MY GOAL IN LIFE IS TO BE THE PERSON MY DOG THINKS I AM

I'm a dog person. Period. Ask anyone who has ever known me and they'll tell you. I'm a dog person. Always have been, always will be. (I'm not much of a cat person. I don't hate them; I just don't understand them. Ever see a cheesy sitcom or movie with a single guy charged with babysitting for an infant? And he doesn't know what to do with the kid? And he ends up holding it up by the armpits, at arms' length, baffled? That's me with cats. I can't read their body language, can't predict their movement, don't know what they're communicating. And because of that, I live in perpetual fear of the cute kitty I pet lashing out and clawing my face.)

So, Ilene = dog person. Growing up, my Aunt's household had Pepper, the senior citizen Beagle. He was benign enough, and small. At five, he only came up to my knees and was more interested in food the maid/cook dropped on the floor for him than he was interacting with the little annoying kids dropped off to visit. But the neighbors who lived behind our Long Island home had Buttons, a purebred German Shepherd. That was my real introduction to the canine world - the most beautiful, regal breed and the most gentle, goofy specimen. We didn't have a fence dividing our backyard from the neighbors' so Buttons roamed freely through both. For birthday celebrations, Buttons was invited over -- if you sang "Happy Birthday," Buttons would join in, howling at the top of her lungs, "singing" along with us. An thus, a dog person was born.

One Saturday, while I was in first grade and my brother in kindergarten, my parents woke us up and helped get us dressed. They said we had to visit the home of someone my dad worked with. (Sidebar: My dad worked for the Nassau County Department of Public Works as an Architectural Draftsman, drawing blueprints for government buildings, repairs, etc... only I couldn't pronounce "architectural" when I was little and proceeded to tell people my father was an Artificial Draftsman. Also, during a school field trip, when the yellow school buses drove past the Nassau County Jail, I pointed and yelled out, "My Daddy's in there!" prompting my teacher to call home and ask my mother if there was 'Anything about Ilene's home life' she should be aware of. My mother, between giggles, explained that my father was an inspector overseeing the renovations being done to the County building and not, in fact, an inmate.)

So, mom and dad loaded us into the family truckster, buckled us in and drove off. Turns out, my parents lied just a little. We weren't heading to a colleague's home. We pulled off the highway and into a parking lot adjacent to a large building. I had just begun to read and was proud of showing off my prowess. (My brother, new to the kindergarten scene, couldn't yet read.) I started sounded out the words on the building's sign and as the words clicked, so too did my recognition of the TV commercial I kept seeing. "North... Shore... Animal... NEAL! WE'RE GETTING A DOG! We're getting a dog!!"

I remember walking into the building and there were stacks of metal cages with puppies inside. I was a kid in a candy shop. I wanted all of the dogs but one specifically: the solid black Labrador puppy. My mom and dad windowshopped and looked around before we left without a dog. I know now that you have to find the right dog with whom you connect and that my parents just didn't find that puppy at North Shore that day. What I remember from then is being HYSTERICAL and sobbing uncontrollably because we...sniff... left... sniff... without... sniff... a DAWG!!!

My brother had quickly gotten with the "we're getting a dog!" program despite his illiteracy and doubled the sound of bawling children from the back seat when we left dogless. What we did not understand (though it's entirely possibly my parents clearly explained this to us over our noisy laments) was that we were next heading to the Bide-A-Wee animal shelter to search for dogs there. My parents will note that the 20-mile trip between North Shore Animal League in Port Washington to the Bide-A-Wee shelter in Wantagh stands as the worst thirty minutes they've ever spent in a car.

Bide-A-Wee welcomed my parents, and my brother and I, now much calmer, with a larger selection of puppies. I'm not sure what kind of puppy my parents were seeking but they found her: twelve pounds (most of them in her ears) of a German Shepherd mix. I'm sure the coloring helped them take a shine to her, but knowing Buttons and how wonderful the breed was must have helped. Without much input from me or my brother, we walked out of Bide-A-Wee with my mother carrying an eight-week old puppy in her arms. During the car ride home, we discussed what to name her. GINGER joined our family.

Ginger was mostly German Shepherd but she had some sort of terrier mixed in and it manifested itself in odd ways. For one, she never grew bigger than a six-month old purebred Shepherd. Second, her paws were dainty and pointy, not the massive clonkers of a real Shepherd (she didn't like you playing with them; she'd tuck them under her chest to make sure.) And finally, she lived as part of our family for a lifespan almost twice the average expectancy of a purebred Shepherd. She was entirely Shepherd in almost every other way, most notably her massive ears. Even though she never grew to the size of an adult purebred, her ears most certainly did. They were huge. She was part rabbit. She picked up satellite.

