Five Dogs Named After Song Titles

Mr. Blue Sky

Mr. Blue Sky is a cream-colored golden retriever, four years old and mostly past his frenetic puppy stage. He lives with a first-time dog owner, a single woman who named him after the Electric Light Orchestra song. (Although the song is cheerful, it has hints of melancholy, because Mr. Blue Sky isn’t going to live forever.) He’s a force of cheer and minor chaos. His swishing tail knocks things off the coffee table, and he barrels into kitchen chairs and topples them. But all is forgiven. You look at him, and the words, “Good boy,” automatically spring to your lips. Also, as his owner likes to tell herself, “Mr. Blue Sky is living here today.” What a good day it is.


Jolene is a brown French poodle, not a show dog but still pretty. At age 2, she came to live with a married couple. The wife wanted her badly, but the husband hated the idea of a dog, which led to quite a few fights about how they’d afford Jolene (a name the wife thought was pretty). After a short while, the husband did warm up to the dog, who liked to lie next to him on the couch when he watched football. The marital quarrels continued, and the wife accused her husband of enjoying the dog’s company more than hers. During the divorce proceedings, they arranged for shared custody of Jolene, who seems unruffled at the periodic switch in households, though she has a slight preference for the ex-husband, because his couch is more comfortable. 

Lovely Rita

Lovely Rita is a border collie introduced as a puppy to a household with four kids, one cat, and two parents (one a Beatles fan). From the beginning, she showed a love of order and a need to impose it on her surroundings. She’s trained to get the kids out of bed in the morning and gently herd them to bed in the evenings. (She has also attempted without success to keep the cat from ever leaving the kitchen.) More recently, she has extended her responsibilities to the parents – chivvying the dad off the couch when he’s been watching TV for too long and nudging the mom to bed at one in the morning. Someone’s got to keep the household healthy and functioning, and that’s clearly Lovely Rita’s job.

Sergeant Pepper

Recently adopted by an elderly bachelor, Sergeant Pepper is a 6-year-old pug who struts around like a retired military officer with tons of stories about his glory days. He also emits peppery farts that flavor the air of his owner’s one-room apartment. The dog’s snores and snorts are preferable to the lonely silence of before, and although Sergeant Pepper pretends to be aloof sometimes (especially when denied a snack), really what he likes best is to cuddle on the couch and nap intensely at his owner’s side.

Mack the Knife

This five-year-old American akita was adopted by a married couple who silently switched his name from Mack to Mack the Knife because they find him a tad disturbing. Sleek and unreadable, he’s responsible for the uptick in dead squirrels and rabbits on his owners’ one-acre property. Recently, he’s expanded the scope of his activities to cats. A couple of strays at first (no one would miss them), but last week it was Ginger Snap, the neighbor’s tabby, who turned up in the hedge a bloody mess. Mack’s owners quietly disposed of the cat, and they won’t meet their neighbor’s eyes as he hands out flyers with Ginger Snap’s photo under the word MISSING. He suspects them, but there’s no proof, and really, why did he let his cat roam outdoors?   

The Tutor Who Wasn’t the First to Give Up (A Short Story)

Adam starts volunteering as a tutor because it will look good on college applications. As a high school junior, he doesn’t yet know which colleges he wants to apply to, but he figures that showing an interest in students from disadvantaged backgrounds will appeal to admissions officers.

The community center assigns him a girl who’s currently in seventh grade. Adam is worried at first that he’ll have to waste time gently fending off a crush; his younger sister’s friends seem to adore him. But it turns out he doesn’t have to worry about Tasha.

She’s a large, expressionless girl in a neon pink hoodie. She doesn’t look at him or register any emotion at his presence. When the tutoring program director introduces her, she keeps her mouth in a flat line and says nothing. 

Adam adopts the friendly big brother tone he uses on kids who aren’t his little sister (his sister is too familiar and annoying for such a pleasant voice). When he asks her how she’s doing, Tasha continues to look past his shoulder. When he suggests they find a place to sit in the community center rec room, she shrugs.

