Ella's calendars have been an annual tradition for many, many years. Even though she's gone now, and sorely missed, the tradition continues with a collection of photos drawn from throughout her life.
In honor of Ella's memory, the new calendar is sold at cost, with no markup.
Goodnight, Little Bear.
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I dreamed of you last night
but it wasn’t you
it was another dog
who looked just like you
but I was only borrowing her
at the whim of some unseen and uncaring entity
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Ella-tivity 2018 13-Month Calendar
But that's not all! If you just can't get enough of Ella, she's created an alternative calendar for the new year—the Ella Good! 2018 13-Month Calendar! Same great low price! Thirteen more super-cute photos of your favorite soft-coated wheaten terrier!
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First off, Ella is doing just fine, despite the fact that she had surgery last month, the second time this year. Like many wheaten terriers, Ella is prone to developing big sebaceous cysts, which for the most part we have left alone. They're mostly only a problem if they start to grow. In that case they can cause intense discomfort, or they can even burst and get infected.
Normally we've handled Ella's cysts by having them drained with a needle when they get too big, but in February we finally had to send her under the knife for the first time to have four of them removed. One had burst, another was getting bigger, and we figured we would just take as many off as possible as long as she was under anesthesia anyway.
This is considered minor surgery, but it's still nerve-wracking, especially because of the anesthesia. But Ella came through the first surgery fine, which made us a little less wary about doing it again last month.
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I had just backed very carefully into a space barely wide enough for the car. My friend Kevin was riding shotgun, my dog Ella in a nest in the back seat. Funny, I thought as the man angrily waved me back into the alley, we only missed our target by about twelve feet.
That was exactly one year ago this evening—Wednesday, June 26, 2013. It was the tail end of a 24-hour odyssey that already felt like a dream.
In reality, though, the odyssey went back much farther. For months, my wife and I had been planning a move from Chicago back to New York City. The company she worked for had offered her a job in its New York office, and in fact she was already spending much of her time there, transitioning into her new role. It fell to me to make all the arrangements for moving, to get everything packed, and to find us a new place to live.
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Dead squirrel lies prone,
Chin resting on its two paws.
Looks like it's sleeping.
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But Ella insists,
So I give in and follow.
Not that big a deal.
This short, narrow lane,
It's a valid path back home,
Not such a detour.
Along the sidewalk
We rush, my arm stretched out straight,
Not pausing to sniff.
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How can you live with a dog,
with its lifespan of ten to fifteen years,
and not realize how quickly the clock
is ticking?
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We like to run up the steps of the sledding hill,
which a parks department sign actually proclaims "Sledding Hill,"
and then charge down the slope,
after which we make our way around the skirt of the hill
where the squirrels rummage through the leaves
like so many bargain hunters.
We crunch crunch crunch across the orange carpet,
and if we're lucky we spot a squirrel far enough out
in the open that Ella can chase it full-bore
back to its tree.
She has never once caught one.
Or at any rate never killed one.
Next we like to follow the cinder jogging path
all the way around the little nine-hole golf course embedded
like an off-center yolk
in the albumen of the park,
and that's exactly what we did this morning.
I walked in the leaves at the side of the path,
trying to encourage Ella to do the same,
but unless she has a rodent, lagomorph or marsupial in her sights
she prefers to walk on pavement. Go figure.
We were on the south side of the golf course,
the tall chain-link fence meant to protect us from flying balls
off to our left,
when I saw two men coming our way along the path,
youngish men—younger than I, at any rate—
neatly bearded men dressed in long robes the color of wet sand.
It was already warm enough out that I was regretting
the heavy coat I wore over my hooded sweatshirt.
I snapped my fingers imperiously,
calling for Ella to return to my side,
to leave the path and get out of the way
of the two youngish men engaged in animated talk.
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Squirrels chasing each
Other up and around trees
Like on Benny Hill
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