Ginger was the neighborhood dog you visited if you were afraid of dogs. So many children (and adults) who had a longstanding fear of dog were invited over to meet Ginger. Without fail, won people over and helped alleviate their fears. Ginger was an icebreaker, the training wheel of dogs. And she was absolutely goofy.

Ginger chased her tail, often.
Ginger wanted her belly rubbed, constantly.
She loved to play fetch, especially in the mud.


Ginger was terrified of thunder and lightning; she'd scurry under my parents' bed when it stormed until she could no longer wedge herself in there. She was afraid of the sprinkler. She was afraid of the basement. She didn't like being left alone and suffered separation anxiety; we came home one day to find that she'd knocked a stack of books off my father's dresser and chewed only one of them to shreds: she chose the one entitled 'How To Live With Your Neurotic Dog.'

Ginger sang, sorta. When she thought she was home alone (most often on a Sunday morning while my parents were out but my brother and I, now young teens, were still sleeping) she'd begin a one-hour opera of howling and baying. Finally, unable to sleep because of her pathetic whines, one of us would peek our heads out of the bedroom and she'd realize, "Whoops. Thought I was alone there." Ginger would sheepishly trot into our rooms, sit alongside ours beds with the endearing embarassment of Emily Litella's "nevermind."

Ginger sat next to my bed each night as I fell asleep. Then, when the entire family was in bed, she'd position herself in the hallway, in between the doorways to all three bedrooms, guarding all of us. Although, if anyone ever broke in, she'd kill them with kisses, licking them to death. I'm not sure she had a mean bone in her but when she barked, anyone who saw her through the front bay window saw a vicious German Shepherd.

Ginger would get loose if the gardeners accidentally left one of the gates in the backyard open after they'd mowed the lawn. Ginger would go walkabout. We'd be out on the front lawn, down the block, yelling for her. Sometimes she's skulk back right away. Other times, my father would climb into the station wagon and begin the neighborhood patrol. Thank god, she always came home. And as angry as you wanted to be, the relief we felt when she came running to us overwhelmed us every time. I particularly liked how after twenty or thirty minutes of panic we'd see my father pull around the corner in the blue station wagon. He'd be in the driver's seat wearing a look of annoyance while Ginger would be in the passenger seat, bat-ears straight up, big pink tongue hanging out, practically elated. "Did you see? I'm in the car! In the front seat! I went for a ride! Look at me! This is awesome!"

Ginger had a woobie. Each winter my mother would put a towel by the front door where we took off our snowboots. Each towel would be hijacked by Ginger who would carry it around in her mouth, frayed ends trailing out of each side of her mouth as she ran from us. Sometimes we'd tuck her orange woobie under her collar and she'd run around like a superhero mutt until she could figure out how to remove the cape and chew on it.

Ginger was our dog throughout elementary school, junior high and high school. She wasn't a purebred German Shepherd but she became a full-blooded Schreibman: goofy but lovable. I went away for college and I'd return him each holiday and each May noticing Ginger had aged a bit more. When I'd graduated, I moved back to Long Island and realized Ginger wasn't holding up well. She was fifteen years old, almost twice the average lifespan of a purebred Shepherd. Her black and tan fur was peppered with grey. Her muzzle was grey. Her eyes had cataracts. Her hearing was diminished; she wouldn't hear you when you came in the front door. The boisterous greetings were now apologetic nuzzles once she realized you were home. And though her paws were those of a terrier, her hind legs were all Shepherd and they began to fail her.

I was home alone one afternoon in October of 1992. I let Ginger outside and she collapsed on the deck. She could not get up. I tried to lift her and she growled at me. This was a dog who never growled; she was in pain. I panicked and called my mom, who rushed home from work. We called our father who left work as well. My brother was in class at a local college; he would be home shortly. When he did, the three of us loaded Ginger into the back of the family station wagon and headed to the vet's office. On our way out of our development, we saw our father's car. He parked it on that street and joined us in the wagon. All five of the Schreibmans headed to the animal hospital.

