Miss Boogie's Adventures Part V

Miss Boogie has just returned from a fabulous week at Rehoboth Beach. She loves the boardwalk and sincerely hopes the “dog months” will be extended at least through May 1^st. April through October is far too long to be denied boardwalk and beach privileges. Miss Boogie finds the city commissioners to be rather speciest in their regulations.

Miss Boogie is a sun-worshiper. She gets it honestly enough from her first Mom, a sun-worshiper of the highest order, who oiled and foiled and broiled her way from precisely 10 a.m. to precisely 2 p.m., at Herring Cove or Race Point Beach every day of an entire Provincetown season. The first Mom once unfolded a webbed, aluminum beach chair in the middle of the backyard on Arden Road in the middle of January. It was a particularly bright day—there being half a foot of snow on the ground reflecting, blindingly, the sun in the cloudless sky.

The Mom, suffering she claimed from SAD, sat in the chair in her down jacket, khakis and boots with a two-foot mirror balanced on her knees to reflect even more rays to her upturned face and hands. Miss Boogie sat rapturously on the foot of the lawn chair.

Miss Boogie takes the sun quite regularly on the Clintonville Beach, as the back yard at Arden Road has often been called. She has her own sunglasses. They are actually the tanning bed glasses of the first Mom, but with their elastic band, and tiny dark lenses, they fit Miss Boogie’s small face perfectly. 

Lest you think I could make these things up, I’ve added photos this time from Miss Boogie’s album. Miss Boogie has quite an album. Both Moms once taught at the notorious Hasket Hall, home of The OSU department of photography and cinema. 

Miss Boogie with the 1st Mom and pal, Pepper, at the Clintonville Beach in January

Miss Boogie with Aunt Donna at the Clintonville Beach

The first Mom, a photographer, taught photography, and the second Mom, a filmmaker, taught, well, filmmaking. And so Miss Boogie roamed the studios, darkrooms and edit suites of Hasket Hall quite freely, attending classes and critiques, editing into the wee hours, meeting guest artists. (Miss Boogie confesses that picking up William Wegman, the great photographer of the noble Weimaraner, Man Ray, at the airport was a highlight. Though she wished Mr. Wegman had at least brought Fay Ray with him.) That is, when there was a Hasket Hall and a department of photography. The department of photography and cinema having been disbanded in a dramatic downsizing of the arts, after some gibberish about the arts not funding themselves like football and the “left-wing faculty.” But that is definitely another story.

When Miss Boogie wasn’t sitting for a photograph, or hanging by the snack machines in the basement, conning some starving student out of a cheese cracker or peanut M & M, she was helping hang a show or, her favorite, attending an opening in the Silver Image Gallery. Miss Boogie loved openings. She loved to wear her red bandana and prance in stylishly, fashionably late. If everyone was already there, talking and drinking, she could make her way directly to the hors d’ oeuvres’ table without anyone making a fuss. 

There were always tasty bits on the floor around the table. She quite preferred the faculty receptions to the student ones. Though she is fond of chips and pizza and corn curls and she adores students and finds them so smart, when they laugh and applaud and toss crisps for her to catch mid-air, her schooled palate appreciates the shrimp, pate, and cheeses that fall from the plates of the wine-sipping faculty even more. 

 Miss Boogie’s eye is as discerning as her tongue—one might call her an art hound. She had her portrait made with and has been photographed by the best. She has kept an album of her favorites. The first Mom, Uncle Chick, Uncle Lloyd, Aunt Susan Mabel, Ardine, Fred, James all became rather famous in their own ways. Miss Boogie likes to remember their promising beginnings, and to remember that she knew them when—rather like Gertrude Stein—when she was the doyenne of Hasket Hall.

Miss Boogie Gets the Mail

One of Miss Boogie’s favorite tricks is "get the mail." If you say, “Get the mail, Miss Boogie,” she leaps from her chair by the window, races to the dining room, jumps onto a chair, and then the table. She roots through the stack of mail, to find a proper envelope—a greeting card, letter or postcard. Miss Boogie will not carry slick circulars or newsprint. Then with the envelope held carefully between her teeth, she trots back to the person who made the request, and delivers the mail. "Good, Boogie!"