The rec room has several shelves of donated books, and a row of laptops chained to tables. Adam picks a table with a laptop, figuring that a seventh grader may need to use it for research or for typing something up.

“So… what do you want to start with?” he asks.

She stares at the wall. Her backpack remains unopened beside her.

“Um…” he tries. “Do you have any reading to do?”

For several seconds, he thinks she’s going to remain unresponsive. But after another shrug, she hoists her backpack onto her lap and extracts a heavy binder from it, along with a copy of The Giver by Lois Lowry.

“Hey, I remember reading that,” Adam says. “Do you think Jonas and Gabriel die at the end or not?”

“We haven’t gotten to the end,” Tasha says.

Adam flushes, but he’s also pleased that he got her to speak. Surely, that’s proof that he can tutor.

She slaps the binder open to a page with three questions on it in bold type. Under each there’s space for a handwritten paragraph. The first question is: What is the definition of a dystopia?

Without looking at him, Tasha hunches over the page and begins to write. Adam tries to squint past her arm, but her neon pink sleeve is all he sees. He doesn’t have to wait for long, though, before she finishes, and her one-sentence answer comes into view: A bad place.

“Is that all?” he says. “Maybe you need to… It’s true, a dystopia is a bad place…” He pauses and runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe you need a more well-developed answer?”

For several seconds, she stares at the wall again. “Like what?” she finally says.

“Uh…” As he flounders, she presses on to the next question. What are Jonas’s pills for?

“Like, maybe at least write in a complete sentence,” he says.

She keeps writing. When she’s done with the second question (Dreams is her answer), he tries again. “I really think you should write in full sentences.”

It’s as if he’s a bird at her window or a fly circling her head. She moves on to the third question. Do you think other people should decide what job you should have? Why or why not? 

Sure, she writes and closes the binder.

“Wait, you need to say ‘why,’” Adam insists. “Why is it ok if someone tells you what you should be when you grow up? Would you really want that?”

She shrugs. “I need to do math.”

“Won’t your teacher take points off if you don’t answer the questions?”

“I did answer them.”

“I mean, more completely.”

“He won’t care,” Tasha says, with a sigh. She flips to a different section of her binder, to a page of basic algebra exercises.

But Adam can’t let it go. “He’ll be fine with what you wrote? Really?”

“He just checks off that we handed it in,” she says, and taps her pen against the math worksheet.

“If he took the trouble to come up with questions, he probably wants full answers,” Adam says quickly. He can’t stand how he sounds like a whining old teacher himself, but his duty as a tutor compels him.

“He takes the questions from some website. Most of the kids just copy the answers off the internet,” Tasha says, hunching over her math.

She solves problems inconsistently, getting some right and missing others. Sometimes, she balances an equation. Other times, she forgets to. Sometimes, she observes the rules of PEMDAS. Other times, she’ll seem not to notice a parenthesis or a multiplication sign. He wants to keep jumping in to correct her, but maybe it would be best to wait until she’s done plowing through everything? He isn’t sure.

He scans the room for the tutoring program director, but he doesn’t spot her. He studies the other tutor-student pairs. All of them appear to be in a state of cooperation, leaning together towards a book, a homework sheet, or a laptop screen.

Beside him, he feels the weight of Tasha’s silence and hears the jab of her pen. He wonders if she should be working in pencil, to better erase her mistakes.

She gets about halfway through the exercises before he can’t resist jumping in. “Let’s fix some of these,” he says, and her hand immediately stills. “You’re getting some questions right, but you’re making careless mistakes on some of the others.”

She finishes the problem she’s working on and – he notices with some amazement – uses her fingers to count when performing a simple subtraction.

Steeling himself for resistance, he reaches over and tugs the binder over to him. She lets it go and starts to tap her pen against the table.

“Ok, so with this problem, you forgot to do the same thing on one side of the equation that you did on the other, see?”

Tap, tap, tap goes her pen.

“Tasha, look. See?”

She glances at the page and nods once. He shifts the binder back to her, and she immediately starts on a new problem.

