Your basic downturn.

She breathes more heavily, blinks all the time, and seems disoriented. I have seen dying before, and it looks just like this.

Complicating the plot is that daughter Francesca is in California on spring break, and she is devoted to this dog. If this is The End, she has a right to know. So I call her, and she gets on a series of planes, spending almost fifteen hours in the air to get home in time to say good-bye. When I meet her at the airport on Monday afternoon, estrogen flows freely.

On Monday evening, we take the dog back to the vet, who examines her while I give the headline. Francesca fills in the details, about how the dog's face is so different, which is new since our last visit. I hadn't noticed it at all; I was too focused on Lucy's other problems. That she wasn't so cute anymore didn't matter.

"Interesting," the vet says, poking around, and as Francesca goes on, I'm hearing a child talk about her dearest pet. She loves everything about this dog, and if there is such a thing as a novelist's keen eye for detail, she has it. I don't. To me, Lucy is a red dog who needs Rogaine.

Francesca is saying to the vet, "She's a beautiful dog. She doesn't look like this. Something's wrong with her face."

"Like what?" asks the vet, whom I sense is humoring her. I marvel at how kind people are, when it counts.

Francesca continues, "Her smile doesn't pull back that way. See how her lips are tense? Like they're frozen?"

The vet looks up. "Please excuse me a minute." Then she leaves the room and returns five minutes later with a book that she sets down on the examining table. She points to a picture on the open page, and it shows a black dog, smiling exactly like Lucy. on the open page, and it shows a black dog, smiling exactly like Lucy.

"That's what she looks like!" Francesca says, and the vet nods.

"It's called risus sardonicus risus sardonicus, which is Latin for sardonic smile. Your dog has lockjaw. Teta.n.u.s. That's why her back legs are failing. The smile tipped me off."

I look over, amazed. "Dogs get teta.n.u.s? How?" I'm thinking of rusty nails.

"They do but it's incredibly rare. I've never seen a case. They get it from an open wound."

I'm remembering the yuckiness, prior. "So now what happens?"

"You need to see a specialist."

So the next morning we're at a specialist, who qualifies as the nicest doggie neurologist in the country, because he takes one look at our wacky hairless dog and says, "h.e.l.lo, gorgeous."

You know what I checked. Of course, he's married.

He confirms that Lucy has teta.n.u.s, which is so rare that he wants to take a video of it. He tells us that antibiotics will cure her. That not only is she going to live, her paralysis will arrest and she'll be able to walk again in a month.

We are smiling. So is Lucy, albeit sardonically.

Francesca is going back to school.

I am going back to work.

Not The End.

Color Me Mine

I'm two months from getting the house painted, but I'm already fantasizing about paint colors. If the real estate cla.s.sifieds are p.o.r.n, paint chips are a kinky subculture, the S & M of home decor.

The pain is exquisite.

My fantasies began when my painter dropped off a big black case that contained huge books of paint chips. I'm not dumb, I've seen the paint chips that you get from Home Depot, but I've never seen one of these books. Each one weighs about three pounds, and the paint chips are bolted together with a single fastener, so you can slide the chips out to make a circle, like a merry-go-round of color. The painter gave me three books, each with hundreds of pages, and each page has seven paint chips. By my calculation, this equals four billion eleventy-seven gillion different colors.

It hurts so good.

In no time, I'm sliding the paint chips out in a circle, the tangerines overlapping the marigolds, the cobalts eclipsing the limes, the pinks complementing the purples, all the colors fanning out from the center, making a 360 fountain of acrylic excitement.

I had no idea what color I wanted to paint the house, but all of a sudden, the books opened up a spectrograph of chromatic possibilities. The paint chips whirled together like spin art on the boardwalk, and all the colors of the rainbow were mine. I flashed on a childhood filled with Crayola crayons, from the starter eight to the big-girl double-layers of sixty-four. I thought of old-fashioned tins of watercolor paints, with rectangular wells for dirty water. I could paint the house any color I wanted, and the thought made me giddy. of a sudden, the books opened up a spectrograph of chromatic possibilities. The paint chips whirled together like spin art on the boardwalk, and all the colors of the rainbow were mine. I flashed on a childhood filled with Crayola crayons, from the starter eight to the big-girl double-layers of sixty-four. I thought of old-fashioned tins of watercolor paints, with rectangular wells for dirty water. I could paint the house any color I wanted, and the thought made me giddy.

There was n.o.body around to exercise good judgment. No saner head to prevail.

Yippee!

I should point out that there is precedent for my temporary color insanity. After my second divorce, I painted my kitchen the color of vitamin C, merely because n.o.body could stop me.

