The Doctor Who Christmas Episode Twice Upon a Time is right around the corner, and with it we bid farewell to Peter Capaldi's Twelfth Doctor as he regenerates into Jodie Whittaker. We'll also see the return of Pearl Mackie as Bill for one last hurrah, and quite possibly an appearance by Jenna Coleman. Moreover, as has been teased, David Bradley will be appearing as William Hartnell's First Doctor in one final multi-Doctor story before Moffat slips quietly out of the show runner's chair.
I'm sure it's going to be a warm, tear inducing goodbye for all, and ultimately give us exactly what we'd expect from such a sendoff, right?
Except...
This is Steven Moffat we're talking about. Mr. Misdirection himself. The man who practically reinvented the 'there is literally no way out of this- but PSYCHE! You forgot about the pack of chewing gum didn't you? Oh you gullible fools!' trope *name needs revision*. You don't really think he's going to go quietly do you?
Moffat has his flaws as a writer, but you have to admit he's ambitious. And I can't really think of another Doctor Who writer who has demonstrated having so much fun with the timey-wimey elements of the show. This is likely his swan song, and you know he's going to put his stamp on it. That one last go round that he's been saving since everybody lived, just that once.
So it's not 'if' but 'what'. What rug is he going to yank out from under us? Well, in an attempt to answer this question, let's examine what said Moffat-ism has to accomplish.
1. The tools of the trade
One rule Moffat has always abided by is fair game. Like Agatha Christie (usually) he'll give you all the pieces you need in advance. It's only as the plot unfolds that he's showing you how to put them together, but it's all laid out very early. And knowing something as crucial as the First Doctor's appearance months ago, it means the twist is staring us in the face.
2. A clean slate
I don't know what goes on behind the scenes, but Doctor Who writers at least convey a professional respect for each other. With Chris Chibnall taking the reins, it would be keeping with Moffat's character to leave the office in work ready shape. No major dangling plot threads, or dead ends to back out of. Writers tend to clean up their messes when they know they're vacating their workspaces.
3. Writer's revenge
With that said, the one collective voice I'm sure Moffat has gotten sick of listening to is the fan base. There's no pleasing us. I'm sure Moffat's main advice to Chibnall is "take their whining and petitions against you as a sign that they're still paying attention, but don't ever expect praise or gratitude from the selfish bastards". Meaning, as considerate at Moffat will inevitably be to Chibnall, we deserve no such kindness. And as this is his last chance to really piss us off, you know he's going to really throw it in our faces.
4. Mythology
Moffat knows the history of the show at least as well as any of us do, so when we cry "But what about-" he knows. He's already thought about it.
So what then does that leave us with? One of the biggest continuity issues right now is the character of the Valeyard. If you don't know, or need a refresher, the Valeyard was a villain in the Sixth Doctor's final season; the huge reveal that he was a future incarnation of the Doctor (kind of between his Twelfth and Thirteenth incarnation. It's complicated).
So on the one hand, we have Capaldi's Twelfth Doctor on the cusp of regenerating into Whittaker's Thirteenth Doctor, which seems like a now or never point to address this loose end. On the other hand, what number regeneration are we really on? Between the War Doctor and Ten using a full regeneration to create Ten-light, are we actually moving into Fifteen? And it's also not clear what the Time Lords granted Eleven when they allowed him to regenerate into Twelve. Was it a whole new cycle? Does that mean Capaldi is the new First Doctor?
We're not going to get anywhere trying to untangle that series of knots, so let's focus on Moffat instead. He could easily say "Well, you know what? The Valeyard got erased because of a butterfly wizard. Get over it," and he wouldn't be outside the realm of sanity in doing so. But remember in the Moffat penned episode The Name of the Doctor, the Valeyard was name dropped as something that's still canon. So even Moffat acknowledges that there's a continuity issue.
I don't think the Valeyard is going to make an appearance in Twice Upon a Time because it's too big of a deal to tackle in one episode, and I'm sure Moffat wants to leave it up to Chibnall whether or not to address it at all. As part of the "Clean slate" directive, we need to treat the Valeyard's position between the Twelfth and Thirteenth incarnations intact, as well as pushing it as far away as possible to deal with now or deal with later as the current or future show runner deems necessary. What do we do?
*Fake Spoilers Ahead*
This is my best guess, trying to imagine the most Moffat-y thing Moffat could do as he takes his final bow. The Valeyard's goal was to steal the Sixth Doctor's remaining regenerations. From the Valeyard's perspective, those regenerations had already happened. So it's been established that a Time Lord actually has the ability to go back really screw around with the timeline. What wasn't established was how this would happen. It's assumed the high council would have removed Six's regeneration by force.
River Song voluntarily gave up all of her regenerative energy to save Eleven. So it's also been established that one has a certain amount of choice in the matter.
Now what is our situation in Twice Upon a Time? Calpaldi's Twelfth Doctor on the verge of regenerating and Bradley's First Doctor on the verge of regenerating. What if they swapped regeneration cycles? Capaldi regenerates into Patrick Troughton's Second Doctor closing the circle, freeing the First Doctor to regenerate into Jodie Whittaker, who will become the new Second Doctor. Wouldn't that be the biggest clean slate Moffat could give Chibnall while infuriating the fan base who are already infamous for hacking Moffat's Wikipedia page and filling it up with the sentence "Steven Moffat is ruining Doctor Who"?
I'm calling it now. And if I'm right, I expect a K9 Mark V on my doorstep come New Year's. I'm sure Baxter will be thrilled with the companion.
Tuesday, November 21, 2017
Friday, November 17, 2017
Home is Where the Dogs Are -A Thanksgiving Gathering
November. The month of neglect. That introspective middle child between the rebellious drama queen of October and the always-on-the-honor-roll-perfectly-straight-teeth-mom's-favorite-princess December. I'm not bitter. I'm a Scorpio. Scorpios don't get bitter. We get passive-aggressively pleasant.
It's not just that my birthday falls in the month of undertow between the all inclusive party of Halloween and the huge production of Christmas, it's that I'm perpetually tied to Thanksgiving, the holiday that literally nobody looks forward to. It's all the work of Christmas without the payoff, no specialized soundtracks, lights, or Doctor Who specials to look forward to. Thanksgiving is a time of family; a statement likely to inspire one to reach for the Advil prior to the dress shoes.
But in the interest of togetherness, and the fact that all my creative energy is going to nanowrimo at the moment I thought it might be nice to present a tribute to all of my siblings throughout my life, conveyed here through a metaphorical spread beyond the mortality of time. Let's meet the dogs.
Now forewarning: as we all discovered in kindergarten through the collective trauma imposed on us by teachers, librarians, writers, and publishers, the dogs always die. Here is no exception. This is real life. When you own a dog, you accept the harsh reality that you are most likely going to outlive the creature. As all but two of my furry family are no longer of this earth, this blog is invariably going to have to mention a few deaths. But my goal here isn't to be morbid (that was last month). Instead I'm hoping to provide them with a little internet immortality. Hang on, somebody's scratching at the door.
The Big Three
Now when I say big, you have to factor in that I was an infant. Bill, Marcus, and Alexis were the three dogs born before me. It was like growing up around horses.
Bill was the oldest, and unfortunately I don't know that much about him. He was a large hound, possibly a mix breed with a little bit of German Shepherd in him. He might have been my mom's first dog, and he was absolutely sweet to everybody. As tolerant as he was of me, he could have been a therapy dog. I don't think he and I ever technically lived in the same house as we were in an apartment with strict pet rules and my grandparents were only about ten miles away. I'm not sure when or why he died, I just remember one day we went for a visit and Bill was no longer there. I was too young to really feel the sense of loss. So Bill was like that older brother who was in college.
Now Marcus was my mom's protector. He was a black and white hound who lived until I was eleven, and it was only in those last few years that he could even stand me. I was growled at on a daily basis and bitten countless times. Strangely, it never deterred me from wanting to bond with him. Marcus was a watchful protector, and I daresay I looked up to him. Whenever I got sick, which was quite a lot, Marcus admitted that he cared about me. It was just when I had energy that he enjoyed taking me down a few notches.
And then Alexis, or Lecky. A weird fuzzy combination of poodle and sheepdog, my parents got Lecky from the pound because they thought Marcus needed another dog to keep him company. Marcus wanted nothing to do with her, but she certainly got attached to him. Lecky, or Dumb Dora as my grandmother called her, had a simple mindset. All food within grasp was for eating, people's faces were for licking, window blinds were for destroying, and leaves were gifts. Any time we came back to the house, Lecky would find a leaf from outside to present as a welcome home token.
So as the three of them have arrived in the same car, I'm going to have Marcus take over in the kitchen where he can be left alone. I'll keep Lecky away from the food and have her create the centerpiece for the table while Bill and I lay out the tablecloth and silverware.
The Middle Mob
My mom had a history of collecting the animals that nobody else wanted, or were equipped to handle. It started with Tassy, a cocker spaniel from next door, whose former family underestimated her ability to claw through the walls of the washroom. We secured Tassy when she was still a hyperactive puppy, and as our first dog who was younger than me, we spent a lot of time roughhousing. Out of all the dogs we had, Tassy was the most centrally placed, having interacted with seven other dogs throughout her life. She was the new kid with Marcus and Lecky, naturally assuming the place of canine matriarch for the next batch (Alexander, Wolfgang, Boone, and Sarah).
I'm going to talk about Wolfie first in this bunch to kind of cover the death issue at the same time. As I mentioned, Marcus died when I was eleven, and that was my first experience with death that really resonated. He got old, his body began shutting down, and a few days later he died. It can't get much more natural than that, but it's still terrible. Soon thereafter Lecky started to deteriorate, possibly affected by the fact that she missed her older brother. Her death was a bit slower, but still reasonably 'acceptable'.
Wolfie on the other hand died when he was three. He had a genetic condition which was described to us as having a very poor immunity system. In the short time he was with us, he was an active dog. Very playful. And also having many of Marcus's physical features and Bill's personality. But then one day he got sick with what seemed like a simple infection. And even though w knew about his condition, we all felt blindsided when his body couldn't fight it off. I think my mom took it the hardest. Wolfie was the kind of dog who would try so hard to stay awake, just because he wanted to see what you were doing, and you could watch his head slowly sink into your lap as he drifted off to sleep. His death was one that just felt wrong.
But his wasn't the worst. That honor belonged to Tassy, who I honestly thought was going to live forever. She was old by the time I was in college, and every time I came home I thought it might be the last time I'd see her, so I'd give her an extra warm goodbye. Then I graduated and moved back home. And a few years went by. And Tassy was still alive. And it's with a certain amount of regret I have to say that she introduced me to the most amoral side of myself. You see, in that period of about five years, Tassy began decaying. Her eyesight went. Then senility set in. She'd sleep the whole day and bark the whole night. Nobody could sleep. And she smelled of urine. I don't know what the right thing to do was, but my mom absolutely would not put Tassy to sleep, and by the time she finally died on her own I'd been driven too insane to feel anything about it.
But let's remember Tassy for her best, not her worst. We brought in a new puppy named Alexander shortly after Marcus went. Lander was a terrier who looked a lot like Toto from The Wizard of Oz, although a lot more high strung. Lecky didn't take to him, but she wasn't around much longer. But Tassy did. The two of them were so funny together. Lander had the advantage of agility, but Tassy learned tactics, like knocking him off the couch with her body.
Lander was adorable as a puppy, but he became a little shit once he was full grown. If he grabbed something, he would not let go. He would never back down from a conflict, no matter how out weighted he was. And the vets wouldn't see him unless we got a muzzle on him ourselves. Wolfie came and went during Lander's tenure, and while they could play tug-of-war just fine, Lander expressed no loss once Wolfie was gone.
Around this time, Boone was a neglected dog from our next door neighbors on the other side of us. I don't know what she was, she had some lab in her but she was almost as small as Alexander. Her name was technically 'Boo', and I have no idea why we didn't change it. I added the 'ne' to her name because I refused to call her by an interjection. Boone was terrified of displeasing us. She'd roughhouse with Alexander, but not us. Once he was trying to get away from her but she had his tail in her mouth. He turned around and snapped at her, and she was so startled she bumped her little head on the wall. Boone was determined not to bite us, but if you gave her a treat you might wind up bleeding a little. She'd feel awful about it, but there was no self control for her when it came to food.
And then there was Sarah, who was like a miniature Bill. She was a stray that someone brought to our church and we wound up taking her. Sarah was the first dog who I honestly felt was mine. We bonded quickly. We played. I'd take her for car rides. If she got her toenails caught in something she knew to come to me. yeah, sometimes she would bully Boone, nobody's perfect, but she was the one I really felt responsible for.
So this group shows up for Thanksgiving at roughly (ruffly, ha ha) the same time. I send Bill out to set up the croquet wickets in the backyard so they can get a game going. Alexander is competitive as always, but Boone is better at the game than he is. Wolfie is just out there to have fun, and he and Bill figure out how much they have in common. Tassy and Sarah come in the house. And since I know Tassy and Marcus get along pretty well I ask her to go see if he needs any help in the kitchen. Lecky is whimpering about eating, so I have Sarah help me with cheese, cracker, and olive tray, moving it outside for the masses. Sarah makes sure that nobody wolfs down too much. We're only waiting on one more car.
The Young Ones
It was difficult to figure out where the dividing line for the next wave of dogs was, but in the end I decided on the arrival of Bela the Dalmatian as the transition. One, he was freaking huge, which meant simply placing our sandwiches on the counter didn't mean lunch was out of reach of the beasts. And two, Bela was the first dog who outlived my mom, the primary force in why I had so many canine siblings (I was probably the reason I never had a human one).
Bela (named after Lugosi, not Swan) was utterly neglected by his former owners. When we went to pick him up, he just climbed into the minivan with no love lost at all. We could have been dropping him off at the bus station for all he knew. But we got him home, and he became acclimated to the other dogs, quickly developing his high strung/problem solving personality. Bela was almost as big as me, and it took me about three months to convince the little moose that I outranked him. He had a sense of humor. One day I was laying on the couch with a sinus headache, but Bela decided that my time would be better spent in an argument with him. Bela was on his back on the rug, right near where my hand was, squirming around like dogs do, and occasionally brushing against my fingers. As I was resigned to ignore him, it didn't occur to me that he was deliberately trying to annoy me. Then he quite adamantly rubbed against my hand and sprang to his feet an arm's length away. And waited. When I didn't react, he bounded from where he stood, planting his paws right in my stomach, and scurried down the hall to the soundtrack of much profanity from my voice.
The next one was Serena, a Jack Russell Terrier, and a virtual beacon of energy. I came home one day and she was just there; this tiny little thing with her big fuzzy face eyes. My first thought was of horror. "Bela is going to kill her!" I told my mom. But she was convinced otherwise and it turned out that Bela registered immediately how fragile she was. Serena took to him straight away, placing her paws on his front shoulders and licking him in the face, while he gave me this look of 'what the hell have you brought into this family'. But they got close very quickly and had a tendency to wear each other out. So a win all around.
Willow came next. She was a golden retriever, and had a kind of maternal sensibility about her. She could tell when you were upset, and she would express her concern as respectfully as possible. She'd come sit next to you and be available whenever you needed something soft to pet. And if a few minutes went by without you reacting, the paw would come up and touch your hand or leg, whatever was available. You couldn't help but love her.
The last one was Peanut, another Jack Russell Terrier and the only dog to enter the fold after my mom had died. My father has made it clear that she'll be the last dog he owns, which means she's permanently the baby. She's like a little sheep with a wolf face, and a few weeks ago my father brought her for a visit and the three of us got to go to the drive in. She was really well behaved.
So by the time this pack pulls up all in the same car, with Bela driving and Serena demanding that she be allowed the passenger seat over Willow, the turkey is ready. There's a stampede to the kitchen, and I have to run interference to get everybody over to the table. "We're not eating until you're all seated!" I shout over a dozen voices.
It takes me a while to settle the commotion down, but I finally get all the dogs in front of their respective name plates, with an empty one between Alexis and Bela. "First off," I say, "I want you all to meet my little one." I bring out our miniature dachshund. "This is Baxter. Ginny and I adopted him, and he's our pride and joy." I then go around the table and introduce all the animals who came before him, each one of whom had a profound impact on the person I became in one way or another. I insist we take a moment to honor the woman who brought us all together, our mother. May she rest in peace when she's finally ready. But until then, may she always find the next roller coaster, explore the next museum, and save the next dog.
I have Willow say grace before serving (as Alexis and Boone would certainly not wait for the all clear), and I take a moment to cherish my whole family. Bill, Marcus, Alexis, Tassy, Alexander, Wolfie, Boone, Sarah, Bela, Serena, Willow, Peanut, and Baxter. Four and a half decades of one pack. You'll all be remembered until there's no longer a need.
Let's eat!
It's not just that my birthday falls in the month of undertow between the all inclusive party of Halloween and the huge production of Christmas, it's that I'm perpetually tied to Thanksgiving, the holiday that literally nobody looks forward to. It's all the work of Christmas without the payoff, no specialized soundtracks, lights, or Doctor Who specials to look forward to. Thanksgiving is a time of family; a statement likely to inspire one to reach for the Advil prior to the dress shoes.
But in the interest of togetherness, and the fact that all my creative energy is going to nanowrimo at the moment I thought it might be nice to present a tribute to all of my siblings throughout my life, conveyed here through a metaphorical spread beyond the mortality of time. Let's meet the dogs.
Now forewarning: as we all discovered in kindergarten through the collective trauma imposed on us by teachers, librarians, writers, and publishers, the dogs always die. Here is no exception. This is real life. When you own a dog, you accept the harsh reality that you are most likely going to outlive the creature. As all but two of my furry family are no longer of this earth, this blog is invariably going to have to mention a few deaths. But my goal here isn't to be morbid (that was last month). Instead I'm hoping to provide them with a little internet immortality. Hang on, somebody's scratching at the door.
The Big Three
Now when I say big, you have to factor in that I was an infant. Bill, Marcus, and Alexis were the three dogs born before me. It was like growing up around horses.
Bill was the oldest, and unfortunately I don't know that much about him. He was a large hound, possibly a mix breed with a little bit of German Shepherd in him. He might have been my mom's first dog, and he was absolutely sweet to everybody. As tolerant as he was of me, he could have been a therapy dog. I don't think he and I ever technically lived in the same house as we were in an apartment with strict pet rules and my grandparents were only about ten miles away. I'm not sure when or why he died, I just remember one day we went for a visit and Bill was no longer there. I was too young to really feel the sense of loss. So Bill was like that older brother who was in college.
Now Marcus was my mom's protector. He was a black and white hound who lived until I was eleven, and it was only in those last few years that he could even stand me. I was growled at on a daily basis and bitten countless times. Strangely, it never deterred me from wanting to bond with him. Marcus was a watchful protector, and I daresay I looked up to him. Whenever I got sick, which was quite a lot, Marcus admitted that he cared about me. It was just when I had energy that he enjoyed taking me down a few notches.
And then Alexis, or Lecky. A weird fuzzy combination of poodle and sheepdog, my parents got Lecky from the pound because they thought Marcus needed another dog to keep him company. Marcus wanted nothing to do with her, but she certainly got attached to him. Lecky, or Dumb Dora as my grandmother called her, had a simple mindset. All food within grasp was for eating, people's faces were for licking, window blinds were for destroying, and leaves were gifts. Any time we came back to the house, Lecky would find a leaf from outside to present as a welcome home token.
So as the three of them have arrived in the same car, I'm going to have Marcus take over in the kitchen where he can be left alone. I'll keep Lecky away from the food and have her create the centerpiece for the table while Bill and I lay out the tablecloth and silverware.
The Middle Mob
My mom had a history of collecting the animals that nobody else wanted, or were equipped to handle. It started with Tassy, a cocker spaniel from next door, whose former family underestimated her ability to claw through the walls of the washroom. We secured Tassy when she was still a hyperactive puppy, and as our first dog who was younger than me, we spent a lot of time roughhousing. Out of all the dogs we had, Tassy was the most centrally placed, having interacted with seven other dogs throughout her life. She was the new kid with Marcus and Lecky, naturally assuming the place of canine matriarch for the next batch (Alexander, Wolfgang, Boone, and Sarah).
I'm going to talk about Wolfie first in this bunch to kind of cover the death issue at the same time. As I mentioned, Marcus died when I was eleven, and that was my first experience with death that really resonated. He got old, his body began shutting down, and a few days later he died. It can't get much more natural than that, but it's still terrible. Soon thereafter Lecky started to deteriorate, possibly affected by the fact that she missed her older brother. Her death was a bit slower, but still reasonably 'acceptable'.
Wolfie on the other hand died when he was three. He had a genetic condition which was described to us as having a very poor immunity system. In the short time he was with us, he was an active dog. Very playful. And also having many of Marcus's physical features and Bill's personality. But then one day he got sick with what seemed like a simple infection. And even though w knew about his condition, we all felt blindsided when his body couldn't fight it off. I think my mom took it the hardest. Wolfie was the kind of dog who would try so hard to stay awake, just because he wanted to see what you were doing, and you could watch his head slowly sink into your lap as he drifted off to sleep. His death was one that just felt wrong.
But his wasn't the worst. That honor belonged to Tassy, who I honestly thought was going to live forever. She was old by the time I was in college, and every time I came home I thought it might be the last time I'd see her, so I'd give her an extra warm goodbye. Then I graduated and moved back home. And a few years went by. And Tassy was still alive. And it's with a certain amount of regret I have to say that she introduced me to the most amoral side of myself. You see, in that period of about five years, Tassy began decaying. Her eyesight went. Then senility set in. She'd sleep the whole day and bark the whole night. Nobody could sleep. And she smelled of urine. I don't know what the right thing to do was, but my mom absolutely would not put Tassy to sleep, and by the time she finally died on her own I'd been driven too insane to feel anything about it.
But let's remember Tassy for her best, not her worst. We brought in a new puppy named Alexander shortly after Marcus went. Lander was a terrier who looked a lot like Toto from The Wizard of Oz, although a lot more high strung. Lecky didn't take to him, but she wasn't around much longer. But Tassy did. The two of them were so funny together. Lander had the advantage of agility, but Tassy learned tactics, like knocking him off the couch with her body.
Lander was adorable as a puppy, but he became a little shit once he was full grown. If he grabbed something, he would not let go. He would never back down from a conflict, no matter how out weighted he was. And the vets wouldn't see him unless we got a muzzle on him ourselves. Wolfie came and went during Lander's tenure, and while they could play tug-of-war just fine, Lander expressed no loss once Wolfie was gone.
Around this time, Boone was a neglected dog from our next door neighbors on the other side of us. I don't know what she was, she had some lab in her but she was almost as small as Alexander. Her name was technically 'Boo', and I have no idea why we didn't change it. I added the 'ne' to her name because I refused to call her by an interjection. Boone was terrified of displeasing us. She'd roughhouse with Alexander, but not us. Once he was trying to get away from her but she had his tail in her mouth. He turned around and snapped at her, and she was so startled she bumped her little head on the wall. Boone was determined not to bite us, but if you gave her a treat you might wind up bleeding a little. She'd feel awful about it, but there was no self control for her when it came to food.
And then there was Sarah, who was like a miniature Bill. She was a stray that someone brought to our church and we wound up taking her. Sarah was the first dog who I honestly felt was mine. We bonded quickly. We played. I'd take her for car rides. If she got her toenails caught in something she knew to come to me. yeah, sometimes she would bully Boone, nobody's perfect, but she was the one I really felt responsible for.
So this group shows up for Thanksgiving at roughly (ruffly, ha ha) the same time. I send Bill out to set up the croquet wickets in the backyard so they can get a game going. Alexander is competitive as always, but Boone is better at the game than he is. Wolfie is just out there to have fun, and he and Bill figure out how much they have in common. Tassy and Sarah come in the house. And since I know Tassy and Marcus get along pretty well I ask her to go see if he needs any help in the kitchen. Lecky is whimpering about eating, so I have Sarah help me with cheese, cracker, and olive tray, moving it outside for the masses. Sarah makes sure that nobody wolfs down too much. We're only waiting on one more car.
The Young Ones
It was difficult to figure out where the dividing line for the next wave of dogs was, but in the end I decided on the arrival of Bela the Dalmatian as the transition. One, he was freaking huge, which meant simply placing our sandwiches on the counter didn't mean lunch was out of reach of the beasts. And two, Bela was the first dog who outlived my mom, the primary force in why I had so many canine siblings (I was probably the reason I never had a human one).
Bela (named after Lugosi, not Swan) was utterly neglected by his former owners. When we went to pick him up, he just climbed into the minivan with no love lost at all. We could have been dropping him off at the bus station for all he knew. But we got him home, and he became acclimated to the other dogs, quickly developing his high strung/problem solving personality. Bela was almost as big as me, and it took me about three months to convince the little moose that I outranked him. He had a sense of humor. One day I was laying on the couch with a sinus headache, but Bela decided that my time would be better spent in an argument with him. Bela was on his back on the rug, right near where my hand was, squirming around like dogs do, and occasionally brushing against my fingers. As I was resigned to ignore him, it didn't occur to me that he was deliberately trying to annoy me. Then he quite adamantly rubbed against my hand and sprang to his feet an arm's length away. And waited. When I didn't react, he bounded from where he stood, planting his paws right in my stomach, and scurried down the hall to the soundtrack of much profanity from my voice.
The next one was Serena, a Jack Russell Terrier, and a virtual beacon of energy. I came home one day and she was just there; this tiny little thing with her big fuzzy face eyes. My first thought was of horror. "Bela is going to kill her!" I told my mom. But she was convinced otherwise and it turned out that Bela registered immediately how fragile she was. Serena took to him straight away, placing her paws on his front shoulders and licking him in the face, while he gave me this look of 'what the hell have you brought into this family'. But they got close very quickly and had a tendency to wear each other out. So a win all around.
Willow came next. She was a golden retriever, and had a kind of maternal sensibility about her. She could tell when you were upset, and she would express her concern as respectfully as possible. She'd come sit next to you and be available whenever you needed something soft to pet. And if a few minutes went by without you reacting, the paw would come up and touch your hand or leg, whatever was available. You couldn't help but love her.
The last one was Peanut, another Jack Russell Terrier and the only dog to enter the fold after my mom had died. My father has made it clear that she'll be the last dog he owns, which means she's permanently the baby. She's like a little sheep with a wolf face, and a few weeks ago my father brought her for a visit and the three of us got to go to the drive in. She was really well behaved.
So by the time this pack pulls up all in the same car, with Bela driving and Serena demanding that she be allowed the passenger seat over Willow, the turkey is ready. There's a stampede to the kitchen, and I have to run interference to get everybody over to the table. "We're not eating until you're all seated!" I shout over a dozen voices.
It takes me a while to settle the commotion down, but I finally get all the dogs in front of their respective name plates, with an empty one between Alexis and Bela. "First off," I say, "I want you all to meet my little one." I bring out our miniature dachshund. "This is Baxter. Ginny and I adopted him, and he's our pride and joy." I then go around the table and introduce all the animals who came before him, each one of whom had a profound impact on the person I became in one way or another. I insist we take a moment to honor the woman who brought us all together, our mother. May she rest in peace when she's finally ready. But until then, may she always find the next roller coaster, explore the next museum, and save the next dog.
I have Willow say grace before serving (as Alexis and Boone would certainly not wait for the all clear), and I take a moment to cherish my whole family. Bill, Marcus, Alexis, Tassy, Alexander, Wolfie, Boone, Sarah, Bela, Serena, Willow, Peanut, and Baxter. Four and a half decades of one pack. You'll all be remembered until there's no longer a need.
Let's eat!
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