“No, wait,” he says. “Fix that one. The one we just talked about.”

She releases a sigh. “What do I have to do again?”

He shows her, more slowly this time, but he isn’t sure if she’s staring at the wall or glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. After his demonstration, she repeats what he does and immediately settles into finishing the worksheet. 

As she plows through the remaining algebra exercises, she curls her arm around the page. With a sigh, Adam sits back and checks his phone.

“Everything ok here?”

He startles, almost dropping his phone. The program director is standing behind him with an expectant look. He flashes her a smile and says, “We’re just working on math now.” A glance at Tasha shows him that she’s still solidly hiding her homework. “We worked on something together, now she needs to see if she can do it on her own.”

The director nods slowly and looks like she’s about to say something else, when she spots another tutor waving her over. “Keep up the good work,” she says and strides off.

It takes Tasha a while to complete the rest of her math homework. Adam isn’t sure whether she’s having trouble focusing or whether the exercises are getting harder towards the bottom of the page. “You know you can ask me questions,” he says. “And I’ll check your work when you’re done.”

Time crawls on, and Adam keeps glancing at his phone. When it seems like Tasha is on the final problem, he tenses, like a bird of prey poised to descend with grasping claws. As her pen leaves the page, he snatches the binder from her and reviews her answers.

On and off, on and off, right and wrong… and she’s made the same mistake he pointed out earlier, failing to balance the equation. “We should go over this. Do you have any scrap paper?”

After several seconds, Tasha leans over and roots around her backpack. Then she pulls the binder away from him and flips through it at a leisurely pace.

“No,” she says at last.

“Listen, it’s simple,” Adam begins. “This is why the problem’s wrong.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says.


“It doesn’t matter.” She flips the binder shut. “All we have to do is hand it in and our teacher checks it off.”

“But… what about tests?”

Tasha shrugs. “I get enough right to pass.”

Adam feels like his mind has gone blank, as if it’s caved in and become a pile of dust.

“Look,” he begins, sounding uncertain even to himself. “Even if your teacher doesn’t care, another teacher may care in the future. And you’ll be using what you learn now in other classes.”

“I’ve heard that before.” Her mouth settles into a firm, unyielding line. “It doesn’t matter.”

From her backpack, she extracts a science workbook. After a pause to yawn, she stares at the beakers filled with purple fluid on the cover. “I’m going to get water.” She pushes away from the table and lumbers off.

Adam scans the room again for the program director, who seems to have a knack for disappearing when he’s ready to talk. He could go looking for her, but he feels tired, not just physically. Playing with his phone is about all he’s motivated to do.

Tasha takes her time with the water. Adam vaguely recalls a drinking fountain in the hallway, but he wonders if she went in search of water farther afield – on a different floor, or in a different building. When she returns, she doesn’t respond to his nod of greeting. She huddles around the science workbook, blocking it with her arm and shoulder.

It’s only when she’s been working for several minutes that it occurs to him to ask, “If none of this matters, why are you here?”

Her pen stills, and she doesn’t reply at first. “Wasn’t my idea to be here,” she says at last.

He nods, and his mouth cracks open on a yawn. “Fair point.”

The tutoring session ends shortly after. Adam feels relief leap up in him, as he stands and stretches. Tasha crams her workbook and binder back in her bag. Although she doesn’t hurry, she also doesn’t make any slow ponderous pauses or drag her feet.

The program director hurries over to them before they can part ways.

“So, how did your first session go?” she asks.

For once, Adam and Tasha are on the same wavelength: uncertain silence. “Good,” Adam finally says, just as Tasha mumbles, “I need to catch my bus.”

“Of course!” The program director pats the girl on the shoulder. “See you next week.” She returns her attention to Adam. “What did you think?”

Adam’s mouth shapes a few words before he settles for, “Ok. Tough sometimes.”

“It can take time for students to open up,” the director reassures him. “Some of them aren’t used to personal attention like this, people really caring about their education.” She thrusts a paper towards him. “Don’t forget to fill out your tutor log before you go.”

