Mr. Doodle's Dog

A Whammy of a Sammy

Sam Turns Four.
Ready For More.

Sweeney travels to Three Dog Bakery to pick up some nosh for Sam's birthday. Photo by Joe the Cat

Sammy reflects upon the great age of four.

Sam, Sam, the Rascal Man,
Now enters the Age of Reason.

Could it be, that we will see, his tendency for treason?

A walk in the park, canine sweets toot sweet, new toys and then some pizza.

There will be joy, oh boy, for this wirey Mona Lisa.

Sam, Sam, the Rascal Man,

How does this young man grow?

Puppy dog's tails, hold the snails, and then just watch him go.

--from "Meditations on Sammy's Obtaining the Great Age of Four" by Gimlet Rose.

Remembering You, Mister Dog

Nigel on his favorite bed, sampling a cookie given to him by The Daily Dave, August, 2003. Photo by Joe the Cat

Nigel Prescott

Nigel Prescott of Dunedin, an exceptional dog and companion to Bill and Pat Prescott, cast off his mortal coil at 9:15 a.m. on April 28 of last year. He lived a long and happy life, including nine years with the Prescotts, who provided him a second home after his original people died. He was always grateful to Frank and Caroline Mouris of New York who rescued him and gave him a second chance at life.
Nigel also is survived by Gimlet Rose, JoeCat and Sammy Alabammy.
Nigel was a wire fox terrier, the fact of which he was extremely proud. He possessed the classic terrier traits of tenacity, intelligence and sociability. He rarely met a lap he didn’t like or try to climb into. And he was rarely refused, because he possessed a self confidence and poise immediately discernable to most people and a smile that charmed anyone favored with his company.
As with the best terriers, Nigel carried himself with a certain dignity that demanded respect. In just the right light, he resembled Gen. Robert E. Lee, another point of pride although Nigel was a New York City native. Much like other beings of an aristocratic bearing, Nigel would dismiss annoyances with a snort, then roll his eyes and leave the room.
Nigel enjoyed travel by car, fetching a ball as long as he could still see, going for walks, making aquaintance with people, annoying JoeCat, going to the beach and sleeping on sofas. In his later years his observations were recorded in a blog and he was considered something of a legal arbiter among his peers.
Nigel also took great joy in his dinner and in waiting for handouts while his people dined. Nigel never begged; he waited with the patience and optimistic expectation characteristic of his breed.
Nigel had a rich baritone bark that originated somewhere deep near the toes of his rear paws, rumbled through his broad chest and erupted out of his jaws to instill terror in whatever had drawn his anger. Unfortunately he decided to spend his last year or so in silence, and his neighborhood was the less for it.
It has been said that the only thing bad about dogs is that they don’t live so long. Nigel certainly bore this out. As mentioned, he was an exceptional example of his species, is greatly missed and will long live in the hearts and memories of his family and friends.
Here's to you, Old Soldier.

The Backyard Patriot

As wire fox terriers, may we relate that we, as a breed, are indebted (you'll note the irony of the word) to Thomas Jefferson (TJ and his debt, another story), for The Louisiana Purchase. He certainly brought home the idea of extending the national backyard.
Which brings us to our word:

back•yard
noun
the area close to where one lives, or the territory close to a particular country, regarded with proprietorial concern: anything was preferable to a nuclear dump in their own backyard.

Nuclear dumps and Thomas Jefferson? That's too much of a Kevin Bacon stretch, even for us.

We will define backyard on our own terms, in our own terms, and we begin, being Doodlecentric, in our own backyard.

Gimlet killed a rat yesterday in the backyard.

Mr. Rat was very old, very seasoned (not seasoned, Mal Carne) and should have known better than to mount a birdseed expedition in mid-afternoon. Short and sweet: Gimlet saw Mr. Rat and shall we say, he wound up buying The Louisiana Purchase.

Gimlet and the late Mr. Rat. Photo by Joe the Cat (who watched as Gimlet outcatted him).

Gimlet saw Mr. Rat atop a birdfeeder, rushed outside and made a mad dash around the backyard. Mr. Rat, seasoned veteran that he was, knew the backyard, with all its plants and trees, offered a ratamillion places to hide.

And hide he did, for a time.

