So Mernie calls the other morning to say simply "Tooley has cancer." This was unexpected. Lime disease? Maybe. Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever? Possibly. Cancer? Never saw it coming. Neither did our vet. She says Tooley's conditions and symptoms are taught in Vet school but it's a unique condition most doctors never see in all their years of practice.

Tooley.  Part Heffalump. Part Woozle. I brought her home the day I found her running around a McDonald's parking lot as they were posting the film posters for 102 Dalmations. Spotted like a dalmation but shaped like a pit bull, she was all round head and gangly legs. One pink eyelid, one black, as if something in her nature was all about the winking. And her tail--it seemed to have a mind of its own, wagging her whole body this way and that, like a wind up toy. I drove her home that day not so sure what I'd do with her. I certainly didn't need another dog, nor want one. I had a cat, two chihuahuas and a giant move ahead of me, from Orlando to Atlanta. But when she bounded from the car, I noticed scars on her small legs and belly--big ones, the kind that might have come from being tied up or whipped with a belt--and I knew right then she wasn't going anywhere.

Nine years later and Tooley, my only big dog, who we affectionately refer to as "the horse" (and sometimes, "the spotted heifer") is having troubles. I've not lived with her for three years. When I moved to Taos, she and Petie (our third chihuahua) stayed in our house to keep Mernie company, for they were all three best friends. But now Tooley doesn't want to eat, limps everywhere and even her tennis ball fails to rouse her enthusiasm. Test results are in. She's on her way out.

On one hand this sucks donkey cheese. Silas and I are packing up today--the only reason I can pause to write this missive is because I'm burning a few audio books to get us through the 22 hour drive--and soon we'll leave Taos for Atlanta. Our plan is to spend some quality time with Tooley, say our goodbyes, and have a howling good time remembering (and mourning) our friend. It's raining in Taos today, the Old Man is snoring, and the thought of driving 22 hours to euthenize my dear friend is almost more than I can bear. But on the other hand? The one that's not fixated on donkey cheese? Mernie and Petie will climb in the 4runner with us and take off for our first ever cross country road trip. (I like to think in terms of Pooh Bear words, so this would be our grand "expitition.") We will take Tooley's ashes with us and all set out for parts unknown. Maybe we'll see the Grand Canyon, or drive through the red rocks of Sedona, or simply drive back to Taos. Although Silas and I have made the trek back home to visit our crew, Mernie has never been to Taos, or seen our home and studio out here. She would not leave her best dog friends with someone who didn't feel like family, and all the people that feel like family in Atlanta have full time families, and were never available to babysit 24/7. So Mernie's been grounded, so to speak, for three years, aching to leave, resolved to stay, asking the angels for change.

So here we are. Gathering together for a huge adventure because one spotted angel heard her cry and decided to help. A rare angel, and strange. One pink eyelid, one black, winking at us, wagging us onward.

Halt! There's a mouse in my bra and I'm not afraid to use it!

Seriously. Now, before you start signing me up for the freak show, lemme tell you that it started as a matter of practicality, not as a penchant for eccentricity. You see, infant mice must be fed every two hours and I live in the boonies. Well, not in The Boonies, more like boonie suburbs. To get into town takes me 20 minutes, so I no sooner go for a walk in the graveyard and go poking my nose into the local cafe before I have to turn around and go right back home to feed the little milk-maws.

"Necessity is the mother of all invention"~ Plato

Indeed. I can't be rattling around dirt roads all day in a car. No-can-do. So invention to the rescue! May I present...the Mother Goose Kangaroo Joey Pouch Three Blind Mice Transport Sports Bra!! I'm pretty sure I'm the mother of this particular invention and am confident they'll be sweeping the nation soon. *Dollar signs flashing in eyeballs* I mean, every woman needs a solution to her baby-blind mouse problem, yanno?

And yes, before you ask, mice are notoriously, conspicuously, obsessively ardent clean freaks. For those of you who are into that kinda thing (if you must know) They wiggle when they want out. I put them on a paper towel and voila! Instant potty training. And their two-hour feeding schedule? Well, let's just say they wiggle when they're hungry too. I travel with puppy milk formula in the car, so I'm ready when they are, though I swear with all the joey-pouch action I'm starting to lactate.

Now I know what you're thinking. But face it: That hoopla created when Michael Jackson started dating Bubbles the Chimp? All for naught. People thought he was whako and look--He turned out just fine...

"Wouldn't it be grand to go up in a hot air balloon the day our new website goes live?" I ask Silas as we're walking down the long dusty dirt road behind our house. "Talk about a grand gesture," he says, smiling. And I know from the twinkle in his eye that this is exactly what we're going to do.

Originally we planned to go up at 5am June 1st, after punching the "publish" button on our new website. Due to a scheduling conflict with the balloon aviator, it didn't quite work out that way, which ended up being a blessing in disguise. There was much bug squashing to be done Monday while the site went live. But then we didn't hear from the aviator to confirm our Tuesday morning launch, so imagine our surprise--nay, our utter shock and bewilderment--when the phone rang at 5am Tuesday. "This is Ken with Paradise Balloons. We're at the gorge bridge. Hope you're on your way." I grab the phone..."Whaaaaaatttt??????"

Twenty minutes later we're racing down the bumpy dirt road to meet the crew. I've had about three hours sleep during the past forty eight. Seriously.  I managed to brush my teeth. But the dark circles? The half-oily, half-frizzy hair? There's no helping it. The half-on, half-off, mostly grungy-smearing-caking make up left over from dinner two nights ago? No time. And that pasty, bloated, I've- been-eating-frozen-food-for-three-weeks-straight-cuz-I'm-working-on-a-deadline-and-can't-seem-to-tear-myself-away-from-the-computer-especially-for-something-as-mundane-as-a-trip-to-the-grocery-store look? Priceless. And frightening. My enthusiasm was high or I'd have been smart enough to avoid cameras. And mirrors.