Adam reins in a sigh and sits back down with the sheet, which asks him to list what he and Tasha did today, what skills they worked on. Reading, writing, math, science, he writes.

The next question asks him to report what needs to improve. Some of the math, some of the writing.

Finally, a question asking if he felt like they had a productive session, with two boxes to check (yes or no) and an optional follow up where he can explain why he chose one over the other.

Adam checks the box next to yes, leaves the follow up blank, and turns in the form. He shakes off the stale book smell of the rec room as he heads outdoors, texting his friends that he’ll meet them up for pizza.

16 Types of Internet Commenters

By no means a comprehensive list:

The Patroller

Takes pleasure in telling you that you’re awful. What you read, watch, write, eat… awful. Stays up-to-date on the latest jargon of whatever political or ideological movement they subscribe to. Checks to see that you’re expressing the correct opinions and tastes. Attacks you if you aren’t. (Has been known to end a Twitter thread with *mic drop* but now uses clapping emojis.)

The “Look Over There”

Keeps asking you why you aren’t talking about something else. There are always other things you could or should be talking about. If you aren’t talking about those other things, it means you don’t think they’re important, which means you’re a terrible person.

The Gnat in the Swarm

Loves a good pile-on. Joins in, just for a nibble. May not even truly know (or care) about what’s going on, but enjoys that little taste of blood.

The Downer

“Just chiming in to remind you that things are horrible and the world is ending. K thx bye.”

The Great Rationalizer

Bends over backwards to excuse or explain away anything. (Especially anything that doesn’t affect them personally.) May assume their position is objective, completely dispassionate.

The Sock Puppeteer

How many accounts can one person create for a single site? Watch them as they cheer themselves on, generate noise and confusion, and evade moderators.

The One Issue to Rule Them All

“Do you have a headache? Stop eating GMO products. About to commute through a snowstorm? Cheer yourself up by not eating GMO products. Favorite TV show got canceled? Console yourself with a non-GMO dessert.”

The Scorpion of Malice

Emerges to make venomous remarks before scuttling back into the dark… from which they’ll emerge again.

The Brooder at the Tower Window

“Ah, you fools.” (Pauses to swirl brandy in a crystal-cut goblet.) “What do you know of the world, mired as you are in your petty concerns? Alas, only I can see it all. Only I can grasp the truth.”

The One Who Dies on Hills

Won’t admit they’re wrong. Even if it’s a little throwaway fact that’s easy to check. (“Thomas Jefferson wasn’t born on that day.” “Yes he was, if you go by a different calendar.”)

The Great Decay

There’s something putrid about this person. They bring a stench of corruption to any comment thread. You could be discussing something innocuous, like recipes for blueberry muffins, and they’ll ooze in with a protruding tongue like Jabba the Hutt, and everything will feel tainted.

The Flying Monkey

Eager to attack at another person’s bidding. *claps hands excitedly*

Me, Me, Me!!!

“Does what you’re talking about affect me? What’s the point of talking about anything that isn’t relevant to me? If it’s not relevant to me, it isn’t important. In fact, I’m starting to feel excluded! Now you’ve done it, you’ve offended me…”

The One-Sided Conversation

It doesn’t matter what you say. They’ve already filled in your end of the conversation. Enjoy front row seats to their interaction with an imaginary version of you.

The Mature and Reasonable One

Makes sincere efforts to understand and evaluate another person’s point-of-view. Argues without resorting to malicious remarks. Knows when to step away to cool down.


Their new telecommuting job earns them $105.11 an hour! Isn’t that amazing?!!

Four Languages Sigrid Dips Into on Duolingo


Sigrid picked up a fractured Spanish in high school, which she later mended slightly for casual conversations at her job. She associates the language with the smell of disinfectants and the careful application of powders, cologne, perfume, and lipstick. It makes her think of coffee mugs and bony hands with prominent veins held in hers at a table, sunlight warming the chairs. She dips into Duolingo’s Spanish because she wants to explore more of the language, see the words in front of her and think more about the spelling and grammar.