But Gimlet, being a wire fox terrier, did not give up, and pursued him, as Khan and Kirk, single mindedly, with no intention of giving up. That's tenacity, and that word is owned by ratting terriers such as Gimlet and the legendary Dirty Bart.

That is a word and a story for another day.

Gimlet made the sounds of the backyard, never taking her eye off the prize. Eventually, Mr. Rat reappeared, and Gimlet took after him. He ran up a cherry laurel tree.

At its bottom was Gimlet. She began to jump.

The jumping alerted her assistant, who grabbed a hose and cooled Mr. Rat's jets. Down the cherry laurel ran Mr. Rat, and there Gimlet dispatched him.

Teamwork. But Mr. Rat was tough, and it took a few extra blows to the midsection before he was transported off to Rat Heaven or the McDonalds of his choice.

They say Mr. Rat was in the vicinity of 18 inches, in full rigor, and without his vigor. That's what they say, although no yardstick was brought forth. He was a very large rat, and wily, but on this particular day, in this backyard, with this wire fox terrier, he had met his match.

Gimlet and Mr. Rat's scuffle lacked the excitement of Jefferson and John Adams and their epic and contentious struggle in the Election of 1800. Gimlet does have her Jeffersonian ideals, though, and would  not mind extending her backyard a la Mr. Jefferson's Louisiana Purchase. And like Mr. Adams, Gimlet does appreciate authority, especially when it is her own.

Which brings us wire fox terriers to another word, own:

Own up, Stephen Colbert. You are one of our favorites, but your "Word" segments? Clearly, they owe more than a nod and a wink and an adjustment of glasses to our Devil Dog's Dictionary. Being devils ourselves, we appreciate the flattery, and we won't tell anyone if you confess. Which of course, we know you won't. Just as we won't own up to more than a little influence from Ambrose Bierce, and his Devil's Dictionary.

Nothing like being among like-minded friends, sipping cocktails and eating devil dogs or TastyKakes, in your own backyard.

Running for the Mayor of Pietown

Oh, yes, we deliver!

Photo of Gimlet in the kitchen by Joe the Cat.

The other night we had an urge for pizza. Not a frozen, or Greek, or even a wonderful Jets pizza .. No, we wanted to make our own pizza.

No small task when you can't reach the counter, except by chair.

Joe the Cat put on one of his hats, ran up to the grocery store, walked right through the front doors and proceeded to cram his canvas tote bag (he's an eco-cat, is Joe) with our list. We were making the crust, so we needed yeast. He added pepperoni, provolone and a bag of grated Italian cheeses (we cheated a little), sliced mushrooms (we cheated a little more) and a jar of Mr. Paul Newman's Sockarooni sauce. Using anything made by Paul Newman is not cheating; it's a wise chef and pizza maker who knows to buy the right sauce.

You simply cannot do better than Paul Sauce, not for the price and the cause.

By the time Joe arrived home (he made good time. It's a two-mile round-trip) with his purchases, we were ready. We pushed a chair into the kitchen, got out the wooden rolling pin and the English mixing bowl and prepared to make pizza.

As you can see, the dough proved no problem. It's a recipe we've used for quite a long time, and it makes a sweet pizza dough. Was it fun to roll the dough on the counter? Yes. If you do nothing else, try walking on fresh pizza dough. It feels great on the paws and it stretches the dough just right.

Once we had the dough in the pan, we slathered on the Paul Sauce. Joe likes the sauce.

Then came the mushrooms and all the cheeses. Grated cheese and provolone slices went everywhere and then Joe volunteered to clean the floor. He's very accommodating that way. Bring out the pepperoni slices and we all go into a deep trance, but we resisted every impulse and not a bit of pepperoni was eaten. It all went on the pie.

Next, it was time for more cheese, just to gild the pepperoni. Oh, yes, you must gild, and gild properly. A trifle more gilding came by way of olive oil .. olive oil all around the crust.

We were finished with the building of the pie.

Was it a Colossus? No. It was a magnificent, sweet, pizza pie, and it was preparing to keep its appointment with destiny. Into the oven it went.

And forty minutes later, at 350 degrees (which warmed up the kitchen considerably) out it came:

It was a perfect mixture of sweet crust with peppery sauce and mellow cheeses. Not bad work for two little dogs and a cat. You can see Joe's orange Crocs in the photo. He fashions himself a Mario Batali.

