Not A Very Merry Christmas


This is the first Christmas I have spent without my beloved Bucky. Every year I would post a greeting from the two of us. This evening my eye fell upon it in a file and I wept. I am weeping now. The loss of this dog has been more of a blow that your faithful correspondent could have comprehended. Much of the first half of 2011 was spent mired in grief. (If you think this prose is a tad purple, tough.)

After the death of a loved one, there is the dreaded firsts: first birthday, first anniversary, first Thanksgiving, and now, the first Christmas.

Fletcher is sweet, albeit as neurotic as as a boxcar of Baldwins. But of course it’s not the same. It can’t be the same. I love him, but you cannot compare months to years.

Next month will be the anniversary of Bucky’s death. If you don’t hear much from me, that’s why. Reviews of “House” might be the only things I write in this blog-thing.

Then again, I could post one sentence or picture a day, and pretend this is Tumblr.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, and whatever it is Buddhists do at this time of the year.


A Small Meditation on Grief


Yesterday would have been the ninth anniversary of the day that Bucky the Wonderdog came into my life. He died mid-January, and I have been dreading June 27 for weeks. As I anticipated, I spent much of the day in tears, which Fletcher the puppy was hard-put to understand.

There have been a great many losses this year. As you know, I do not divulge personal details about myself. Unless it is about my sex life or my great beauty.

Grief has taken its toll on me, and on this blog. I have failed my readers by failing to provide content, letting slip my part in the zeitgeist. In part it is because I cannot care about the usual matters that obsess moi. Rien enlève le chagrin. Interests and people will snatch one away for a short period, but then that’s over and it’s mourning in America. (Or at least New York.)

On Twitter I can be as carefree as I want, in 140 characters. An entire entry does not have to be composed. I don’t seem to be able to do that right now. There are many topics I wish to write about. The New York Senate bill legalizing gay marriage filled me with joy, as did attending the Gay Pride Parade. I wanted to snatch off half of the drag queens’ outfits. There is no such thing as too much sparkle.

Leo has been no help. He has this damn cat he lost in childhood and if I so much as mention Bucky he bursts into tears and isn’t good for anything the rest of the day.

I could say the same for myself. Here in front of my monitor, I sit, crushed, uninspired, sad.
But, as Scarlett O’Hara said, “tomorrow is another day.” Or rather, Margaret Mitchell did, but let’s not confuse the young ones.

Elisa sans Bucky the Wonderdog

Meet Fletcher


Mes lecteurs chérie, meet Fletcher, the newest occupant of my fabulous Central Park West apartment. He is a miniature pinscher puppy, with impeccable bredding and a tendency to lick himself when important guests are around. The world is his toilet.

Fletcher is going to be a sizeable small dog, as evidenced by his large front paws. He uses them like paddles, particular when the maid gives him access to my boudior in the morning. I wake to the sensation of paws slapping my face in greeting. Not quite what I would wish for, but he is so adorable that I forgive him.

The loss of Bucky still gnaws at my heart, and when Fletcher came into my home a month ago, I wondered if I could bond with this flailing black and tan puppy. Fortunately, his personality and appearance is quite different from my late darling’s. If one had to choose a descriptive word for Fletcher’s personality, the word “goofy” comes to mind. I find myself succumbing to his charm.

Il faut être prudent éviter de marcher dans des tas de merde de chien. As cleaning up his messes is the maid’s job, I care not where Fletcher relieves himself. As long as it is not one of the rooms that I myself use. The kitchen, pantry, and the servants’ quarters are all fair game. I’ve heard the maid muttering in Spanish as she walks past me, carrying paper towels and something called ‘Nature’s Miracle’.

Fletcher is not an aggressive dog. Not to worry, I’ll have a trainer up here to teach him to bite people without warning in no time.



Bucky The Wonderdog, Rest In Peace


I shall keep this short. Bucky the Wonderdog, after having a series of health problems, including chronic bronchitis and an enlarged heart, died of heart failure early Monday morning, January 16th. He could no longer breathe, and so my beloved dog was euthanized in my arms.

