasoned, but the lackluster service resulted in food arriving lukewarm to our table, a pet peeve (see previous posts). I wouldn't return.

Afterwards we saw Roundabout's new revival of Pal Joey at Studio 54. The production is very good indeed, with a terrific combo backing the singers and slick, professional staging; indeed, the scene changes were the best I've seen in a long time, due partly to the brilliant design of the set and partly to the professionalism of the stage hands. Fluid, seamless, and, best of all, quiet, the set magically transformed from a thirties nightclub to a Fifth Avenue penthouse.

Stockard Channing is well cast as Vera Simpson, the older society dame who falls hard for Joey. She doesn't have a great voice, but her rendition of "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered" is perhaps the most poignant I've ever heard. In the tradition of great Broadway chanteuses, diction and emotion more than compensated for limited range. Martha Plimpton, playing the tough chorine Gladys Bumps, nearly walks away with the show and reminds everyone why she's a perennial favorite on Broadway these days. Jenny Fellner does a nice turn as the ingenue, and she has a crystalline soprano perfect for the role.

Excellent performances by the women are not enough, though: the role of Joey makes or breaks the show. Matthew Risch, who was thrust into the lead halfway through rehearsals, taking over from Christian Hoff, is a superb song and dance man. He has a great, old-fashioned voice, slightly redolent of Frank Sinatra, and like ole' blue eyes, he knows just how to hold a note that extra half-second to create interesting phrasing. Risch's polished performance, though, doesn't get at the heart of Joey--his demons or his sexuality. This is a man, after all, who manages to seduce an upright virgin and a knowing socialite. The book also makes evident his prior involvement with Gladys, the embittered, used up chorine. At least two of these characters are women who have been around the block; clearly, they should avoid Joey, who has "trouble" emblazoned on his forehead, but they fall anyway. The actor playing Joey needs to convey the heat, the danger, and the thrill that would encourage otherwise worldly women to throw caution to the wind. Alas, Risch just doesn't have "it."

Still, this is a show I recommend if you like (as I do) classic American musicals. The book has always been considered problematic, but the revisions do a good job of smoothing out some of the rough patches that dogged previous productions. And as much as I hate to admit it, Pal Joey reminded me why Broadway shows still have that polish one rarely finds in even very good Washington theatre. The difference shows more in the staging than the acting.

We spent Christmas Eve at the Natural History Museum and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. At the former we saw a special exhibit on the horse, which is very good indeed (and soon to close); at the latter, we saw a show on love and art in Renaissance Italy, again quite good, and another exhibit showcasing acquisitions made by the outgoing curator, which was so-so. Truly I think the Met is one of the great museums in the world, if not the greatest. I never tire of going there. As for the Natural History Museum, it made me sad to see the shabby building and woefully outdated dioramas, with moth-eaten birds and other sad examples of taxidermy. Only the dinosaur wing has been recently updated; everything else looks old and neglected. I found myself wondering if the entire concept of a natural history museum might not be outmoded in our virtual world. Certainly, much of it needs to be overhauled. Interactive screens would help, as would interactive video.

I'm afraid we crashed on Christmas Eve, exhausted from the crowds and hours of walking. We watched Woody Allen's new movie, "Vicky, Cristina, Barcelona" in our hotel room, a low-key and pleasant end to a frenetic day.

Christmas day we celebrated with Megan and our friends Donna and Mike (who had carpooled with us from Annapolis) at Remi, a glorious Northern Italian restaurant in midtown. Megan had a superb lobster risotto; I had equally fine seared tuna. We ate, visited, and drank for hours, enjoying the leisure and the company. In the late afternoon, we wandered over to the half-price ticket booth off Times Square, hoping to nab tickets to Gypsy or one of the other shows playing on Christmas day, but half of New York had the same idea. The wait was upward of 90 minutes; dejected, we hiked over to the large (24 screen) cinema complex on 42nd Street with the intent of seeing Slum Dog Millionaire, but again crowds defeated us. Unbelievably, every show was sold out until 10.00 p.m. Vanquished, we ended our Christmas sojourn in the bar at the Hotel W, where I had my first ever lychee martini, a weird but surprisingly good drink.

The Search for a Saddle

Finding a saddle is one of the more frustrating aspects of owning a horse. Imagine trying to find a comfortable shoe that fits not only your own foot but also the appendage of another species--and you both get to wear the same item simultaneously.