So I gazed at the paint chips and imagined golden shutters against the tan fieldstone of the house. Creamy ivory clapboard in the sunshine. Colonial molding painted cla.s.sy forest green. Fascia the gentle hue of daffodils. I spent hours looking at the colors in all different kinds of light and made lists of the letters and numbers on each paint chip, a cryptic code that added to its tantalizing mystery. For example, Corinthian White was OC-111. I looked in vain for the meaning of OC, but the book kept its secrets.

I even found myself carried away by the names of the colors, some of which were delicious. I imagined shutters of Sharp Cheddar (2017-20). I considered doing the trim in Pale Celery (OC-114) and Carrot Stick (2016-30), low-carb colors. I could finish my molding in Peach Sorbet (2015-40), which was like eating windowsills for dessert.

Some color names struck an emotional chord, as in True Blue (2066-50), and others were adorable, like Tricycle Red (2000-20). Growing up, I had a red tricycle and a red wagon. I looked for a color named Red Wagon, but there was none. I made a mental note to email Benjamin Moore. for a color named Red Wagon, but there was none. I made a mental note to email Benjamin Moore.

Still other names made me think of vacations-Caribbean Coast (2065-60), South Beach (2043-50), and Blue Wave (2065-50). But Asbury Sand (2156-40) didn't look any different from Serengeti Sand (2164-40), and it's probably easier to get a hotel in Jersey.

I was bothered by the names that made no sense. What's a Jeweled Peach (2013-30)? Or Smoke Embers (AC-28)? There's no such thing as smoke embers. Smoke comes from embers. Anyway, it was a Boring Gray. And between us, Adobe Dust (2175-40) looks suspiciously like the dirt under my bed, which I call Philadelphia Filth.

Still other color names were a little precious. Roasted Sesame Seed (2160-40) isn't a color, it's a recipe. Mantis Green (2033-60) is just plain creepy. Dollar Bill Green (2050-30) is for pimps only.

Some color names confused me. Nantucket Gray (HC-111) is green. Gypsy Love (2085-30) is maroon, which has nothing to do with either Gypsies or Love. Soft Cranberry (2094-40), which should be maroon, is beige. And Milkyway (OC-110) is white like milk, not brown like the candy or black like the galaxy.

Kelp Forest Green (2043-30) is distinctly unhelpful. Sh.o.r.e House Green (2047-50) begs the question. Cherokee Brick (2082-30) is historically inaccurate. Distant Gray (2124-70) is emotionally unavailable. Amber Waves (2159-40) panders in an election year. There was no Purple Mountains Majesty.

Other names reveal that whoever thought them up was drunk. There is no other explanation for Perky Peach (2012-50), Springy Peach (2011-60), or Limesickle (2145-50). Maybe they were drinking Moonshine (2140-60).

By the end, I was supersaturated with color, hues, and tints, dizzy from my myriad paint fantasies. But at least I found the perfect color for the house.

White.

The Accidental Driver

Insurance is fun. I don't mean health insurance, because health insurance is never fun. But for some reason, car insurance is a laugh riot.

Here's what I mean.

Amazingly enough, I have never been in an accident, if you don't count my two marriages.

For all this time, I've been paying lots of dough in car insurance, in the hope that someday I'll get creamed and it will pay off. But so far, no good.

I made my first claim ten years ago, when this happened: I used to have a gate at the end of my driveway, and when I left, I'd get out of the car, open the gate, and drive through, then close it behind me. One day, I stopped the car, got out, and opened the gate, but before I could get back in, a gust of wind came from nowhere and blew the gate into my car, denting it while I stood by and used profanity.

I put in a claim, to finally get my money's worth from my car insurance, but they said that I wasn't covered for hitting my gate.

I disagreed. "I didn't hit my gate. My gate hit me."

Silence, from the other end of the phone.

"I have a point, you know."

And I won, which means that, after my deductible, they paid me $38, and I had only $1,328,373,730.92 left to get my money's worth. Perhaps if you have a swinging gate, I could park nearby.

That's why I was delighted last month when I was driving on the highway and suddenly heard a loud pock, pock, and five miles later, noticed a crack in my windshield. Five miles after that, the crack extended several jagged inches, and five after that, it looked like a sales chart in a bad year. and five miles later, noticed a crack in my windshield. Five miles after that, the crack extended several jagged inches, and five after that, it looked like a sales chart in a bad year.

Yay!

I was so happy I could make another claim. Mind you, my second in thirty years. So I called the insurance company. "Remember me? This time, a rock hit me, and I need a new windshield. Am I covered?"

"Yes, of course." She proceeded to tell me that I could get a new windshield from one of three places, which sounded like Clem's Windshields, Windshields R' Us, and Just Windshields.