** A note about our vet, Dr. Rothman. My mother chose him because she was an insurance broker and he was one of her clients. It really was that simple. What we came to learn was that Dr. Rothman was absolutely wonderful. This was a man with several allergies; he had to have shots weekly in order to do his job treating animals. Now THAT's the veterinarian you want taking care of your beloved pet.**

We carried Ginger into the exam room and Dr. Rothman checked her out. He admitted he could put her on some drugs and keep her alive a few days but we all knew there was no point. She was in pain. She had no muscle left in her legs to hold her up. She was exhausted. Dr. Rothman gave us a box of tissues, then left us alone in the exam room with her for ten minutes. We sobbed, we petted her. She was as relaxed as we'd ever seen her. When Dr. Rothman came back, he explained step by step what he would do. The IV line was inserted. We all were holding the dog. The solution was injected. We waited. Dr. Rothman listened to her heartbeat with his stethoscope and announced, "she's gone." It was that peaceful, that simple, that heartbreakingly poignant (I'm tearing up as I type this even now, seventeen years later.)

Dr. Rothman left the room and again left us with a box of tissues and time alone to say goodbye. I remember holding Ginger's paw, something she'd never let me do while she was alive. I looked at my parents; I'd witnessed them at funerals for family members and had never seen this particular kind of sadness in them. We left the animal hospital together, walked somberly to the car and drove home. My father stormed off to his bedroom and slammed the door. My brother stormed off to his and slammed his door. Neither were seen for hours. My mother and I sat down at the kitchen table and through our tears knocked off an entire chocolate mandel loaf and quart of milk. We all cope in our own ways.

Now, here's where it gets funny (and I'm guessing you could handle a little funny right about now.) My mother called Bide-A-Wee to inquire about burying Ginger in their cemetery (President Nixon's beloved Checkers was buried there.) They explained that there were no more plots available at their Wantagh location but there was room out in Westhampton. My mother wanted Wantagh though. They said there was one option -- many graves were untended because owners who had been providing perpetual care for their pets had themselves passed away or moved. These graves could be opened and a second animal interred and the perpetual care taken over. A lightbulb flickered on above my mother's head and she crinkled her nose and brow. "Can you look up a name in your system?"

My mother had a pet Pomeranian/Spitz mix named Cindy. She had the dog from the time she was thirteen until it passed away in 1965. They'd buried the dog at Bide-A-Wee and my grandmother had taken care of the grave. But Grandma Sara had passed away in 1982. Lo and behold, one of the graves available was Cindy's. My mother was relieved, knowing that Ginger would be buried atop Cindy and they'd share the same plot. Bide-A-Wee was relieved that they now were able to charge my mother for the burial of Ginger and hit her up for backpayment on the perpetual care of Cindy. Somehow, my mother was pickpocketed during her moment of grief yet it was the only laugh of the day.

I couldn't go with my mother to bury Ginger. I don't know how she had the strength to do it -- to identify the body and to place Ginger's favorite orange woobie in the container beside her. But Ginger was gone. For weeks, months even, the house felt wrong. There was someone missing. There was a palpable void. Sure, we'd find clumps of dog hair that had fallen out of Ginger's hind legs at the end of summer or we'd find a toy. But a family member was absent. It was a horrible feeling. No one knew what to do about it. My parents weren't ready for another pet and were adamant they would not get one. My life was uncertain; I was commuting and working in New York City, saving up to move into Manhattan. I couldn't be relied upon to be a fulltime caregiver for a new dog. My brother, too, was going to school and his schedule was up in the air. A dog was simply not in the works.

Fast forward to August 1993. I had been on a weekend roadtrip to Washington, D.C. with girlfriends and had just walked into the house. The phone rang. It was Neal asking, "did you hear what I got?" I said whatever it was I hoped it was not contagious. He said that he'd gotten a dog. Yeah, right.

An hour later, Neal's car pulled up in front of the house and he led a strange dog out of it, into the house. My mother had him march that mutt straight out to the back deck. No stray was coming into her house until it was checked out by a vet. In the meantime, the dog could stay outside. My brother had been taking a walk with friends in Jamaica Heights and ran into a woman who was walking this dog on a rope. Not a leash, a rope. The woman said she'd found the puppy trying to cross Francis Lewis Boulevard (a six-lane, high traffic roadway in Queens.) The woman took the puppy home, bathed her and fed her but could not keep her. If Neal and his friends didn't know of anyone who might want her the woman would drop the puppy off at the pound. Alarms went off in Neal's head. He offered to take the dog back home to see if he could find someone who wanted her.