I sold my fancy dressage saddle a few weeks ago. I hated the damn thing and felt entirely liberated when a girlfriend remarked last summer that it put me in a lousy position and didn't fit Beau especially well. It was an expensive used saddle I found for an astonishingly modest price at a tack shop in Middleburg. It never felt good from the start, but I somehow thought that discomfort was just part of the deal with a dressage saddle. That I managed to unload it for far more than I paid offset somewhat the two years of contorted riding I endured in the bloody thing.

That left me with the all-purpose Crosby, a saddle I have loved like no other. It's soft, cushiony and molds nicely to my bottom and Beau's back. The leather cleans up well. The problem is this: everyone else (by which I mean trainers) hates the saddle. Nina Holm, my new trainer (and owner of Glenwood Farm in Harwood, where I now board Beau), grumbled during our second lesson that the saddle, by trying to be a little of everything, ended up being nothing in particular. It doesn't put me in an ideal position for jumping, nor does it allow me the long leg and deep seat necessary for proper flat work. I realized then that she was the latest in a succession of trainers to complain about the Crosby.

I have stubbornly clung to the saddle like a bad drug addiction, knowing full well I should stop but unable to control my need. This time, though, I will truly go cold turkey. I thought about keeping the Crosby for trail riding, but I'm afraid I will fall off the wagon, sneaking rides on it in the arena when no one is looking.

So Friday morning I begin the great saddle search. I have four saddles to try from the Surrey; if they don't pan out, then I will cast a net farther afield, to Middleburg, to Pennsylvania, and, if necessary, to North Carolina. In the meantime, I have attached a picture of the Crosby Soft Ride, soon to be consigned to the tack shop. Sigh.

The Bittern in the Baltimore Aquarium

On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, we went with Alex and his delightful girlfriend Kristen to the Baltimore Aquarium. I had not been there for a number of years, so I was glad for the excuse. Happily we didn't encounter too many school groups, and at points we even had exhibits to ourselves.

I was pleased that the aquarium has been so well maintained in recent years; I was also delighted to see some new exhibits, such as the recreation of Australian wetland habitats. We marveled at the birds and monkeys and oohed appropriately at the more cuddly creatures (not tarantulas, which always make me shiver).

We were especially bemused, however, at a bittern (see photo) who had positioned himself strategically along a walkway so humans could pet him. At first, we worried he might be ill; after all, wild birds rarely offer themselves up for voluntary cuddling. We also fretted that he might contract some virus from all those human hands or that some perverse soul might seize the opportunity to harm him. Rod informed a guard of our concerns which, it appears, were for naught. The story is this: Mr. Bittern, at some point in his captivity, decided that he liked the companionship of humans more than birds. He took up residence along the walkways, perching on ledges where human hands could easily reach down and smooth his feathers. Repeatedly his keepers moved him to remote locales within the aviary, only to be defeated by Mr. Bittern's stubborn refusal to dwell among his mates. Finally, the aquarium capitulated, permitting this gregarious avian to socialize with humans but ensuring his safety through carefully positioned security cameras.

I watched Mr. Bittern teach his admiring throng the proper way to pet him: between the wings, on the shoulders. He particularly liked a gentle stroking motion. Any hand that attempted to get near his face or neck was met with a steely glare and a sharp peck. "Yes, you can pet me," he seemed to say, "but only on my terms." Mr. Bittern was the topping on an already swell day.

Maggie: Resquiat in Pacem

I am woefully behind in my blogs, having taken a long break from writing. In part the silence was due to design issues with my book: irritable and frustrated at the fruitless results, I just didn't have it in me to write in the evenings. Happily, those issues are now resolved, but the decline and inevitable death of our beloved Maggie also made it difficult to write.

It is almost impossible to talk about the demise of a pet without sounding self-indulgent. Undoubtedly one should be redirecting the time and money lavished on a pet to charities and worthy causes. For those of us who love animals, though, the prospect of a life without canine or feline or even equine companionship is unfathomable. Maggie brought us great joy and, admittedly, many moments of frustration. She was not the easiest dog in the world, but I suspect that she will prove the most memorable, the one I will think of when I am facing my own end.

I am attaching a picture of Maggie to this post that captures her very best qualities: fearlessness, curiosity, and joie de vivre. She loved sailing with Rod, and I recall many times watching her with admiration and affection as she stood on the bow of our sailboat, chest puffed out bravely and face into the wind. Even storms and high winds couldn't dampen her enthusiasm. Once we were attempting a very rough crossing from Knapp's Narrows back to Herrington Harbour, where we used to keep our sailboat. The skies opened and water pelted down, while waves washed over the bow. Maggie, cold and damp, stayed close to my feet in the cockpit but never once complained or showed fear. She was that kind of dog.