Sam was the first one to line up for the pizza, and the first one to finish his slice. Joe had a small sample and then ran off to mix Mojitos. He's on another cocktail kick.

All in all, it was an excellent evening.

Won't You Take Me To Funghi Town

They do like to carry on ...

Sherpa graphic by Gimlet Rose. Digital, 2008.

You're seeing Sherpas.

As our food critic, Orson Owelles, wrote previously, Tampa has a fresh pair of food writers, The Culinary Sherpas. They're Greg and Michelle Baker, partners in cookery and personal chef service Cooks & Company in Tampa. They began writing a weekly column for a nearbylargemetropolitandaily in March, and naturally they blog. Well, it comes naturally to them, anyway. We enjoy their writing so much that we recently asked them if we could link to their blog.

They said yes! They not only wouldn't mind being linked to a dog blog (not everyone is so diverse in their outlook) but they offered to link to us. Incredible, amazing and altogether unexpected, is what it was.

Or maybe they like our red couch?

We are now linked like fresh Georgia sausages.

You will find  The Culinary Sherpas on the left-hand side, under "Bloggers With Fingers." Doodlespeak for humans. We have some other fingery bloggers listed there, too ... there's Jeff the Chef at SideSalad, Dave of the Daily (or so he claims) and Sarah, who likes to say things.

We predict you'll enjoy the Sherpas. Think of them as TastyKakes, a little bit unpredictable, a lotta tart. Lemon Krimpets are all the rage, you know. Indulge. Enjoy. Take a walk with your dog, learn to love hand puppets.

Sherpas, when you read this, we have a request: can you come up with a tasty recipe to please us dogs? How's your dog cuisine IQ? There are some cookbooks listed under "Alton Brown Alley," lower left-hand side. No need for us to constantly beg at tableside, is there?

Precious Moments

The Perils of Pauline

Eleanor had "My Day" and I have "My Desk." Always a lover of laps, I remain loyal to my little own lap topper, my ibook.

It's been far too long since I wrote one of these columns. But a recent event caught my interest.

There's a wire in Pennsylvania by the name of Precious. She's a Puppy Mill Survivor.

For the past several years, Precious has been living the life of a happy wire fox terrier. She has her own family and home, regular meals, toys and probably a front window so she can keep guard on the place. All wire fox terriers need that crucial front window.

Last week, however, a routine ride in the car turned into a nightmare for Precious and her family. Precious slipped away from her folks when she was getting out of the family car as it was being dropped off for repairs. She was a good ways from home when she jumped out of the car and headed for the nearby Interstate. It was bad enough that Precious, who has a lingering distrust and fear of people from her mill days, was loose, but she was not wearing a collar or leash.

Precious was found by her dad three days later. She was running loose in a field by a factory when he spied her. She was muddy and hungry, but she had survived on her own without too much trauma.

Her experience prompted memories of my own past adventure in my doggie dad's Chevy Bel Air.

Hey, it happens to the best of us ...

But, it shouldn't happen again to someone like Precious, not after her Puppy Mill days. So, an idea occurred to me. Why doesn't Fox Terrier Network send Precious a seatbelt or a crate for her car? They can open up their coffers and help ensure that Precious never again has such a car adventure. We all know that cars are intended for rides, not heartache.

I know there are FTN dogs and members who read my blog. How about persuading the Holders of the Purse Strings to let loose, guys? You have an address for Precious; you know she needs that special bit of equipment, and .. well, what else do you need to know? Start the ball rolling and get that seatbelt or crate to her. Why not throw in some toys, too?  There have been quite a few messages of Thanksgiving and relief regarding Precious's return from wire folk recently. Giving a seatbelt or crate to her family for her use would be a concrete way of saying "We're glad you're home, Precious, but we never want you to get loose again."

How about it?

Can we survive? Just swatch us!

Will we become warped as we weave?

Gimlet Rose, "Gimlet in Black and White," fabric designed for Nigel Enterprises, 2008.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on.
And now, I am the stuff of fabric.
My revels now will never end. I will drift of to sleep on my own image.
Am I sheepish about this? No.
I view my iconic status ironically. Tintin's Milou has been there before me. When you are a wire fox terrier, you are resigned to influencing design.

