None Such November

Back in early November, when temps were still sweet,
Tasha met strikingly handsome Joe outside Sullivan Park. . .

There was no my-penis-is-bigger-than-yours scuffle,
probably because T-Bone is penis-less.

Anyway, a budding friendship loomed. . .

At the time, the temps were in the 60’s. . .

Just two days later, the season’s first heavy snowstorm
snapped branches, knocked down power lines,
sending satellite and cable users into,
sometimes, forced-bonding situations…

When Thanksgiving rolled around,
with H and Ireney working and Sari and Josh
exiled in Montana, we postponed our feast till Sunday.

Thank goodness for the AKC’s annual broadcast of its prestigious Dog Show. . .

Kitty unwisely wanders in on the action.

Some dogs thrive on the audience attention.

And although viewing dogs in their natural habitat is always ideal,

. . . one must take doggies where one can find them.

As noted, this year’s contest was broadcast on Thanksgiving.

As if comparing different breeds makes any sense. . .

Seriously. . .

During the up-close and personal judging,
one of the commentators would dog-talk,
saying things like, “Go ahead,
check me out, but just don’t touch my junk.”

In all the hubbub, depression often goes unrecognized.

The way some doggies carry themselves, it would’ve just been rude to touch their junk…

The walking snowball that is the Bichon Frise is one of those sure-fire crowd pleasers.

I’ve never been very good at identifying dog’s breeds,
so I invested in a Dog Encyclopedia.
But with all the new breeds cropping up, like schnoodles, cockerdoodles,
Pugeranians, boxollies, jack terrihuahuas, it’s hard to keep up . . .

Whippets are some of the gentlest dogs . . .

One suspects the competition for Miss Congeniality was fierce.

One also suspects some failed to appreciate the gravity of the situation

Apparently, it’s not necessarily talent that attracts the judges. . .

I’m a huge fan of the Basenji, one of the oldest breeds.
Something about their expression is so haunting.

Other times I’m reminded of an old boyfriend . . .

In the end, Clooney, the sleek Irish Setter, nabbed the Best in Show prize.

Little discussed are the suspicions about the judges’ impartiality. . .
You know, how one may favor one breed over the other,
and/or the old backstage scam, where one paw scrubs the other. . . .

*     *     *

When Sunday rolled around, our three-pronged pinzer plan for the postponed feast
fell neatly into place.  Tweaking the T-Bird’s traditional fare produced a fabulous dinner.

For sure, our low-key, no-fuss, no muss attitude made all the difference . . .

Across the miles, we pic-messaged to Sari a plate we crafted for neighbor John.

Along with a hazy shot of  H’s elegant Pumpkin Mousse.

Before the first snowstorm,
November uncovered the bare bones of Silverwood.

Afterwards, in Grandma’s neck o’ the woods,
we trekked across a crisply snowed Silverwood . . .

T-Bone was clearly game for quite a few fetches down the hillside. . .

As if she would ever not be . . .

The blur in motion

One afternoon, browsing at Barnes and Nobles,
I was overcome with an urge to knit . . .

During downtown walkies,
looking resplendent in his awesome Russkie overcoat,
Copper looks for a special place to do his bidness.

It seemed like only yesterday that Tasha
was lying in the green grass just waiting
for her massage between her
bouts of frantic frisbee-catching.

In retrospect that steely look in her eyes
suggests she knows, oh she knows,  summer is definitely finite. . .

Meanwhile, back at work, things seemed to be falling apart. . .

quite literally, and in more ways than one. . .


the seventh of the eight-part film installment of . . .

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows . . .

was about to descend . . .

on a mostly suspecting public. . .


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