It's been three weeks, but we continue to miss Maggie horribly. Sometimes I think I glimpse her shape when I look up suddenly from my laptop or a book--only to be heartbroken when I remember she is indeed gone. Eventually we will get another dog, but now we are mourning, the very least we can do to honor this creature who gave us so much and who loved Rod with the sort of devotion we humans can rarely muster.

Wishful Drinking

It was with some trepidation that I went back in September to see Carrie Fisher in Wishful Drinking, her one-woman show. I'm not much for memoirs, especially those of the "Mommy Dearest" or "kiss and tell" mode. Fisher, though, acquitted herself well for the most part. She knows how to play to an audience, and she uses irony, self-deprecation, and caustic one-liners to prevent the material from descending into maudlin self-pity. Some sections are very funny indeed, such as her attempt to reconstruct a "Hollywood Family Tree" that rivals the Houses of York and Lancaster. The stories about George Lucas and the filming of Star Wars were true crowd pleasers. I liked too her humorous and surprisingly generous assessment of her famous parents, Debbie Reynolds and Eddie Fisher, even though their parenting skills were clearly paltry at best.

I was less entertained by the long, long account of shock therapy treatment. Fisher has battled addiction, depression, and various demons since adolescence, and while I felt compassion for her plight, I also experienced some discomfort with the florid details. Perhaps this unease arises from my own upbringing, with the concomitant insistence that one doesn't air dirty laundry--especially not with strangers--an attitude that seems nothing short of antediluvian these days.

I couldn't help but wonder, though, as I listened to Fisher recount the pills, booze, blackouts, and binges, if a little reticence might not be in order. What purpose do these sorts of revelations serve? Are we supposed to celebrate Fisher as a survivor (to use that popular term)? By her own admission, she consistently exercised poor judgment; what, then, is to admire--that she managed evade death or derangement despite her frequent attempts at self-annihilation? This hardly seems heroic to me, especially given Fisher's extraordinarily privileged upbringing and subsequent opportunities. Alternatively, Fisher could be attempting to shock us with her oftentimes hilarious but nonetheless disconcerting story of despair and degradation, but in this age of "misery memoirs," with their accompanying tales of domestic horror, her narrative is hardly singular. The final and most disturbing possibility is that Fisher's revelations function as a kind of therapy, a way for her to exorcise demons. If so, I'm not sure the audience is proving sufficiently palliative. At points during the performance, my friend and I found ourselves wondering if Fisher was, well, drunk or stoned (not to put a fine point on it). She slurred words, forgot anecdotes, and didn't seem entirely in control, which in turn made us even more uncomfortable.

As we left the theatre, I reflected (yet again) on why I so dislike and rarely attend this kind of theatre: I want live performance to rock my world. I want to be enthralled, challenged, enraged, provoked, even pushed around a bit. I'll happily settle for the pure entertainment of slick plots, great show tunes, and snappy dialogue. But I don't want to walk out feeling as though I've just been through a live, slightly upmarket version of what I can see on nearly any major television network.

Good News about Beau

First, the good news: the melanoma removed from beneath Beau's tail is not invasive, nor is the white plaque in his left ear cancerous. I am very relieved. Beau drives me a little crazy sometimes, but I love him dearly and would not part with him for the world. Not yet.

Beau took the surgery with his customary equanimity (no pun intended). The folks at New Bolton thought he was the model patient and made quite a fuss when he left. I'm still marveling at the superb care New Bolton provides; truly, they are a model institution. Since his return, I've been trying to keep the wound clean--no small feat given its location--and prevent infection. Staff and friends at Southwind Farm have been wonderful in helping me. Beau, amazingly enough, doesn't seem to mind people "wiping his tush," as one friend put it. Many horses would put you through a wall for far less.

The first couple of weeks were tough; now, finally, the wound is granulating and starting to dry up. Tomorrow I might even be able to walk Beau for a few minutes. Hopefully, he will be fully rideable again in a couple of weeks.

In the meantime, we're all waiting to see if the melanoma vaccine works on Beau. New Bolton is one of only two places in the U.S. that provides this treatment. I was warned that it might not work; however, I felt the chance was worth the expense. If the vaccine is successful, Beau will be protected against future melanomas; if not, he's none the worse for wear, and I'm out some money, which is always replaceable--unlike my much adored horse.