We wire fox terriers are such stuff as dreams are made on.
We grace all manner of textiles, toys and doodads. A terrible independence swaddled in fluffs of white fur, we beg rendition. It's much easier to train an inert Steiff than it is a live wire.

Therein is our problem. We look as though we are for everyone, but we can only live with a few. Spirit and defiance are in our very fabric. Some buy the notion that we are cute little pups ... wholecloth. We wires are cute, but the stuffing underneath ... not for everyone.
Just a few.
So how do I translate into fabric? What are my designs on the textile world? Am I delicate wash or can I take a heavy load? Will I wrinkle more than my nose? Do I shrink from daily use? Will I, like an insubstantial pageant, fade?

Most importantly, will I survive a tempest?
Yes. I think so.
I like this fabric. It is not faceless, nor baseless. It is a design I can live with, after all.
Now, what about some new draperies for the living room? I'm only $9.99 a yard!
--Gimlet

Arcane Archeology

Alas, poor Yorrick ...
we drew him well.

Gimlet digging herself in deeper. Digital work, circa 2000.

Before we lose our heads, let us remember ...

Marie Antoinette did not utter the immortal and royal words "Let them eat cake." Joe the Cat mentions that the French word for cake is gateau and Marie didn't use the phrase, anyway. Joe the Cat does acknowledge that gateau is very close to cat's toe, but he has no proof that the French Revolution is based on cat's toes.

This is one of GImlet's favorite logos, and yet she stored it away for a dirt-filled day. With the annexation of the side yard, our last little bit of land has now been made available by the new (yet old, coming from a salvage yard) gate. We now have freedom to roam in all but the front yard. When can we convince DoggieDad to put up some form of fencing in the front? The Barkalotboyz, Jake and JH, have their front yard now accessible to their every whim, but we're still waiting. It's time to begin our campaign to "Free the Front Lines."

Talk about No Man's Land. Without fencing, the entire front yard is No Terrier's Land. We can't stand for that.

What do you think of Gimlet's logo? Should we turn our paws to merchandise? Drop us a line or leave a comment and let us know.

As for cake, we're ready for some. It's been one of those days.

-- The Doodles

A Terrier Salute

Another Day In Paradise

Smitty Grant taking in the view at Springwood, the Hyde Park, New York, home of Franklin D. Roosevelt
Oct. 2007 Photo by Joe the Cat

Today is one of those days.
Spring. The middle of April. Lovely weather, flowers in bloom, at least in Florida.
FDR died in Warm Springs, Georgia on this date in 1945. Fala howled in protest. There was much sadness and despair.
We suspect that FDR has since been tooling around the roads of the still-vast Roosevelt land holdings in Hyde Park in his Ford Phaeton. Why not? If you've ever been to the Franklin D. Roosevelt Presidential Library and Museum in Hyde Park, you know it's paradise.

More of the view of the Hudson River, from the back of FDR's Hyde Park home, Springwood.

Sure, FDR is still up there, riding around with Fala at his side. There are picnics with lots of hot dogs, martinis (we've read FDR's were an acquired taste) and just lots of grand times.

The rear view of Top Cottage, FDR's idea of the perfect place to live.

So, a toast to FDR, one of the country's greatest presidents and people, a man who was there with ideas when his country sorely needed him. He's certainly entitled to his Hudson Valley bliss.

Here's to you, FDR, and your little dog, too.

--The Doodles

Whodunit, Houdini?

Time to break out Fala's crystal ball, or get out the stripping knives?

Wherefore art thou, Gimlet?

Parting with your fur is such sweet sorrow, so let it be done on the morrow.

Ah, but tomorrow is another day.

Less is more, but more makes me appear less. At least, that's what I've found.

Fur, fur, wonderful fur is what I have and what I am. You can tell me by my custard tail that rivals the sail on Errol Flynn's Zaca.

I am a white bit of wild fluff that rivals the cream in all the world's French pastries.

I am a wee, white ghost with bellows of billowing fur.

I am a wiry bit of Neanderthal at the moment. There is talk of baths and stripping knives ... things of which I am not the least bit fond.

When I am this furry and wild all the creatures in the yard pause to take a second look ... and then I have them.

Now I am beyond a wire fox terrier. I am a wild thing.

I am Gimlet.

