Doggie diaries: The story of Rosie and Sophie Sophie channels our old Big Kahuna

Annie and I have had dogs since 1985, when we brought home a little furball that would grow into a giant, furry lapdog. His name was Benny — named because he peed on Annie’s sister in the backseat of our car on the way home as we passed the Bennigans on Route 1 — and he was a gentle giant.

Benny loved to play ball and take long walks when he was a pup, back when Annie lived in an apartment in Plainsboro and then when she was renting a house in Brunswick Acres. He was an amazing pup.

When she moved into the Kendall Park ranch we now live in, Benny developed an interesting quirk — one we always laughed about. He would hide in the bathtub during thunderstorms, just run into the bathroom in the center of the house, climb in and try to burrow deep. It was understandable, I guess, because the bathroom is the only room without an external wall.

I was reminded of that this morning by Sophie. She burst into the bathroom while I was in there, nosed around and climbed into the tub. Sophie had never done that before — nor, for that matter, had Rosie. And the only time they’ve been in that bathroom or tub was for a bath, so I’m not sure what would possess her to do what she did.

A little later, Annie was vacuuming and I was doing something in the bathroom when Sophie came running in and jumped back into the tub, lied down and tried to burrow herself into it as if to hide. I ran for a camera, but she ran out. She did the same thing a little later and I managed to catch this photo.

It’s funny, but we have always said that Rosie has some of Honey in her (Honey was a bit manic and mischievious, always getting into something and always wanting to play) and Sophie has some Benny (laid back and mushy, loving nothing more than comfort and lovings, though sometimes a bit irritable if disturbed from her rest). It’s not an exact match, of course — these two dogs have their own, individual personalities.

But Sophie did me a great favor today, bringing a little bit of Benny back after nine years without him.

RIP, Jack Wiler, a unique voice

Jack Wiler had a way with words.

The poet, whom I met a couple of years ago when he read at the South Brunswick Poetry series (he read again last year), was a poet who used his gifts with the language to understand and make us understand the illness — AIDS — that ultimately took his life.

His sensibility was by turns raw and angry, and tender and spiritual and savvy. His book, Fun Being Me, should be a must read for New Jersey poetry afficionados.

Check out one of his poems here.

Here is the info on the memorial services:

Saturday, Oct. 24, 2 p.m.-6 p.m. at the Greenfields Fire Hall, 31 Budd Blvd., West Deptford, NJ 08096.

I wish I could be there, but I just can’t — too many memorials already this weekend.

So, RIP, Mr. Wiler.

Ruminations, part 1

The dogs are watching a squirrel out the back window, oblivious to the intersections that have me lost in thought this morning. Today, I am 47, older than the sports heroes I grew up worshipping, older Jack Kerouac was when he died, older than my imagination allowed when I was younger.

But birthdays are just calendar pages and the age question is not one that has plagued me much over the years. Birthdays are joyous, celebrating the anniversary of coming into the world, but I am lost in a different kind of thought this morning, knowing that this year’s celebration is marked by the darkness of death.

Annie’s Aunt Jean died on Tuesday, the anniversary of our dog Honey’s death, and will be buried tomorrow. Today, we head to Long Island to pay our respects, to see her family. So my birthday, once again, will be spent in mourning.

I don’t offer this to be selfish. It is just an observation. And perhaps, it is wholly appropriate that the two poles of our existence meet like this, that we are made to live with death as we celebrate life, that the reminder that all of it is part of the larger whole….

Missing moosh

One year today. It's hard to believe. And, you know, even with the crazy pups, I still miss my moosh.

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