Happy Birthday, Grandmère!!!

Today is my Grandmère's birthday, and to celebrate I thought I'd post a delightful picture of her and I, which was taken last fall. 

Although it looks like she is struggling to hold me, I am actually as light as a feather, so she must have a pebble in her shoe!!!

I love you, Grandmère!!

Maverick or Shorty...?

Or Stormy.

Or Midnight.

I am getting ahead of myself. Let me back up.

Like all of you, I have always wanted my very own pony. A pony that could give me rides whenever I wanted. A pony that would swish his beautiful tail and cover me in a blizzard of rainbow-colored sparkles. In short, a pony that make me the happiest goose in the world.

Imagine, then, how my bill hit the floor when I saw -- next to a bag of my own much-hated "waterfowl food" -- a bag of pony food!!!!!!!!
  
Could it be?!?!?!? My birthday is coming up!!!

Don't call me "Boswell"

First of all, I want to thank everyone for their kind words about my sister, Woglinde, who died two weeks ago. I really appreciate all your cards. And I really am doing much better.

Here's a picture taken at my last chemo treatment at Tufts last week.

Don't get me started on the crown. All I have to say about that is: When someone insists that the crown they are trying to stick on your head actually belonged to Ivan the Terrible, don't believe it!!!!

Actually what I want to call to your attention is a despicable practice that permeates the entire veterinary industry. Look closely at the upper right corner of the whiteboard in the background and you will see: "Tucker." "Rose." "Barclay."

"But 'Boswell,'" you might be saying, "what on earth is wrong with putting quotation marks around pet names???"

The implication, my friend, is that this is not the real Tucker, but merely a rabbit who thinks he is Tucker. And that this rabbit has somehow persuaded you, his hapless owner, of that as well. So to humor you and your rabbit, we will call him (wink wink) "Tucker." Until you leave the building, that is, when we start calling him Mr. Rabbit.

I'm putting my foot down on this one, and refusing to acknowledge anyone that calls me "Boswell."

Just call me Boswell. Thanks!

Goodbye Woglinde

My sister, Woglinde (on left in photo), died last night. No one even knew she was sick!

I'm sad because I never thanked her for sitting right next to me for weeks and weeks and weeks when I was sick. And bringing me food when I was too tired to stand up! What a jerk I am!!! Why did I never say "That was nice. I really appreciate that!"????


I'm sad because she was sweet and pretty and patient, and now I will never see her again.

Woglinde, I hope you can hear me!!! Thank you! I'm sorry I am a jerk! I miss you!

Life of a 21st century celebrity

As soon as I am done with my Christmas cards, I need to extend my brand. Like all other celebrities, I need a line. A line of what though?

Something super high-end and dumb, preferably. With totally cool packaging.

Damn you, Grey Goose vodka! I could have made an absolutely tasteless clear beverage out of "fine French wheat" (ha!) and sold it for $30 a bottle!

Perhaps a scent?? "Flight"... by BOSWELL. A youthful and playful women's fragrance with top notes of cumulus cloud and golden tangerine, middle notes of organic arugula and hints of linden blossom, and base notes of will o' the wisp wrapped in organic wood shavings and pink pralines. With a bottle shaped like me, of course. But that would mean my head would unscrew, and I do not like that. Not one bit.

My aunt thinks I should have my own vineyard, like Francis Ford Coppola's. She even created a prototype (see photo). But New England grapes are inferior, so I'd have to move to the south of France and who would come with me?

Dr. Mayer thinks I should write children's books "to show children that going to the hospital is not scary and can be fun." Dr. Mayer, my advice to young patients would be to barricade themselves in the car upon arriving at the hospital and scream loudly at passersby for help. And who would buy that?

The Very Secret Life of Animals

The Starbucks on Chapel Street in New Haven. A man and a goose sit at a small table near the window. The goose sips a soy latte; the man, an espresso.

Goose: Oh dude! Did I tell you about my television gig?!?!?

Man: Umm, which one?

Goose: I was on that reporter chick's show!!!

Man: "Reporter chick"?

Goose: The hot one.

Man: The hot reporter chick.... I wonder if that's on her business card.

Goose (scrolling through iPhone address book): What is her name!! Oh here: Vicki Croke!

Man: Vicki Croke? I was on that show with you, man! I was sitting right next to you!!!!

Goose: OMG! I thought you must have been another guest who was on before me. Possibly someone with autism. Did you say anything?

Man: A couple things.

Goose: I couldn't hear a word you said!! You need to E-NUN-CI-ATE! Say this: "The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain."

Man: It looked like you did well. Did you enjoy yourself?

Goose: Enjoy!?!? It was a celebration!!! Did you check out that green room?

Man: Green room? They had me in the employee snack room....

Goose: What a crib!! They had three-story columns carved from pink Florentine marble. The capitols were lotus blossoms and laminar fountains were shooting between the blossoms!!!

Man: I'm having trouble picturing that....

Goose: And table after table covered with authentic medieval tapestries! Rare and tasty bitter greens in solid gold bowls! Vintage French pond-water in wading pools!

Man: Well, they did have free coffee in the employee snack room.... Regular AND decaf!!

Goose: And those peacocks!! Where did they learn to dance like that? Is there a school for poultry that teaches exotic dancing??

Man: My head is spinning. Hey, did you get any pictures?

Goose: Of course not!! Photography was strictly prohibited! Oops! Now that I think of it, I wasn't supposed to tell anyone about this place.... Do I need to kill you?

Man: Nope. I just erased this whole conversation from my brain.