To Sigrid, French is a wonderful clotting in the mouth and nose. It’s a language that renders even practical phrases nonsensically romantic. She finds humor in it and loveliness and frustration. It isn’t entirely beautiful, though. For instance, she doesn’t like the word pastèque, which is French for watermelon. It sounds like a gunky watermelon paste. But much of French is lovely, and it’s a hopeful language to her, because she imagines herself in France one day. Not even in Paris, but in lavender fields in the south or on beaches in the north and fields with white graves, gardens with des petits chats, and stony paths that lead to cathedrals.


So far, German is the language of clean airport gates. Glass made brilliant in sunshine, sleek curving chairs, planes patiently absorbing luggage. The same planes later leaping into the air and seeming weightless as they rise. It’s the taste of coffee and formalities. Ticket agents with their hair in a bun and their lipstick tidy. Screens displaying a schedule of flights and the promise of timeliness.


When Sigrid works on Welsh she feels as if a dryad has arrived to summon her on a quest in the forest. She hears the language of earth and trees, and streams engorged with unexpected floodwater. The words are enchantment. They set her circling a forest glade barefoot, with pillowy grass and spikes of pain from twigs and stones. Sometimes, she smiles in wonderment when she encounters a new word. Pilipala, which is one word for butterfly. She wants to discover other words.

Hugh Attends an Unusual Self-Help Event

For lack of anything better to do, Hugh has signed up for self-help lectures. Three of them are online, and 10 minutes in he mutes the screen to trawl through the news and stare out his window. But one of them is offline, in a rented room at the City Folk Art Museum, and he needs to bathe, shave, and wear clean clothes to attend.

The most attractive thing about the lecture is that it costs only $5, to help cover the room rental. The fact that it’s only $5 means that the speaker probably isn’t too full of themselves. Hugh is tired of self-help talks by people who are awash in money or who mention that, during the lowest point in their life, they had friends to help them, a spouse, a sibling. Someone. The speakers are always too normal and put-together. Their dark night of the soul is more like the blinds drawn down on a sunny afternoon.

There are a few dozen people in the audience, each on a folding chair and with spaces between them as if they’re gapped teeth. Hugh chooses a seat in the back, so he can slip out early if he needs to or stare at the floor in a way that would be too rude and obvious in the front row. The people nearest to him are a heavyset lady in a pink tracksuit and an older man scratching flakes of skin off his arm. It’s like a localized snow shower, and Hugh finds it both repellent and fascinating.

As time crawls by, the group pauses in its restless shifting and chatting to look around. “Who’s running this, anyway?” someone complains from the front.

That’s when the lights go out.

Gasps run through the room. One person releases a pitiful cry. “Where’s the light switch?” someone calls from the front of the room. And then Hugh can’t hear anything except for his own breathing.

As the darkness persists, and the silence around his breathing thickens, Hugh grips the edge of his seat. His heart has started to feel more emphatic in its beating, and sweat is gathering under his arms.

“What’s going on?” he asks. When he hears no answer, he tries, “Hello?”

Someone comes into view: The heavyset woman in the pink tracksuit. The rest of the room is dark, but he can dimly make out her figure and her face. She’s older than he thought. Her eyes are almost lost to wrinkles and pouched skin.

“Good evening, Hugh,” she says.

“How do you know my name?” he gasps.

“It’s on your name tag.”

Hugh looks down. With a jolt, he realizes that although he can see her, he can’t see his own legs, his own belly, arms, and hands.

“What’s going on? Who are you?”

“I’m Cate.” She folds puffy fingers over her belly.

“Ok… what’s going on?”

“We’re going to talk for a short while. It’s better, in the dark, before the lights come on. It’s better, in the silence, before other voices distract us.”

“Talk about what?”

“Self-help. Isn’t that what you’re here for? To help yourself.”

“I guess.”

“You guess.” Her face creases in what he’s slow to realize is a smile. “Silly man. You’re not here to help yourself.”

“What am I here for?”