You shall not be hearing from me for a while. I am beyond devastated. He was my closest companion for over eight years, and died too young at the age of nine.

Rest in peace, my beloved.

Elisa sans Bucky the Wonderdog

Justice for Dunkin’ Dog, Part Two


You may remember my post last year about the tragic death of Dunkin’ Dog. Here is the first paragraph from that entry:

A horrible tragedy occurred last month, when a woman’s service dog, a miniature pinscher (the same as my beloved Bucky The Wonderdog) died as the not-so-indirect result of police brutality. Please help get the word out about Rosa’s story. She is pursuing a Master’s Degree here in New York City, but has been permanently traumatized by what happened to her and her dog.

You can find the rest at:

I recently received the following communication from the bereaved owner, and decided to print it to get the word out. Our beloved pets deserve to be treated as such, and not as soulless creatures to be hurt for other people’s pleasure!

I remember last year you were supportive of my tragic event. Well, emotionally, nothing has changed except I am a numb creature who is great at “playing it off” in terms of my loss. In terms of spreading the news and awareness of the tragedy, a lot has occurred.

Please visit and listen to my interview on the globally viewed Alex Jones radio show. It went from 0 to over 10,000 in less than one week.

You can support the cause at
People want to support and send donations to cover my legal expenses. The FB page has a NOTES tab which explains how to donate.

Please post this, as my new mission in life is to spread awareness of what happens on our roads to our American citizens and to change the law to protect us from this happening to another valuable life, my own and Dunkin’s, who was sacrificed to make this all happen. I greatly appreciate your time and your support.

Kind Regards,


I urge all of my readers to donate to this worthy cause, as I shall be doing. What Rosamaria was put through was unconscionable. And what Dunkin’ was put through was tragic and unnecessary.

Please Help Dunkin’ Dog’s Owner Get Justice!


A horrible tragedy occured last month, when a woman’s service dog, a miniature pinscher (the same as my beloved Bucky The Wonderdog) died as the not-so-indirect result of police brutality. Please help get the word out about Rosa’s story. She is pursuing a Master’s Degree here in New York City, but has been permanently traumatized by what happened to her and her dog.

Here is the beginning, with a link back to the blog. Please read the entire story.

The Tragedy of Dunkin’ Dog

On July 4th I was driving alone with my service dog of almost 8 years of age, Dunkin’, in the rear seat towards the middle. I was pulled over on I-17 after being tailed for about one mile. The cop was very close to the rental car I was driving which was a gray Toyota corolla. The vehicle was due back on Sunday and I had planned on returning it, then utilizing the airport shuttle to catch my early flight back to New York’s La Guardia airport with Dunkin as my travel companion.

I pulled over to a safe spot on the shoulder of the road and the cop opened the door and drew out a shot gun. He actually AIMED it at me. I could see his eye aiming and it made no sense. I was shouted at and told to keep my hands where he can see them. This seemed very strange and not at all common for being pulled over. I could hear shot gun cocked and I realized that something was not right. I obeyed his shouts to keep my hands up and I allowed Dunkin to continue sleeping in order to keep us both calm.

I was ordered to get out of the car, walk backwards without looking, and was very confused… I was going further and further away from Dunkin’.I was shouted at to kneel, yelled at and then immediately cuffed and put in the back seat of a cop car. I immediately told him that my service animal is in the back of the car and to please be careful with him as he is licensed in NY state and is official for my Multiple Sclerosis. The car was overwhelmingly hot and my MS symptoms began as I tried breathing for fresh air. It was getting hotter and now he was drawing a weapon to the vehicle. I was very frightened that they would kill Dunkin’ as they looked like they would do so with the weapons drawn so intently. The cop opened the rental car door which was nearest the I-17 traffic. Dunkin’ rested soundly on that side of the vehicle. When the door was opened, the cop let him get out of the car onto oncoming traffic.