Watch me disappear.

Sunny Day, Starry Night

Things we don't do often enough

Dash, doing no dashing on the Van Gogh Table in the Florida Room. Photo by Joe the Cat.

Nothing to it.

That was my day.

Sure, I took a walk in the park and noticed the clover was in bloom. Magnificent. You stumble onto clover. If you go looking for it, it hides from view. Clover's like that. Cagey.

And who can blame it? Clover knows something a lot of the rest of us don't: delight can be sudden, but it can't be hurried or mandated. No one tells clover what to do. Or an artist, or a  mystery writer.

I return home from an unhurried rendezvous with clover and plop myself on the Van Gogh Table. I don't know what stray thoughts prompted my urge. I just felt like doing it. It felt great.

The Van Gogh Table. I heard it took forever to paint, which is funny, since it took its wink and nod from Starry Night. Van Gogh wasn't one to labor over inspiration. He just painted and poured out his soul onto canvas until the canvas couldn't take it any more.

And then he ran to the next painting. I think he may have been possessed.

But the table? It's an ordinary pine table, or was. Now it's a pleasure to plop my weary hand puppet self upon. Like I said, it took forever to paint, and then the table fairly shouted "Enough! You've painted every cranny. I ooze paint. My blemishes are hidden from view, never to be found again. Thanks for the makeover, but stop. Stop now!"

I like this table. It has wings that fold, and it becomes very tiny. But when it's at its fully glory and the wings are open ... it's round, and there's a sun in the middle of the Starry Night. That's funny. It appeals to my foxy sense of humor.

After the table, I went out to the bookstore, just to meander. Meander is what I did. Love that word. You appreciate words when you're walking in a bookstore with nothing much on your mind.

Then I saw it. A book. A Georges Simenon mystery: "Maigret and the Wine Merchant."

There went my money.

A Maigret mystery is very much like clover. It's a delight. This delight may contain Paris, and bistros, food, food and more food, murder, corruption and despair. I stumbled onto the Maigret today, but I've read many of them. Still, what a surprise, and delight.

Maigret and I sat on the big red couch together. The one up there in the banner. It's even softer than it looks. Gimlet joined us. Sam? He grabbed a rawhide bone and plopped himself down on his nearby pillow and took delight in chewing.

Gimlet and I read a bit, and then we took delight in a snooze.

Nothing to it. That was my day.

And it was great.

I'd like another one of these, and soon.

--Dash.

'His Scotch Soul Was Furious'

Murray the Outlaw of Falahill, aka Fala Roosevelt
April 7, 1940 to April 5, 1952

Fala exhibit at the Franklin D. Roosevelt Presidential Library and Museum, Hyde Park, NY.

Gimlet: Hot dogs! Come and get yer New York hot dogs!

Nigel: I love hot dogs. What better day to enjoy a hot dog, too? It's practically a National Dog Holiday. It's the anniversary of Fala Roosevelt's birth, after all.

Gimlet: And we get to chat with Fala again. The last time we spoke with him was in 2003, and we'd just begun Mr. Doodles Dog. He was very obliging with the séance.

Nigel: Now that I've actually met Fala and we've become friends, he's joined our staff. He's part of our, shall we say, "celestial bureau."

Fala: Nigel, I'm officially in the Department Of Growls and act as a "human communicator." I'm sure that's someone's idea of a bureaucratic joke, but I happen to think it's funny. Love those acronyms.

Gimlet: Happy Birthday, Fala. It's number 68, right?

Fala: It is. It's also the date of my burial. I'm buried behind Franklin at his home in Hyde Park. It's his presidential library and museum now. Wish you could see my grave in that photo ... I'm near a sundial. That's the opposite of my place in life, though. I usually ran ahead of him and let people know the President was coming through. The Secret Service had a special name for me because of that: The Informer.

Fala's grave, near the sundial in front of FDR's and Eleanor's memorial in The Rose Garden at Springwood, Hyde Park, NY. Photo used by the kind permission of Grant & Kilgallen Photography.

Nigel:  Your obituary ran in the New York Times. That's heady stuff for any dog. The headline for April 6, 1952 read: "Fala 'Sleeps' Away; Was Roosevelt's Pet."

Fala: Well, he was my pet, too. I missed him terribly. I mourned him the rest of my earthly life. Dogs mourn, as you know.