“You’ve got nothing better to do with your evening. Or rather, you think you’ve got nothing better to do with your evening. So you’re here.”

“What could I be doing that’s better?”

The creases on her face deepen, and a bubbling laugh bursts from her pale lips. “That you even have to ask is pathetic.”

“Thanks.” He feels stiff suddenly and wants to stand and walk around. But he still can’t see anything else in the room. For all he knows, he’s in an abyss with just himself, the lady in the tracksuit, and the chairs they’re sitting on.

“You should be prowling the streets,” she says. “You should be baying at the moon. You’re an old wolf without a pack and in some ways you’ll never heal. In some ways you’ll never recover from what you’ve lost. But why do you deny what you have? The blood in you, the thirst for life, for sensing, for exploring. Yes, you’ll limp to your grave, but why not make your blood stir in the meantime? You should be rolling your shoulders, padding into shadows, snapping your teeth at strange scents. Instead, you’re here.”

In some ways, her words make little sense to him. But his heart is beating faster, and his stomach is clenching. “What do you want from me,” is the only thing he can think to say in his confusion.

“What do you want from me,” she mimics. Her face contorts into a sneer. “Apparently you want nothing from yourself. Just living a cooped up life, spoonfed pap in rooms like this, your blood sluggish. You wretched nailbiter, you shivering ghost, you strangler of vital hours. Get out of here.”

The lights in the room come back on. Hugh blinks quickly and peers around. Everyone is sweating and shivering in their seats. The only person up on her feet and moving is the heavyset lady in the pink tracksuit. Cate, she called herself. Hugh follows her with his eyes as she strides out of the room.

What follows, over the next several minutes, is anger and confusion. “We paid money to come here,” says one person. “I canceled plans with a friend,” says another person, who may be lying. 

No one mentions the time they’ve spent in the dark. Hugh doesn’t breathe a word about Cate. What he does is simmer with impatience. He fidgets in his chair. Finally, he lurches to his feet. “I’m leaving,” he announces, the sound of his own deep voice startling him.

Years ago, before a downward spiral of failure and drinking, he used to give speeches. He isn’t used to his voice anymore.

People blink at him, and he walks out the door. He’s miles away from his home in Kilter Street Manor, but he decides to walk. He can’t bear to rattle through a subway or pack himself onto a bus. He needs to move. Already, he can’t remember Cate’s words. They’ve darted just beyond the reach of his consciousness. But he does feel an urgent need to walk.

If he stops now and then to inspect the curve of a shadow in an alley, the light of a streetlamp glancing off a window… if he pauses to curl his nose at ripe garbage and sniff at roses tumbling over a fence… if he attends to the squeal of a truck and the electricity of cicadas… he’s not sure why he’s doing any of this. He only needs to be outdoors, sending his senses outwards and reeling them in with whatever they’ve caught. 

Why sleeping during movies isn’t so bad

Mrs. Selby doesn’t mind falling asleep during movies or shows. The other day, she settled in for a viewing of the 2009 Emma mini-series, a BBC production. Here and there, she flickered into a light doze. Whenever she woke up, there were pretty British people waiting for her on the screen. Or beautiful landscapes presided over by large homes. She enjoyed herself tremendously.

The way she saw it, sleep didn’t make her miss out on much. Movies and shows were rarely good the whole way through. They usually had their dull patches. More often than not, the character development was written awkwardly, with missed opportunities. Memorable moments of dialogue weren’t the norm. As far as she was concerned, she could nap while sampling the bright spots of whatever she was watching.

So, there were Emma and Knightley, experiencing gentle but profound revelations on a dance floor. And there they were, touching their foreheads together while seated on a bench. Seemed they were having a lovely day, after many a quarrel and misunderstanding. They looked very well deserving of this moment, and Mrs. Selby was satisfied with that.

Movies and shows really were at their best in a handful of crystalline scenes that had the right words and gestures, a tender look on someone’s face or some dramatic music. Who cares what came in between. Screen productions, like people, were at their finest in doses of five to ten minutes with breaks for snoozing.