Otis Unleashed


Our dog Otis likes to have fun like any other dog. He likes to go on long hikes and runs, and he loves chasing squirrels and chewing on bones. He likes cuddling with my wife and I in the morning before we begin our day. And he especially loves giving our infant daughter—to her squealing delight—big sloppy doggie kisses.

But what Otis really seems to love, despite being neutered, is humping other dogs. Whether male or female, big or small, purebred or mutt, Otis is quick to fall in love, if only for a few minutes at a time.

Most of the time it is pretty harmless. He’ll hump for a few seconds to assert his dominance, or use the hump as a way to goad another dog to wrestle and play. But when a dog has that special something, Otis pays no heed to the Larry Craig-like rituals of the dog world. He just mounts, locks on at the hips and thrusts away, giving renewed meaning to the term doggie style. When he’s done he usually falls to the ground and licks himself for a few minutes, and then curls up and takes a quick nap. Thus his transformation into the Ron Jeremy of the dog park is complete.

To no avail, we’ve tried to stop this behavior. But no matter what kind of advanced training techniques we use, Otis always gets back to his business. He sometimes becomes so possessed with lust that it seems as if the dogs he singles out for action have peanut butter smeared across their rears.

Most dog owners either laugh at or ignore Otis’s canine escapades. Because Otis is usually a good-natured dog who loves to play with other dogs in a non-humping way, most owners realize that this is just part of doggie behavior, no matter how funny it looks or silly it seems. And if a dog owner seems bothered by it—either because their dog has bad hips or because they just can’t bear the idea of their dog being submissive—I’ll take Otis off mid-hump. If he can’t control himself, we’ll leave the dog park and go for a walk, an outcome that leaves him dejected.

I’ve discovered recently, however, that there are some dog owners for whom male dog on male dog love is a biblical offense that sends them into a Sodom and Gomorrah-like rage. These homophobes of the dog world can’t seem to reconcile their ideal of their “best friends” with what they consider to be deviant behavior, even though they own animals that can lick themselves at will and who greet one another by sniffing and licking behinds. When Otis and I run into folks like these I usually try to make a joke, saying something like, “I guess our dogs have taken Philadelphia’s motto as the “City of Brotherly Love” quite literally.”

One recent interaction stands out. How could either Otis or I have known that he was humping the dog of the Phyllis Schlafly of the dog park, raining down the rancor and homophobia of the Eagle Forum upon us both? At first I had no clue as to why she was so angry about her dog “getting it” from Otis. I told her that she needed to ask me nicely to stop Otis. She refused, mumbled some angry things, and then kicked Otis to stop his humping. Who does that? Who kicks a dog? So, I just let Otis have his way with this dog, and explained to the woman as calmly as I could that she was completely nuts. After the incident one of her friends asked me if I knew that the victim of Otis’s advances was also male? I asked mockingly why that mattered? He told me, in all seriousness, that “that just wasn’t right.”

Dog owners are a strange breed indeed. Not only do many support a billion dollar vanity pet industry that offers everything from doggie massages to dog therapy to designer dog apparel. And not only do many dog owners support often unhealthy breeding practices so they can bring home their favorite type of dog—this despite the fact that the Humane Society estimates that between 3-4 million dogs are euthanized in the United States each year while awaiting adoption. But sadly, they sometimes also project their prejudices and hate from the human world onto the animals they claim to love. Maybe Otis’s humping is more than just his brief expression of canine love; maybe he’s fighting dog park homophobia by literally sticking it to the man.

The Return of Rituxan

Today, I am happy to report, marked the six month anniversary of my completion of chemotherapy. I remain lymphoma-free and feel great, despite both a Yankees and Phillies loss today.

To celebrate this wonderful milestone I am going to see the opening show of Bruce Springsteen in Philly tomorrow night. And, I am excited to report, tomorrow is also a great day to get my bi-annual dose of the post-delymphomatization maintenance drug rituxan. Tomorrow morning I’ll have an IV again hooked into my arm for that delicious slow rituxan drip. Aside from the benadryl induced sleepiness, there are no side-effects for me from the rituxan and I should get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

All in all, not a bad way to mark six months later.

Postcards From Wyoming

In the weeks leading up to our planned 6 days in Jackson, Wyoming, every time someone asked either Jacqui or I about our upcoming vacation Jacq would find some way to put it that she really wasn’t excited to be going to Wyoming. The great outdoors really didn’t interest her, she’d say. She’d rather be going to the beach, she’d complain. This was “Michael’s vacation”, she’d insist. Well, ladies and gentlemen, you heard it here first–and this is a quote directly from Jacqui on the plane home last night–“that was one of, if not THE best vacations I’ve ever had,” Jacqui said. Yes, that’s right, Jacqui loved the hiking and rafting, the fresh mountain air, the friendly people, and even the rodeo (save the part where they rope a poor little calf by the front and hind legs). We had a great time. Sophia was incredible and loved our long hikes, propped up in a backpack. She even made a new friend–our babysitter’s 1-year-old daughter with whom she played while we went rafting one afternoon. The trip was just great. We had a fantastic time with our friends Stu and Ruthie (a special hat tip to Stu, a former Jackson resident, who organized most of our outings). And we even saw, off about 100 yards in the woods, a grizzly bear and her cubs.

The grizzly reminded me of my dad. He and my mom vacationed in Jackson 5 or so years ago, and he was frustrated that he’d been there for a week and really wanted to see a grizzly and hadn’t. His last day there he called me early Jackson time. He had gotten in the rent-a-car and was driving up to Yellowstone hoping to spot a bear. Every hour or so he’d call back with an update. Lot’s of bison, but no bears. I think he even spotted a moose. I thought of him a lot while I was in Jackson. I miss him every day. I wish I could call him and tell him that I’d seen a bear. A grizzly no less. Yea, the bears were a hundred yards off in the trees and we only saw them for a few seconds. But, boy was that cool.