Gimlet: We know.

Fala: Of course, now we tool around in his Ford convertible all the time. We're always driving around the Roosevelt land in Hyde Park, from Springwood to Top Cottage and just everywhere. A lot of people think he's a terrible driver and I am one of the few who love to get in the car with him. We picnic a lot, too. It's always hot dogs for him, and cocktails, cocktails... what a guy.

Nigel: Remind me to show you around my liquor cabinet, Fala. I have a private gin collection, you know.

Fala: I heard. The President liked to tell people that I had "scotch" in my veins. What a guy. Go here to see a short movie of the President and me at play.

Gimlet: Oh, what a grand life you had for a Scottish Terrier. And you're still having it.

Fala: The President laughed and laughed when I told him I was working for Mr. Doodles Dog. He's a fan. He says he wishes he could have used you to help him boost morale during The Great Depression and World War II. He's always been one for trying out new things. He loves the Internet.

FDR and Fala taking a spin in FDR's 1936 Ford Phaeton, equipped with special hand controls. Hyde Park, NY., October, 1944.

Nigel: What do you want for your birthday, Fala?

Fala: I'd like to be remembered. Would someone put flowers on my grave in the Rose Garden at Hyde Park? You know what else? I'd love it if the folks at the Franklin D. Roosevelt Presidential Library and Museum would institute a special celebration of my birthday. They have one for The President every January 30 and for Eleanor on October 11.  How about one for me every April 7? FDR would be very pleased if Cynthia and Lynn, as well as Cliff and the crew arranged an annual celebration for children to come to the Library and learn more about me and my place in The President's life. There could be dog-related events and some Scottie-shaped cakes ... dog treats, too. I would love for people to realize that The President did a great deal to help people understand that dogs have a contribution to make to our country. I was the inspiration for one of his most famous speeches, you know. You can read a bit about that on my official biography.

Gimlet: Fala, we can't make it to Hyde Park for your birthday. We're in Florida. But .. we're having hot dogs and cocktails in your honor. We've also set up a small shrine to you in our editorial offices. We have the photo of you and FDR driving, a copy of "The True Story of Fala" by Margaret Suckley and Alice Dalgleish and of course "Closest Companion" by Margaret Suckley and "No Ordinary Time" by Doris Kearns Goodwin. Not to mention one of Nigel's gin bottles...

Fala: Thanks for helping me celebrate my birthday. I'll take the day off, but then I'll be back researching a post for Mr. Doodles Dog. The President says he'll help me. He threw back his head and roared with laughter when I told him we'd be exposing nuts and charlatans through a series of posts on a dog blog.

Nigel: Happy Birthday, Fala. Here's a photo Joe the Cat took on a visit to FDR's Top Cottage in Hyde Park last October. This is a view from the front porch. It was a gorgeous day, and aren't you lucky to have had so many of them.

Editor's note: Extentive research on this post was contributed by Smitty Grant, a wire fox terrier, and Jessie Kilgallen, a cocker spaniel. The pair are frequent visitors to the Franklin D. Roosevelt Presidential Library and Museum in Hyde Park, NY. Our thanks to Mr. Grant and Miss Kilgallen.

Walk, They Said

These wires were made for walkin'
And that's just what they'll do.
One of these days these wires...
Are gonna walk all over you.
Do do do do do do do ...

Wirestock logo by Gimlet Rose. 2008

Nobody walks or pulls like a wire fox terrier.

Sometimes, wires pull together.

Several wires and their peeps are motoring over to Bear Mountain, New York on May 4. They'll combine paw pads and shoe leather to walk all over cancer in the annual Dogswalk Against Cancer.

Some of the coolest New York wires, Ozzy, Romeo, Smitty, Jeeves and Asta, and one  Bette Davis-like cocker spaniel (hi, Jessie) are in the 2008 walk.

You know it. When these guys hit the pavement, cancer is kicked to the curb. Finally.

What? You say you're going and your person would like a T-shirt (or hat or tote bag) with this logo? Or perhaps you're a dog who loves to dress up (we won't tell), and you'd like a dog T-shirt with logo? Well, go here and order. All profits from the merchandise go to ... you guessed it ... the Dogswalk Against Cancer. It's a win-win thing.