This is a good trick for the Moms, because they once ran a greeting card business out of the family room. The first Mom made all the photographs—women on the beach, women in the sunset, women washing the car, women by the fireplace. (Miss Boogie was featured in the fireplace card. But to the point.) The second Mom glued all the photos to the pre-cut cards. Miss Boogie transported the cards from production to shipping without creasing, puncturing, or slobbering on a single one. Which is more than can be said for her Uncle Chuck, who somehow managed to get bar-be-que sauce on everything. Miss Boogie was a crucial member of the team. She did not like the hours, however, and managed to nap away six or seven during a single shift.

Recently, Miss Boogie has been receiving her own mail from readers. She asked if we could answer some. From time to time, we will under the heading “Miss Boogie Gets the Mail.”

Miss Boogie’s first letter comes from Joyce. Joyce asks, “Does Miss Boogie ever travel? If so does she have a preference of cars, planes, etc.?”

Dear Joyce,

Miss Boogie loves to travel, but she only travels by car, boat, bicycle and sometimes Harley. (Her Aunt Gail had a Harley, but she moved to California.) Miss Boogie prefers vehicles that allow her fur to fly freely in the breeze. She does not like to be confined inside a closed vehicle. She never travels in a carrier or a crate. Come to think of it, she didn’t much like the helmet on the Harley. 

 

Sincerely,

Miss Boogie’s 2^nd Mom

Miss Boogie's March Madness

Miss Boogie regrets that she has not had time to keep up with her blog adventures lately. It is March. She has been very busy following her team.

 

 Go Bucks!

Whew! That's a lot of work for a such a little dog. Miss Boogie could use a lager.

Miss Boogie will be returning soon with a new adventure.

Miss Boogie's Adventures Part IV

  
Miss Boogie rarely sleeps on the floor. She prefers the waterbed, the chair in the window or the sofa, except in the morning when the sun streams through the picture window. Then Miss Boogie sleeps in the exact center of the sunbeam curled like a ball of wool, moustache like tufts spiked in all directions. “Which end is her head?” “What do you mean end?”

 

Miss Boogie’s name was not always Miss Boogie. Apart from the name the first owners gave her, the ones who left her in the dumpster, and called her “Muffy” or “Fluffy” or “Buffy” or something she can’t quite remember; she has had several names. The first person who took her in, the famous political activist, sailor, and wearer of black before it was fashionable because it didn’t show dirt and made doing her laundry easier, Aunt Direen, named her Miller after an ex-girlfriend. Calling a fluff ball “Miller,” however, seemed too formal, and “Millie” was too sissy for such an independent spirit and too confusing for the grandmothers.

You see, the second Mom called the first Mom “Millie” because her name was Molnar which is Hungarian for miller, and “Millie” was short for that miller—the Hungarian miller, not the ex-girlfriend Miller. But Millie wasn’t the first Mom’s real name and nobody else called her that, except the second Mom’s mother because she thought it was a real name, or at least a real nickname.

One Thanksgiving when the first Mom’s mother was visiting, the second Mom’s mother telephoned to check some sizes before doing her Christmas shopping. After pleasant hello’s, the second Mom’s mother asked the first Mom’s mother, “What size feet does Millie have?” 

Well, she meant what size feet does the person called Millie have, but the first Mom’s mother thought she meant what size feet did the fluff ball called Millie have so she said, “Why, I don’t know exactly. Very small, though.” 

Small was not the second Mom’s mother’s recollection of the first Mom’s foot size, so she tried a different approach. “What size shoe does she wear?” The first Mom’s mother now thought that the second Mom’s mother was batty, but she tried to answer politely. “I don’t think she wears shoes.” “Doesn’t wear shoes! Don’t her feet get cold?” “I don’t know. I never thought about it.” At which point the second Mom’s mother thought the first Mom’s mother must be absolutely batty not to have thought about her own daughter’s shoeless feet, but she responded politely, “Well, I guess I won’t get her slippers for Christmas.” And she hung up. 

Ever after, the two Mom’s called their mothers the Bats. “Who’s on the phone?” “It’s the Bat for you.” “Hi, Mom.” And Miss Boogie went through a name change.

(In fact one of Miss Boogie’s Aunts, Chris or Donna or Bell or maybe Aunt Susan, brought her a beautiful pair of red cowboy boots as a memento of a trip West. Alas, like most high-heeled shoes, they were difficult to walk in, so she could only wear them around the house—mostly she wore them on Fridays to watch “Dallas.”)