I didn't like that. "But I want the same windshield. Can't I just take it back to the dealer?"

"No, you have to use our approved vendors."

"What is this, an HMO for cars? If so, I want Personal Choice."

"Okay, but that'll cost you more."

"Isn't $1,328,373,730.92 enough?"

Silence, from the other end of the phone.

Life insurance is even more fun. I pay lots of dough every month, but I never seem to die. Then last month, the agent called to tell me that my life insurance policy was about to "convert." I had no idea what she was talking about, but the bottom line was that the insurance I've had all this time is about to end, because now I'm old enough to need it.

Thanks.

I gather my demise wasn't in the original deal, which was that I would pay lots of dough every month for no earthly reason, even though I was healthy as a horse and in no danger of harm from anything except gates and rocks.

They call that term insurance, but I think they should call it joke insurance. They sold it to me because they knew I wouldn't need it. They were only joking.

So now I have to buy new life insurance, which will cost me triple what the old insurance cost, because I have sprung various and sundry leaks. They call this whole life insurance because it will cost me my whole life. Unless I die tomorrow, in which case the joke is on them.

Cross your fingers.

Honestly, it's worth it to me. Strike me dead. Bring it, now. I want my epitaph to read, SHOW ME THE MONEY.

So I began investigating new life insurance policies, which is when the agent told me that I needed disability insurance, too. When I asked why, she answered, "Because you make your living using your brain."

"Thank you," I replied. Evidently, she doesn't read me. "So what's your point?"

"If you incurred brain damage, you couldn't work, and that's why you need disability insurance."

I disagreed. I didn't think anything could damage my brain more than thinking about insurance does. "I could work if I hurt my arm."

"True."

"I could work if I hurt my leg."

"Also true," she said. "But what if you were in a car accident?"

"I've never had a car accident. Gates and rocks are gunning for me, but that's not the same thing."

"Then you're very lucky."

I disagreed. "I bought car insurance and life insurance and now you want me to buy disability insurance. I paid thousands of dollars for decades, for no conceivable reason. You call that lucky? Should I buy flood insurance, even though I live on a hill? Or planet insurance, for when Mars attacks? Or third marriage insurance, in case I lose my mind again?"

Silence, from the other end of the phone.

Mix 'N Match

These are confusing times to be alive, biologically speaking. All manner of shenanigans are going on at DNA level, so many I can't keep up with all them all. I rely on People magazine to keep me abreast of the latest science news, and I was amazed by its article on the pregnant man.

You may have heard about him, a transgendered male who is six months pregnant. I couldn't figure out from the story which equipment he was born with, and by the middle of the story, I didn't care. The headline read, HE'S HAVING A BABY, and that was enough for me. A man can get pregnant?

This is one great idea, if you ask me.

I mean, why not?

My pregnancy involved a fifty-pound weight gain, water retention, chubby ankles, and a weird rash on my belly that itched like crazy. Pregnant, I was no Demi Moore on the cover of Vanity Fair. Vanity Fair. I wasn't even Christina Aguilera on the cover of I wasn't even Christina Aguilera on the cover of Marie Claire. Marie Claire. Or Britney Spears on the cover of Or Britney Spears on the cover of Bazaar Bazaar. Pregnant, I should have been on the cover of This Old House This Old House.

If men want to get pregnant, I say, be my guest. So what if the photos look funny, with a mustache and a pregnant belly? It wouldn't be the first time. I come from a proud line of mustachioed women.

Don't split hairs.

In fact, I'm encouraging all you men out there to get pregnant, right away. Give your marriage a boost. Do your wife a favor. You've probably got a pretty long Honey-Do list sitting on the kitchen counter, waiting for you. I bet that, in most households, HAVE BABY FOR ME would shoot right up to numero uno. numero uno. You wouldn't have to take out the trash or mow the lawn for the rest of your life. You wouldn't have to take out the trash or mow the lawn for the rest of your life.

And think of the guilt you could inflict! Men getting pregnant makes much more sense, especially when it comes to delivery. Men are man enough to give birth, by definition. In fact, men probably wouldn't bat an eye. I bet if you put them in front of a TV during playoff season, they wouldn't even notice they were in labor. Women could get them ice chips for their beer and run downfield with the receiving blanket, and men could pop the babies out like footb.a.l.l.s.

Score!

And pregnant men aren't the only biological advance, of late. Another is cows that give skim milk. I read online that scientists in the UK were able to do this recently, and isn't that another great idea? n.o.body needs an obsolete cow that produces fattening milk. That's like buying Cow 1.0 when Cow 4.0 is already on the market.