The fact that I'm even gonna share these photos with you is testament to my belief that even skanks deserve joy. Fear not! O, ruggad, haggard beauties! Somebody's gotta be unafraid to lead the skank parade! And I shall be your fearless leader...

But we had our launch. Discombobulated, disheveled, and still dreaming, we had our launch. And though I didn't grab a brush or a hat (damn!) on the way out the door, I did grab the baby mouse. He's the heart of an adventurer doncha know, so he had to come with.

Ok, so here's the deal. Mice are nocturnal. So picture me at 5am, riding on the van that takes us out to the launch site, with mousie in my sports bra (which is usually quite the keen thing, we have a routine), and he is moving around like he's had six cups of chai and eighteen dark chocolate candy bars. He's jumping out and moving around my sweatshirt and NO ONE THERE'S A MOUSE ON BOARD, or I'm pretty sure this trip would end before it began. So I manage to capture him while trying to avoid looking like a woman with a bad case of palsy and I stuff him in the sock that ususally serves as his nest. I tie the end of it and shove it in my bra then commence to worry all the way to the launch site that he's not go enough air to breath-- all this while we're barrelling down the highway with six other people in the van. Naaaiiice.

So he's wiggling and we're airborne and it's time to snap some photos. Silas. Click. Angi. Click. Mousie...now how am I gonna get a photo of a mouse, who, at this moment is inside a knotted sock that's inside my sports bra? Especially while I'm standing so close to five other people that they can literally feel my height-to-weight ratio distribution and certainly some of the women are standing so close they could give a guess at Silas's religion. Can negative numbers apply to personal space? Cuz these people were up my pits and between my thighs and I ain't seen so many body parts mingling and maneuvering since Eyes Wide Shut. 

But we're all laughing and ogling and having a blast. Still, I'm pretty certain the beneficence will end if I whip out a mouse and start my Canon Sureshot commercial at ten thousand feet. So I want til Captain Ken starts pointing out an old stagecoach route, that used to run from Taos to Santa Fe. All heads are turned toward the front of the craft, as I surreptiously turn to the back, motion to Silas to get the Canon read, lift up my shirt, whip out my sock, and fetch baby mouse from his (at last!) naptime. Click. Click. Click. And we're done. No one saw. I stuff him back in my hideyhole of a bra, victorious! No. Victorimouse. It's all gone so well. We're smirking. But I'm pretty sure there's a rivulet of pee running down my right thigh and Silas is probably carrying an extra load in the back. Scary. But worth it.

So we after calming down, enjoying the scenery, and, as the finale, blowing bubbles into the wind to create a Glinda-the-Good Witch effect at ten thousand feet, we land. After helping pack the balloon back up, (and while everyone else is stuffing materials back into the van) I snap a final pic of mousie in the balloon basket. He wanted to gloat. He was, after all, the first mouse on board in the history of Paradise Balloons. (We know this, because during the subsequent champagne toasts, we got a little toasted ourselves and shared the story. Everyone laughed and guffawed, except for one woman who nearly fainted with relief that she hadn't known while dangling in midair from a piece of fabric and fire that she was inches away from a little grey rodent, who could, at any moment, jump on her? Throttle her nose and force her to pay back taxes? Gnaw his way into her brain through her ear?  Spit black-plague acid into her eyes?  Ironically, we found out her last name is Mouser and her friends call her Mouse. Go figure.)

All's fair in love and launches. And now, it's official. Duirwaigh is new. We've lifted off, ready for adventure.  And we've a new MOUSEcott.

All aboard!

Though I normally hoard all my favorite recipes in order to lure unsuspecting tasters into my lair, I have decided to cave to the forces of facebook peer pressure and divulge my prized chai recipe.

Silas calls this The Witch's Brew, and though a cauldron is not required to make it, get ready for some toil, toil, boil and bubble, cuz it does take a while to master the perfect cup. But oh so worth the effort. Cackles and howling are sure to erupt, magic visions and special powers, sure to ensue. (Pointy boots and striped stockings are optional, but strongly advised.)

A tip: When your partner, family, friends or neighbors catch a whiff of the brew, they'll come sauntering into your space with wide eyes and hopeful grins, their gullet a giant maw of hope. You must be prepared to protect and defend. Repeat after me: "Back off bitches. This kitchen does not read 'share and share alike'. Don't make me get my flying monkeys."

WARNING: Not all chais are created equal, and this one is designed for lustification. I shall not be responsible for the imminent addiction. When I finally market this stuff to the masses (under the auspices of World Chai Domination), I think it's name will be Witch's Brew: The Liquid Crack, and won't that go over well with the religious right? Not gonna win me any points south of the Mason/Dixon either, but a witch has gotta do what a witch has gotta do.

And right now, this witch needs to swallow some crack of her own. Now where'd I put my pointy boots...

Witch's Brew:

1/2 gal. water
3 oz. freshly grated ginger root
1/2 tsp. freshly ground cardamom
Bring to a boil · Simmer for 10 minutes

Add:
3 heaping Tbs. black tea

Bring to a boil · Steep 4-7 minutes
Strain into another pot

Add:
1/2 gal. hot boiled milk
3/4 cup sugar

Yields 16 lip-smacking cups to hoard and enjoy.