She was big. A puppy for sure, but a big puppy. Her paws were massive. Her tongue bigger. She was definitely part shepherd, maybe part Labrador. We thought maybe part Doberman, possibly part Coonhound, perhaps part Rottweiler. We then conceded she was part moose. She really was beautiful and as uncertain as the parents were about a dog, they quickly fell in love with her. She got the all clear from the vet. She was about six months old and healthy. And she was ours. Well, Neal's really. From the moment she became a Schreibman, the sun rose and set with Neal. She was in love with Neal for the next thirteen years.

The first obstacle was what to name her. Neal toyed with naming her after a New York Islander. Then he considered the quasi-Japanese name of Diogi (that would be D.O.G. annunciated.) But her markings were unique - she had a solid ring of color around her collar. A ring around her collar. What fixes that? WISK detergent. And thus, WHISKEY (spelled like the liquor) had her name.

Whiskey was only about 47 times goofier than Ginger. Whiskey would climb on top of the outdoor table, squatting on top of the Lazy Susan. She wanted the salad's eye view of the backyard. Sometimes she'd watch TV through the sliding glass doors of our neighbor's family room. Even in the snow, she'd climb to her outpost and take it all in, surveying her turf. Later, she learned that patio furniture was also an option, choosing the woven folding chair.

Whiskey would regularly be at the front window to greet you even if we had left her in a crate an hour earlier. Determined to figure out how Whiskey kept pulling a Houdini, Neal locked her up, left the house and then climbed a latter outside his own room and peaked in to watch how she pulled it off. She wedged her nose between the front and side panels of the metal crate and wedged and wiggled her way out. Well, that explained her Shawshank schtick (and the tiny scars on her nose.)

Whiskey stole food and hoarded food. Two cooked meatloaves cooling down? And then there was one. A bottle of Jose Cuervo fell in the kitchen during a house party; she licked some of it up (this might explain SO much about Whiskey in the years to come and definitely explains the chip in the ceramic floor tile that remains today.) She'd ferret away a bagel and hide it under the throw pillows in my bedroom. A bag of chicken cutlets were defrosting in the kitchen sink; Whiskey managed to pull it out of the deep stainless steel pit and drag it into the kitchen. She ripped it open and ate some, leaving some cutlets on the living room carpet, breaded in lint. My brother discovered the mess and was methodically surveying the house to clean up her mischievous afternoon when he noticed something 'off' in my parents' bedroom. My mother's pillow was... well, it just was sitting wrong. He checked beneath my mother's pillow and he found one raw chicken cutlet. Now, as endearing as it might seem, Whiskey bringing a raw chicken cutlet as a gift for my mother the way a cat might offer a dead mouse to its owner, the scene that would have occurred if my mother laid down and discovered the uncooked poultry beneath her head would probably not have been a good one. Whiskey was so smart though -- she managed to drag a carton of raw eggs into the living room and open it up. We only saw the aftermath. Four eggs still in the carton, still in tact. Two eggs still in the carton, broken open. Four broken shells on the living room floor, raw egg goop all over the carpet. One broken egg shell on the carpet, licked clean. Where was egg number twelve?! The back cushion on the sofa was sitting on an odd angle. It was raised. Wait a minute... is that? Couldn't be... There was one raw egg, unharmed, uncracked, sitting under the far right sofa cushion. Whiskey must have been trying, repeatedly, to hoard and hide the eggs but breaking them along the way. She'd managed to carry this one egg, like she was carrying her young, unscathed to the couch and tuck it gently under the back sofa cushion. Again, we don't know the full effects of the Jose Cuervo.

Whiskey did not like it when Neal wore her around his shoulders like a fur cape or hunter's trophy. Whiskey did not like thunder and lightning. Whiskey, like Ginger, had a bit of the wanderlust and would occasionally feel compelled to go walkabout. Once, during a family Thanksgiving in Longmeadow, Massachusetts we were sitting at the kitchen table preparing the meal and a cousin noted that the dog wandering along the sidewalk in front of her house looked remarkably like Whiskey, who had been in the fence-enclosed backyard. Yeah, Whiskey jumped that fence.

Whiskey would stare at you like a Jedi while you were eating, hoping you'd willingly give her food. She would steal the napkin from my mother's lap and run off. She would eventually give up and place her head on my mother's lap and look up with the most pathetic eyes longing for chicken or fish or whatever was on that night's menu. (For the record, we did voiceovers all the time and her accent was a blend of Ren & Stimpy. Pssst... pssst... I like feesh.)

