I registered a domain for this blog–not for any important reason other than it was available: ephemerality.net; and since domain names only become increasingly more rare, I was pleased to see that a single word–the titular word of this blog–was available. I hadn’t even thought to check its availability until now, assuming it had been taken.
Although .com certainly was taken, by a squatter. As in, it’s registered but no active site exists at that location, so it must be some guy who thought he’d hang onto it and wait for some company to offer him a big payout for it some day. But visiting the URL brings up a 404 error, so it’s routing traffic somewhere, just not somewhere with an HTTP site. Maybe he’s using it as a placeholder to a private server. Dunno.
In any case, I now own the .net version, which redirects here anyway so nothing amazing going on. At least it’s shorter to type.
Snow is becoming exceedingly rare here. We haven’t had a good snow in 3 years. I’m still waiting for a good snow, but we did at least receive some snow–enough for a pleasing vista and a few snowballs to throw at the kid.
Unexpectedly, my colleagues down in Georgia got a foot of snow. Climate change? Nah, it’s probably just the Miser Brothers fighting again.
It didn’t quite fit the site to have the serialized stories on in the main post feed, so it’s been removed. It can still be found in the “Story” category section here:
No one owns a single whippet. A quick search for whippets will reveal owners who collect them like antique silver spoons, or guns, or something. Those are appropriate similes, given the peculiarities of both the breed and their owners. So when Tori died, the pack became fractured, and another whippet needed procurement.
Such a task was easier said than done, but Liz can be quite determined. After contacting the vet/breeder who acquired Tori, and after what I presume was a lengthy negotiation (and a hefty deposit), we had a whippet reserved.
Funny thing about specialty breeds–there’s no way to just get one. No, there’s paperwork and genealogy tracing and AKC registration and contractual obligations (apparently this whippet’s father is a champion). There was more paperwork behind getting a whippet than there was for having a kid. But ultimately, whippet we had.
Naturally, this meant we couldn’t choose our whippet, but that hardly mattered. Their endearing qualities are ubiquitous, and since she was a puppy, there’s wasn’t much concern for worrisome idiosyncrasies (like violent outbursts).
As a bonus, she took to the kid right away–who named her: Poppy.
Faye, however, is less than tolerant. I just don’t get it. She pouted when we got Tori, she pouted when Tori died, and now she’s pouting that we got a new whippet. I think she just doesn’t like change.
Whippets: one of the goofiest breeds of dogs. Their dopey intellect combined with their lanky builds, incredible speed, laziness, and absolute demand that they snuggle and not sleep on the floor–gives them such a darned endearing personality. It’s so endearing, that rarely can you find a whippet owner who only has one.
So it was that we acquired Tori–the whippet addendum. Liz thought that Faye needed a whippet sister, but in reality I think that was just a response to this universal need to collect them. After extensive searching, she found a vet who breeds, shows, and rescues whippets. One of these rescues, Tori, was so nervous and scared that she was ill-suited for showing. She sat around the vet’s office for a time, until she was sold to us.
Always a mama’s dog
When we picked her up, Tori was wearing a green handkerchief. She was terrified of the change, and especially afraid of men–a fear which never fully dissipated. She took cookies from Liz but not me. We bought her her own cage, but she refused to used it–preferring to accompany Faye. She quickly adapted to nights on the bed, however, but bit me once in fear when I came to join late one night.
That’s the dopey whippet look
She never outgrew her wariness of people, but time made her less cautious, and while it was a rare moment to see her play like a dog should, she would still bark when she wanted something, give paw incessantly when she was feeling especially whippety, and took cookies from anyone who offered. She was a regal whippet, and never reduced herself to fighting with the rabble. When Faye overstepped her boundaries, Tori would either push her aside, or growl; and that was enough. The rest of the time she spent sitting in her chair in the bedroom–her throne–far from the noise and chaos of the world.
One of the few men she took a liking to was my dad
Yet she had her less-endearing peculiarities. I never figured out why she loved bread so much, but she would steal it out of the trash and off the counter, making a giant mess of crumbs in the process. And she stole bones. In fact, she had a predilection for systematically removing every item from the trash, irrespective of its classification as food, and arranging the debris on the carpet. But ultimately, she found her niche in the family.
Like all whippets, she loved the sun
Then she started losing weight. Until this point, she had had her share of medical problems. She had tumors, arthritis, and nerve pain; but she was strong and rarely complained about her ailments, and until now she had fought through them. But her weight loss accelerated, so upon the vet’s recommendation, we started feeding her soft dog chow. She scarfed that stinky stuff down and it helped for a time, but a couple weeks ago, she stopped eating this too, and began showing more overt signs of digestive problems.
One of her last lucid moments, before she stopped responding
She leaked blood, stopped moving, and became completely emaciated within days. Suspecting the worst, we made a vet trip. The diagnosis pointed to a ruptured ulcer, and lacking practical treatment options, we proceeded with euthanasia. With all the stoicism I could conjure, I watched as the vet injected Tori, and within seconds, she stopped breathing. The receptionist handed us tissues. My composure failed.
I spent the day digging her grave. I buried her with a can of that stinky chow and some cookies. Liz adorned the site with daffodil and crocus bulbs.
Bye, Tori
I want my dog back, but I’d rather she didn’t hurt anymore. I hope she has the comfiest chair and stinkiest chow, wherever she is. I miss you, Tori.