Miss Boogie’s Aunt Donna tried calling her “Brillo.” She could resemble a used Brillo pad, during the shape shifting stage just before rust sets in, but it wasn’t the perfect name—too scratchy. No. She needed something that captured her spirit, her capacity for pure joy. Then one day it happened.

The Moms were listening to a Lily Tomlin album. Lily was doing a character named, “Sister Boogie Woman.” Sister Boogie Woman was describing the life affirming qualities of “boogie.” She advised two seniors in a nursing home, who were forbidden to close the door for some moments of private intimacy, to “boogie with the door open!”

The Moms looked at each other, jumped up shrieking with joy. That was it! Muffy, Buffy, Fluffy, Miller, Millie, Brillo was Boogie personified... er, incarnate—a cotton wool on stilts who sang for chocolate, tap-danced with wild abandon on a vinyl chair, threw herself with kisses into the arms of friends and strangers, and always boogied with the door open. 

Miss Boogie's Adventures Part III

As we learned in the last installment, Miss Boogie is fond of Christmas, and has discovered ways of snatching rich treats like entire sticks of butter or whole boxes of truffles while no one is watching. Next to Christmas, and truffles, Miss Boogie likes Easter.

While the people are eating ham and potatoes and Heavenly Hash, Miss Boogie can hide an entire basket of chocolate eggs. 

 

 

With any luck at all the people won’t find most of them. When they do find one randomly, they often foolishly blame some strange rabbit. “Oh look, babe, there’s a chocolate egg in the couch cushion.” “That bad Easter Bunny. I thought we had found them all.”

Months later Miss Boogie can retrieve a chocolate malto-milk egg from behind the refrigerator or under the lazy-boy or pushed between the frame and mattress at the foot of the waterbed. You’d be surprised how well they keep there if you push them down in the corner fold of the plastic out of reach of the covers. It’s important to keep them out of the sheets. Otherwise, when the Moms change the sheets they find lots of hidden Boogie bounty, like whole Oreos, milk-bones and French fries. “Oh my god! How did this French fry get here?” “This is disgusting. Miss Boogie!” Miss Boogie usually hides under the dresser whenever the Moms change the sheets. Just in case.

On Halloween Miss Boogie likes to dress punk to try to scare the children. If she is successful, they will drop their treat bags; and she can grab a Snickers or Tootsie-Roll or two.

 

Sometimes she just tags along behind with her own treat bag. The children can barely see to walk, so they never realize she’s behind them. Since Halloween is a big block party on Arden Road [it’s known throughout the city as the best haul; kids come from across town to parade up and down the two blocks of goblin gold coast and drag home pillowcases heavy with of the mother lode of Halloween candy], no one notices a strange, very short kid with furry legs.

 

“That’s a great costume, kid. Must be hard on your knees.” Miss Boogie just nods.

Miss Boogie’s people order pizza and wait with their bowl of candy outside in the drive, laughing and drinking red wine with the neighbors. They don’t even realize she’s gone. For Miss Boogie, Halloween is a triple treat.

 
PS

Dear Readers,

I have had several people e-mail me about chocolate and dogs. I do know that chocolate is very bad for dogs. PLEASE DO NOT LET YOUR DOG EAT CHOCOLATE. I love dogs and would not want any dog to be harmed by eating chocolate. I do not know why Miss Boogie is "chocolate tolerant." For some unknown reason, she is able to eat chocolate and other very rich people food without harm. Perhaps her early life in the dumpster prepared her. This is not the usual case for dogs, but Miss Boogie is not a usual dog.

Sincerely,

Miss Boogie's Second Mom

Miss Boogie's Adventures Part II

         Miss Boogie was bred to the good life, despite her humble beginnings. You remember, she had been abandoned by her former people in a dumpster in German Village in the dead of winter. Not at all the place for a tiny, tufted, dog often mistaken for a rat. No. Lustron, Clintonville, two moms—much better. Though life in the dumpster made her street wise. She knows how to fend for herself—skills that come in handy.  But I am ahead of myself.  In Clintonville, with her two moms in a Lustron house she has her own window and her own chair.