Whiskey was the alarm system letting us know when our baby cousin needed to be changed; she'd follow that diaper around, sniffing, covering the toddler in kisses.

When my parents renovated and redecorated their house, the new window treatments included a small window just for Whiskey to sit out and look at the street. It had it's own shade that could be raised or lowered, independent of all the other shades, to accommodate Whiskey's viewing needs. A small rug was placed in front of that window so she'd have a warm, comfy place to sit lookout in case that vicious postal worker returned (which he did, six days a week for twelve years!) I suppose it was a mistake teaching Whiskey that the metal mail slot opened and closed because after that, she' routinely flip it open with her nose and then bite the incoming mail. Many, many bills and invitations delivered to the Schreibman home were covered in teethmarks.

Since I didn't live in the same house as Whiskey, I didn't know about her social life. Incredible people had moved in next door to my parents and they had four dogs. Whiskey was welcome anytime and thought any visit to the McMurtry's was a day at an amusement park. At dog or human parties, she would walk in the front door, ignore any greetings, and make a beeline down to the den where she knew the basket full of rawhide was housed.

Whiskey was most definitely Neal's dog and I missed out on a lot of time with her while I lived in Manhattan. I admit though, the greetings I received when I did come home were so enthusiastic I'd swear her whining verged on words.

Towards the late 90's, Whiskey's age began to show. Her muzzle was getting grayer. She was packing on the girth. Little by little, time took its toll. She slept more, heard less. She started getting lumps. Eventually, her trips up and down the basement stairs decreased, and then finally stopped altogether. She was losing muscle, growing weaker. She couldn't move fast enough to alert anyone that she needed to go outside and indoor 'accidents' became more common. We all knew what was coming. We didn't want to face it, but we knew it. They say owners will just know when the time is right and you can't really understand that until you've been through it. But we knew.


Neal took her to the vet (same vet, same allergy shots twenty years later) and the diagnosis was old age. It was likely something else was going on inside her too. Cancer maybe. But there would be little sense in aggressively fighting it given her age and her condition. We took her home for a day or so knowing an appointment had been made for her to be put down.

On December 29, 2006, I was in my mid-thirties and had been living in Manhattan for more than a decade. I came home for this. Once again, all five Schreibmans made the trip to the vet, this time in two cars. My parents drove ahead, Whiskey sprawled out on the blue-flowered sheet draped over their backseat. I followed, driving my brother's car with him in the passenger seat, devastated and distraught.

The people at the vet's office were equally upset. Whiskey had become a mascot of sorts. Whiskey would regularly bound out of the car and into the office, running up to the front reception desk, jumping up to say hello and knocking every business card and pamphlet off the counter and across the waiting room. The staff loved her. When Whiskey stayed there for a procedure or a grooming or if she was boarded in the kennel while my parents or brother traveled, she was the dog the staff let out of her cage to wander around and keep them company at night. They were crying as Whiskey made her way into the office that morning.

Fourteen years after we'd said goodbye to Ginger, we were ushered into the same room to bid farewell to Whiskey. Staff came in to send her off and left teary-eyed. Whiskey was massive laying on the metal table. I held her paw the entire time. The vet gave us time alone again, then returned to administer the euthanasia cocktail, and then gave us time alone to mourn after she was gone. I think Whiskey's departure was worse than Ginger's, certainly for my brother but for me too though I can't put my finger on why. Maybe we were more emotionally mature as adults or maybe it was the realization that here we were, again, together, saying goodbye to another family member, again. My father and brother left the room first, with no words, and headed home in one car. My mother and I remained, crying and talking to the vet. I was still holding Whiskey's massive paw, stroking it as it dangled off the slab. When we finally made our way out of the room and through the waiting room, it was silent. All the other pet owners sitting in the lobby knew, having witnessed my father and brother depart moments earlier, that we'd put our dog to sleep. There was a reverence when we walked through the waiting room, a sadness amongst the other humans who were faced with the reality that someday that would be them. Being in the room, holding both Ginger and Whiskey as they left this world, are experiences I would never trade. As devastating a loss as each dog was, I can't imagine a better way to end our journey together. I wholeheartedly recommend the experience to anyone faced with the task of putting a pet to sleep.

Whiskey was buried out at Bide-A-Wee in her own grave not far from the shared grave of Ginger and Cindy. Once again, the Schreibman homestead was without a dog and once again, it was a palpable void in the energy and fabric of my family and the home. But no one was prepared to commit to dog ownership again. My parents were getting older. My father's health has been at the forefront of concerns the past five years and the responsibility would fall upon my mother. My brother's life and calendar is jam-packed; it would be unfair to bring a puppy home.

And me? I have an incurable, severe case of dog envy. I've always wanted a dog of my own but was hesitant to adopt. The commitment of time and of money was always a serious concern. When I first moved into the city, I lived on the Upper East Side with a roommate. I was barely making ends meet, had my first job in the music industry and was out at concerts and showcases all the time. It as not the right time to bring home a dog. When I moved downtown to a Chelsea studio, I also changed jobs. And four months into the new job, the new boss declared that the midtown offices were being closed and I would be working from home, indefinitely. Now, looking back, you'd think THAT was the perfect time to bring home a shelter pup and train it. But at the time, I was trying to figure out my new job and my new city life... woulda, coulda, shoulda.

Then it was too late. I was traveling too much. Pulling late hours too often. But I was a crazy dog person. And I think dogs know it. I have walked down the street, looked at a dog and they come up to me, jump on me, want to say hello. I just smile at a dog and their tail begins to wag. I've just looked at a yellow Lab puppy across the street and witnessed it drag its owner across the road to greet me. I will play with any dog, anywhere. I used to walk a princess of an English Bulldog and I dogsit a friend's French Bulldog when she travels. I've always found a visit to Bide-A-Wee or North Shore Animal League (or even Shake-A-Paw, though I'm quite against buying dogs when shelter dogs need homes) a perfectly enjoyable way to spend an hour.

For the past year, I've been volunteering at the New York City Animal Control Center in East Harlem, walking and socializing dogs. They're not a no-kill shelter; they'll put animals down if they're not adopted out so sometimes it's depressing but most of the time, nothing makes a sad day better than playing with goofy, pit-bulls. I keep saying I'm destined to adopt a dog of my own and someday I will (I'm pretty sure 2010 will be the year.)

But out of nowhere, last weekend, the idea of a dog at the Schreibman Homestead started to take shape again. My mother had heard about a family looking to get rid of their dog due to some sort of divorce and/or housing and/or irresponsible child issue (none of which would make sense to me as reasons to unload your puppy) and was intrigued enough to inquire about the dog. The owners, jumping the gun, had already surrendered her to North Shore Animal League (and our story comes full circle.) My mother, god bless her, spent all weekend on the phone with staff at North Shore tracking (practically stalking) the progress of this dog. The dog was admitted to the kennel, then to the medical ward, then scheduled to be spayed, then made it through the procedure until finally they said she would be going "on the block" Tuesday morning to be adopted.

I took an 8:20am train from Penn Station to Port Washington. My mother met me at the train station and we drove to North Shore Animal League. We sat in her parked car in front of their main entrance from 9:15 waiting for them to open at 10:00am. We weren't the only people there; others gathered early knowing more dogs are available at the start of the day. We were praying the others were looking for puppies. We entered and made a beeline; we were on a mission, looking for the one dog we came for. Two and a half hours later, MILEY was officially a Schreibman.


For the past almost 48 hours, Miley has been in the Schreibman homestead and its going to be a big adjustment for everyone. Let's face it, this poor puppy (a one year old Golden Retriever/Chow mix) had one shitty weekend; it was traumatic and will take some time for her to recover. She's scared and confused. Little by little she's coming out of her shell. Before long, the Schreibman brand of goofy will rub off.

Ginger was the dog of my childhood; we brought her home while I was in first grade and we put her down after I came home from four years away at university. Whiskey was the dog of my early adulthood. The entire time I worked in the music industry, Whiskey was the family pet -- six weeks after ending my music career, we put Whiskey down. The past three years have been limbo for me. As confusing and exciting, liberating and terrifying as freelance life has been (especially in this job market and economic doomscape) it's felt unsettled. As unsettled as the Schreibman homestead felt without the presence of a dog.

I'm going to look at MILEY as a sign that things are looking up. Once again, there's a dog at the Schreibman homestead. Feel that? That's the universe settling back into it's natural state.


Click here to visit the site for the North Shore Animal League: www.nsal.org

Click here to visit the site for Bide-A-Wee: www.bideawee.org (Sadly, the Wantagh adoption center closed in 2009; their NYC and Westhampton adoption centers remain open and both memorial parks, in Wantagh and Westhampton, remain open)

Click here to visit the site for NYC Animal Control: www.nycacc.org