Dunkin’ got out of the vehicle confused. He ran into oncoming traffic, looking for me. His mission is to look for me, wherever I may be. As cars swerved and missed him… I screamed. I prayed and screamed at the top of my lungs for my companion’s safety.

The cop S.D Soto (who was the one who aimed at me through his shotgun, also cuffed me) walked to the front of the car passenger area. He pulled out Dunkin’s fluorescent orange service vest and read the insert in his pocket which states that he is a service animal and he is protected under the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990. S.D Soto read the facts, read my rental agreement (which was located on the passenger seat area) and continued to ignore my pleas for help and air conditioning.

For the rest, please go to:

For the love of dogs everywhere, please help Rosa find justice for her terrible suffering. She is actively looking for a civil-rights lawyer. If you know of one, please feel free to email me.

R.I.P. Dunkin’ Dog.

Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

TAXES–And No Deductions for Bucky!


I do wish I had come up with a cleverer title, but what is a tall blonde buxom style goddess to DO? I met with my accountant yesterday (a tall, irrestible man who is–yes–taller than moi), and each year the list of deductions grows smaller. I tried everything…batting my eyelashes, showing some leg, unbuttoning the top button of my Chanel blouse. Nothing worked! Was the man made of stone?

The final insult was to learn that I could no longer deduct Bucky the Wonderdog! He has been a goldmine of deductions, what with wardrobe, vet care, the finest food money can buy, toys, accessories, plane fare…I swear, that miniature pinscher has more deductions than his owner.

“But Bucky is an essential part of my business!” I cried, trying to keep my voice as high and feminine as possible. “He is part of my trademark! He is almost my partner! Without this little dog, I…I couldn’t possibly run my fashion empire!”

“I’m sorry, but he’s a pet,” said the accountant in a steely voice. “You can’t deduct him as a dependent.” The man was becoming less irrestible by the second.

“What about a therapy dog?” There was desperation in my tone. “You handsome man, you must realize what a comfort my little darling is in my business. The stress relief alone is saving me hundreds in doctor bills!”

“You have to have the correct paperwork, which you don’t have. I warned you about this last year, that if you wanted to continue to deduct your dog you had to get the right paperwork. He’s a pet.”

Bucky was curled in my silken-clad lap, as he is wont to do. At the sound of raised voices, he lifted his head with a menacing growl. This was not the way I intended to make my case! So what if the man was tall, he was a beast! An unfeeling beast!

How could I be expected to remember something like that?” If only a tear would trickle down my cheek! “You should have told my assistant to remind me!”

“I did. You fired that one months ago, according to these W-2s.”

Bucky’s growling grew louder, and he was showing his little fangs. Any moment, blood could be shed. Hopefully not mine.

“And he certainly isn’t behaving like a therapy dog right now,” the abominable fellow pointed out.

I drew myself up, surreptitiously tightening my hand around Bucky’s Burberry harness. “That is where we part ways, my good man.” My tone was as steely as is. “My beloved therapy dog knows exactly what I feel at all times, and right now he is protecting meno, BuckyOUCH!”

Unfortunately for the sake of my argument, Bucky lunged forward, I jerked him back, and he bit my right hand, which was holding his harness. For the sake of appearances, I quickly moved my bleeding hand out of sight and sat on it, simultaneously taking hold of the Bucky’s leash (the harness was obviously not the best idea).

“This conversation is at an end,” I said stonily, brushing the growling dog off my lap and standing. “Send me the forms when they are ready. And I promise you, there will be repercussions.”

The accountant stared at me. “Very well. You should have the forms in plenty of time for April 15th. Oh, and be careful, your hand is bleeding on the carpet. Wipe it down with hydrogen peroxide when you get home. Dog’s mouths are full of germs.”

“Not this dog! His mouth is probably cleaner than yours!” With that, I wheeled out of the man’s office, keeping my throbbing hand out of sight.

I must confess, dictating this today, the bite is rather red and swollen…thank goodness last year I had a tetanus shot.

The nerve of some people!

Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog