Karen pointed me to “The Blogadilla Swedish Furniture Name Generator,” from which I learned what I would be called if you could buy me at a certain well-known furniture store the size of your average housing development:
I look comfy, don’t I? Wouldn’t you just love to assemble me in your home today? If you buy now, I’ll even throw in an order of those yummy little meatballs they sell in the cafeteria…
I received an email this morning from a concerned loyal reader, asking if I was all right. It made me realize that I overplayed my hand a bit in that mysterious post yesterday, and possibly I’ve caused some people to worry unnecessarily. So even though this isn’t the long entry I wanted to present on this subject, I’ve decided to go ahead and release the news that’s weighed so heavily on my mind for the last week:
Shadow, the Bennion Family Border Collie, whom you may remember has been fighting cancer off and on for about two years, died on December 30.
He had completed his second round of chemotherapy about seven weeks earlier and my parents and I believed him to be at last cancer-free. He was, however, afflicted with some side effects from the chemo as well as the usual complaints of old age — he had arthritis in his hips, among other problems — and in the final week of his life he was struggling against what the vet initially believed to be a bronchial infection. The antibiotic treatment for that illness seemed to be having little effect, though, so he was scheduled for an ultrasound last Tuesday to explore other possibilities — the worst scenario being a third attack from the damn cancer. But he didn’t make it to that appointment. Instead, he passed away in the night before, in my mother’s closet, where he’d always gone to hide when summer thunderstorms darkened the sky.
I know that not everyone likes animals or keeps pets, and that some who do view them as little more than furniture. All I can say to those people is that that’s not how my family does things. The Bennion animals have always been a very real part of this family, and Shadow was even more so than any other pet we’ve ever had. We all lived together under the same roof in his early years; later, he divided his time between my parents’ house and my own. (If you don’t know, I share property with my folks in an arrangement I like to call “the Bennion Compound.”) He was a constant presence around here, and for my dad especially, a constant companion. Dad took that dog with him everywhere, and Shadow’s death has hit him very, very hard. I’m grieving for my father as much as for Shadow.
I’m still going to write that tribute I mentioned yesterday, the one that’s been so difficult for me to start. I want to tell a few stories, and hopefully give you some idea of what a remarkable and wonderful being Shadow really was, and why it’s so difficult to say goodbye to him. For tonight, though, I thought it best to clear the air. To anyone who may have gotten the wrong idea yesterday, I’m sorry to have worried you. What can I say? I do have a flair for the melodramatic at times.
Here’s one final thing, a memorial card that my lovely Anne made up for my parents to send to their friends:
As always, click to embiggen. If you’re interested.
One of my three loyal readers sent me an instant message this afternoon which said, essentially, “update your damn blog already.” So I guess I ought to pop in and explain that, no, I have not been run over by a monorail, kidnapped by Somali pirates, or deported to the Phantom Zone to spend eternity sandwiched between Ursa and Non. Not that being sandwiched with Ursa would necessarily be a bad thing. I used to have this Superman II program book with lots of glossy pictures, you see, and I thought she was much more interesting than scrawny old Lois Lane, what with those slits on the arms and legs of her outfit.
But I digress, and I haven’t even gotten started yet.
The thing is, something happened over my holiday break that I want to write about, and it’s turning out to be a difficult entry for reasons that will become clear when I finally post the thing. I don’t mean to be cryptic — many of you out there already know what I’m talking about — it’s just… I want to do justice to this topic, and it’s taking time to get it right. Or to get it at all. I don’t have writer’s block exactly, but it’s… well, again, it’s just not an easy thing to write.
I’ll try to throw out some bones to satisfy those who need a Bennion fix, but just be aware that I’m rather preoccupied by this one item right now.
…first thing after a foolishly late night of debating politics with an old friend followed by very little sleep:
more animals
McMuffin anyone?
I hope everyone reading had a nice Christmas or other mid-winter holiday unique to your tradition and preference. My own was unexpectedly good, with much more contentment and much less angst and drama than in years past. Of course, the weather sucked. Seriously, after three days of more-or-less constant snowfall and four sessions of driveway clearing, you can have your winter frickin’ wonderland. (God, my shoulders are sore.)
My corporate overlords have kindly granted me the next week off, so, among lots of other projects I need to do around the house, I hope to complete some unfinished blog entries that have been hanging over my head for a while now. Stay tuned…
My lovely Girlfriend has informed me that yesterday’s entry may fall into the dread category of “Too Much Information.” To anyone whose sensibilities were offended by my description of my physical symptoms, I apologize.
Still… I thought the hand-cranked egg beaters were a pretty powerful image. Sometimes I actually believe I might be one of those writer fellows you hear so much about…
Chugging a Starbucks grande caffe mocha and then immediately going to The Old Spaghetti Factory for a gargantuan plate of spinach tortellini with alfredo sauce is a really bad idea. I had the lousy night’s sleep last night — during which my torso felt like a 50-gallon drum packed with Crisco that’s being gently whipped with a set of old-fashioned hand-cranked egg beaters — followed by the sour stomach all day today to prove it. Ugh. Off now for another swig of Pepto… hope everyone reading this is doing better than me.
Remember that slightly off-color item I posted last week, the one about the 130,000 inflatable novelty breasts that had gone missing somewhere between China and Australia? Well, they’ve been found… turns out there was a paperwork error and the plastic mammaries went to Melbourne instead of Sydney. Employees of Ralph, the men’s mag that purchased the boobies, are even now frantically stuffing them into bags so the holiday issue of the magazine will go out on time.
I must confess to being somewhat disappointed. In the words of one commenter over at Boing Boing, I was looking forward to reports of these things washing ashore somewhere. On the positive side, the article I linked above says that Ralph “is expected to break the Guinness world record for the most boobs given away at one time.”
It’s the story that keeps on giving, I tell you!
We interrupt your regular programming for an important historical note: Today is the 75th anniversary of the end of Prohibition, the disastrous social experiment that did very little to curb the behavior it was designed to end, but did manage to make some very bad people very rich and powerful while bringing appalling levels of violence to the streets of American cities. (See also Drugs, War on.) As I’ve noted before, I find it endlessly amusing that my home state of Utah, home of the tee-totaling Mormons, was the one that cast the deciding vote in favor of repeal. (In a nice bit of historical symmetry, Utah was also the deciding vote in ratifying the Constitutional amendment that created Prohibition in the first place, so perhaps it was only fitting that we undid it as well.)