Miss Boogie prefers to sit in a chair, to sleep on the waterbed and to dine on chicken breast sautéed in butter, garlic, olive oil, basil and capers. She didn’t need to acquire a taste for capers or garlic or truffles. She came by it naturally. Paprikash, kielbasa, cabbage noodles are part of her heritage. Think of the half-eaten pastries, bits of sausage and noodles in that dumpster. It’s enough to make any little dog lick her lips. Just thinking of the delights in that dumpster was enough to drive Miss Boogie to do to do all sorts of things even though she knew they made her Moms unhappy. But what is a Boogie to do?

One Christmas Eve she ate an entire stick of butter while no one was looking. “Did you put the butter away?” “No, I thought you did.” “I didn’t but the dish is clean.” Momentary pause. Then in unison, “Boogie!” The Moms worried Miss Boogie would die. It was an entire stick of butter. They called the emergency vet clinic. “Watch her carefully,” said the concerned vet. Miss Boogie didn’t even get sick. It seems she is from hearty Ohio-European stock with a high cholesterol tolerance.

Miss Boogie’s favorite food is chocolate, though she comes quickly when the word “pizza” is spoken. Her favorite holidays are Christmas, Easter and Halloween—followed by Valentine’s Day. She loves to open presents, especially the truffles sent by various Aunts from Seattle or San Francisco.  In a good year, she can eat or hide an entire box of truffles before her people come home, without damaging the outer wrapping. There is always just a small hole in the bottom corner of the box that looks like a post office accident. “Oh no! Look! The post office damaged the box and all of the truffles fell out.” “That’s horrible.” “We’ll have to thank Chris anyway. She would be so disappointed.”

In a bad year, her people come in just as she is opening the box.

The problem with people is all their silly questions. “Miss Boogie! What are you doing on the table?”  “Miss Boogie, did you do this?” “Miss Boogie, where are all the chocolates?” Sometimes she has to wait for hours under the dresser for them to forget about the truffles.

They usually do forget. That’s how people are.

This is Miss Boogie

 

This is Miss Boogie.

Miss Boogie lives with her people in a metal house in Clintonville. It suits her. She was found in a metal dumpster on the edge of German Village. Since she was a foundling, her family tree was very difficult to trace.  She is small, six pounds, with long spindly legs. She is ten inches high. Her ears are floppy but not long, and her fur, well her kinkily soft fur sticks out all over like an un-waxed moustache.

Miss Boogie has great distain for those who think she is a poodle mix. Miss Boogie is not at all a poodle. She is not at all a terrier. After much research, Miss Boogie, determined that she was an affenpinscher.  She saw one on a dog chart in the veterinarian’s office and looked it up in the dictionary. “(af-en-pin-scher) n. Ger. Any of a breed of small, black dog with moustache like tufts.” Since she could not prove the noun, Miss Boogie decided she was the adjective, “of or having the qualities of affenpinscher.” She was found in German Village, after all.

Most people have never seen an affenpinscher. Hardly anyone knows what an affenpinscher is. Even the vet didn’t know her breed and mistakenly wrote “poodle-mix” on her card. She is not fond of the vet.

Miss Boogie is a source of much amusement to people on the street who sometimes point and laugh. “What is that, Harriet, a rat?” “No, Howard! Rats don’t wear collars.” Miss Boogie just bounces right by. “Our rat does,” chirp her people. “She’s quite tame. Would you like to hear her sing?”  “Sing Boogie.” And she sings in her purest descant soprano.

Miss Boogie’s people don’t much care what her breeding is. They love her character. It isn’t simply her moustache like tufts, or her spindly legs, or even the small, pink tongue that curls up over her nose at the mention of chocolate. It’s her joie de vivre. It’s the quality of “boogie” which brought about her name.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Everything about Miss Boogie is unusual. Her people live in a metal house, Lustron. They say it’s made of melted down airplanes and tanks from World War II baked with enamel. Very durable. Fireproof. All the pictures are hung with magnets, like on a refrigerator door.  Miss Boogie’s people always laugh when telephone solicitors try to sell them aluminum siding.  “Ha, ha, ha, Miss Boogie, what do you think of that! They want us to put cheap aluminum over our indestructible steel.” Imagine what Miss Boogie’s people say about vinyl siding.

Lustron suits Miss Boogie. She was found, after all in a steel dumpster. More than that, hardly anyone has heard of Lustron. Hardly anyone has heard of an affenpinscher. Hardly any affenpinschers live in a Lustron house with two moms. Miss Boogie is pleased with her situation.

 

Miss Boogie stories and images copyright 2011 Linda R. Thornburg. All Rights Reserved.