Sophia flies with her Grape Ape.

Hiking to Death Canyon.

Phelps Lake.

Sophia with Uncle Stu and Auntie Ruthie.
Rafting down the Snake River we saw this bald eagle go fishing.
Sophia at Taggert Lake.

Taggert Lake with the Grand Teton behind us.

The gang.


Sophia visits her 13th state.
Sophia shows off her “President Poopypants” t-shirt.

Sophia hikes up Cole Canyon.

Watching Old Faithful in Yellowstone.

Literally right outside the car window. Literally.

Jacqui almost tripped over this bull moose.

Sophia flies home with her new friend the bison.


Dada 4 Real


In the morning Jacq and I trade off who gets out of bed to play with little Sophia, who unfortunately now gets up at 6:30am. This morning it was my turn to sleep in. Jacq brought Sophia into the bedroom to wake me for our morning walk with Otis, and Sophia squealed “Dada” while reaching out her arms towards me.

What an amazing way to wake up.

Dada

Sophia said dada this week, although she hasn’t quite seemed to have connected it to me. That will come, and I’ve got to assume that once it does it will feel great. Still, just hearing her say dada is one of those feelings you never knew you could have and realize that it just gets better everytime. Except, of course, when she wakes up at 3a.m. and repeats dadadadadad over and over again until she falls back asleep or I muster the strength to turn off the monitor and close her door.

Blood Doping

Yesterday I paid my every-six-week-check-up-for-now visit to Steve Schuster, oncologist extraordinaire. Everything is fine, and my physical recovery seems just about complete (although I cannot say the same for my mental recovery. The days leading up to the check up are very stressful, and Jacqui has to tape my hands together to stop me from poking at every square inch of my body in the hunt for an errand lymph node).

Schuster commented on my hemoglobin levels being so robust, and even jokingly accused me of doping my blood. So today I am packing my bags and heading for the south of France where another young cancer survivor won six consecutive Tour de France. Anyone have a bike I can borrow?

Gerald Gill, I Miss You

My college mentor, my friend, and my colleague Gerald Gill died of a heart attack last week at home in Cambridge. I am at a loss for words, and can only say that he had a singular influence on my life. That it is because of him I became an historian and scholar–his passion for history and dedication to his students were a life changing example for me that I have tried to emulate. That he made me, and all of those who knew him, better people–his personal example of loving-kindness and decency were striking to all who met him. And that he gave me faith that we could together create a better world, that despite our own varied struggles we could come together in community.

Gerald, your loss leaves a hole in all of the lives that you touched. We can only strive to live up to the standards you set. I will miss you terribly, always.

This photo was taken the day of my graduation from Tufts, May 20, 1990. In the photo, from left to right, are Seth Krevat, Gerald Gill, Robin Rosencrantz, and me.

312 days, 23 hours, 30 minutes and 0 seconds

I got a haircut on Wednesday, my first cut in nearly a year: 312 days, 23 hours, 30 minutes and 0 seconds to be exact. What brought me to my barber wasn’t the length of my hair, but the fact that my sideburns were beginning to curl and have a muttonchops meets Hassidic Jewish look to them. It wasn’t a good look.

And I hadn’t thought about my hairless year until Teri, my haircutter for three years now, asked me if it was emotional to get the cut. Until she had brought it up, I, in my great desire to put as much emotional distance between me and chemo/lymphoma, had totally forgotten that I hadn’t had a cut since just after chemo started last September (during chemo I could pretty much wash my hair off with soap and water and finish off with a buzzer the few chemo-resistant patches on my scalp).

So, yes, it was emotional to get the cut, but it was far, far better than the chemo-induced-no-haircut-baldness that I put up with for more than eight months.


Sophia Drives to the Cape

Sophia parks the car in Wellfleet.

We made a triumphant return to Wellfleet, Cape Cod last week, almost a year after our last Cape vacation was canceled due to lymphoma. It was a wonderful 4 days of hanging on the beach, swimming in Great Pond, eating lobsters at Clem and Ursie’s in P’Town, and celebrating being healthy and lymphoma-free.

And although we had a wonderful week, we were both a bit distracted and stressed out by two things that, thankfully, turned out A-OK.

First, we found out while we were away that Sophia’s rash, which you’ve all seen around her mouth in person or in photos, turned out (after several mis-diagnoses) to be a zinc deficiency. And while we were assured that this was easily rectified and would have no lingering effects for her by our doctor, we were stressed out that there could be anything wrong with her, and wanted to hear that she’d be fine from the expert at Children’s Hospital where we finally went yesterday afternoon. The pediatric dermatologists at Children’s Hospital were wonderful and reassuring, and let us know that Sophia would be just fine with just a little extra zinc.

Second, though my last check up with Schuster was ok, my counts had dropped a bit which is a normal post-chemo side-effect, but it can also mean the return of you know what. While nobody thought that the lymphoma had actually returned, I unfortunately entertained it as more than a remote possibility and spent the last few weeks tying my descending colon into a knot. Today I returned for a blood count to make sure everything had returned to normal, which it had, and I am now busy trying to untie my now spastic colon. Yay for post-chemo post-lymphoma PTSD.

So life happily moves forward, Sophia soon-t0-be-rashless with plenty of zinc, and me, sitting on the you know what trying to straighten out my colon.

Sophia plays with a paper bag.

Sophia smiles in her new backpack (thanks Mark and Michelle) at Longnook Beach.

I love my mommy!!!

And I love my cousin Sarah.