The Ladies Who Lunch: giving their all to nonprofs, taking it back at the ballot box

Before I get started on the main topic, Dear Ones, let us have a few moments of silence for Saint Dolly, whose family, as the entire galaxy knows by now, announced her passing on August 25, 2026.

Dolly Parton was loved by, and loved, pretty much everybody: young and old, Black and White, left and right. Regarding left and right, she was widely known for deliberately staying out of partisan politics throughout her long career. She wanted to unify and entertain, not divide and alienate. She even turned down the Presidential Medal of Freedom, three different times, from presidents of both parties.

Dolly had a unique ability to connect with people all across the political spectrum, which is why her passing has elicited tributes from many factions in the culture wars. Even #NeverWasMyPresident Donald John Trump ordered that U.S flags be lowered to half-staff for a week in her honor.

I think he was right to do this, and it's one of the few decent things he's ever done. It still doesn't make up for his obscene lionization of fallen hatemonger Charlie Kirk, of which the order for flag lowering was but one aspect, but it's decent. (Good thing for Dolly that she never criticized him; otherwise the flags would have stayed at full staff and he would probably be celebrating her passing.)

But Trump's clumsily worded praise on Truth Social seemed focused on Dolly's accomplishments as a singer ("and far beyond" is really pretty ambiguous), and it's very possible that he doesn't know -- as well as unlikely that anybody around him is going to press the point -- that Dolly was at least as well known for her altruism, her generosity, and her amazing philanthropic deeds as she was for her music. Possibly even better known. The list of her good deeds would fill a book, but here's a summary from Billboard.

And she was also known for her advocacy. Shush, Nappy Nurse Natalie: don't tell Donny, but Dolly famously stood up for some of the very people who are reviled by this administration and the whole MAGA crowd.

She repeatedly expressed support for racial justice and the Black community, and, though she did not participate in protests, she implied her support for the Black Lives Matter movement. In 2018, she removed the name "Dixie" from a dinner theater attraction at her famous theme park, Dollywood, due to its Confederate origins; she said that problems should be fixed as soon as they are recognized. She was also an outspoken ally for decades for the LGBTQ+ community. Her theme park hosts an annual LGBTQ+ pride event, and she has consistently opposed discriminatory legislation.

There's no way around it: Dolly Parton was woke as hell. She talked woke, though in as anodyne and apolitical a manner as possible, and she damn sure walked woke.

Widely loved though she was, it's also true that during her life she did get some criticism from the right for her stances, especially regarding LGBTQ+ rights. Southern "culture" diehards were plenty pissed about her removal of the word "Dixie" from her theme park attraction. Some conservative factions indignantly protested the idea that Dolly was supportive of Black Lives Matter. For the most part, however, her attempts to unify rather than divide were successful, which made it easy for bigots to forget that she was an advocate for many of the people they loathed.

Point is, Dolly Parton was everything that Donny and MAGA are not. If the world had more folks like Dolly and less like Donny, it would be a far, far better place. And Dolly, I hope you'll forgive me for being political, but it's what I do. Rest in power, bright angel. We will always love you.

* * * * *

Come to think of it, my brief tribute to Dolly Parton is not entirely unrelated to the post that I had already begun before I learned of her death. Dolly was a tireless giver, and I am living in a place where, as it happens, I am surrounded by tireless givers. My affluent county is often touted as one of the most generous, giving counties in the whole Great State of Texas and perhaps in the entire Divided States of America. It's home to scads of nonprofits. There are tons of opportunities for givers to give.

And give they do. They may not give on the scale that Dolly did -- I imagine that few do or even can -- but they give a lot of their money and in many cases their time and energy and passion to help those less fortunate. That's a good thing.

The problem is that so many of them, whether they realize it or not, are also takers of the worst kind. That's not good.

This matter has been on my mind for months and months, practically ever since I landed, more or less on my feet, in this idyllic city within a city where I now live. I can't let loose about it in the rooms where it happens; that wouldn't be fitting for a lady who occasionally lunches with the Ladies Who Lunch.

Put aside the longstanding and by now cliched criticism of the glitterati at the very tip-top of the food-and-drink chain -- the conspicuous altruists who are on the ultra-high-dollar charity event circuit primarily for recognition, with the desire to help others being secondary. They've been lambasted and lampooned for many decades. I don't move in those elevated circles. But there are plenty of Ladies Who Lunch in the middle tiers, affluent and involved in multiple charities, and while I admire their energy and dedication, there's this thing that's been on my mind.

I think it first hit me hard on a lovely afternoon this past spring, when I attended a casual-dressy charity event with a dear friend and her daughter who are not, strictly speaking, Ladies Who Lunch (they're much more like me), but they know their way around that crowd. For several years running they had attended this fundraiser, held in a beautiful venue overlooking a dazzling lake. It was my first time.

Hosted by a nonprofit community action agency that manages several large federally and locally funded community programs, this particular event directly benefited a much-loved program that supports local housebound seniors. It offered shopping from a wide range of local boutiques and vendors, as well as food and drinks, door prizes, auctions, a fashion show, and other activities.

And there were plenty of opportunities to give, either directly in various ways, or by bidding on auction items or purchasing stuff from the vendors who donated part of their proceeds to the charity. Ticket sales alone probably generated a pretty penny as well; they weren't Mar-a-Lago level but they weren't super cheap either. The wine flowed freely (I stuck to tea), the conversations were animated and cumulatively quite loud, and the vendors' card reading devices were in constant operation.

Noise aside, it was overall an enjoyable experience, and I was on my best behavior, trying to fit in. I remained on good behavior even after the director of the organization was introduced and proceeded to deliver a speech that ended up disturbing me more than a little.

I suppose most of the other ladies had heard all of this numerous times before, and many continued their chatter right on through his entire presentation. I had to strain to hear the man, but I was very interested in what he had to say and I hung on his every word. Well, at least the words that I could hear over the nonstop chatter.

His speech was probably much like one he'd given countless times before. It was understated and diplomatic, but I grasped the subtext, and it made me both sad and angry. (Later I had a brief private conversation with him and verified that I had indeed understood the deeper message.) At the podium he gave an encouraging progress report, praised the generosity of the givers in the crowd and in the greater community, and acknowledged the hard work and commitment of his staff -- but it wasn't all sunshine.

I could tell that he was very carefully choosing his words as he explained that the organization was facing significant challenges because of freezes in funding from the government, which in light of inflation rates has the same result as a funding cut. The message, though he didn't put it in so many words, was that the callous slashing and burning by the present administration was making the work of serving the least fortunate much, much harder.

He seemed to be walking a difficult tightrope, wanting to be honest about what was happening without getting political about it. And maybe I've just become overly emotional from an extended period of nearly unbearable personal loss, but as he spoke I found myself fighting tears at times. Maybe I was projecting, but at times it looked like he was about to cry himself.

And the ladies in the room chatted on. They did manage to applaud at all of the appropriate times, but I think that's only because the moderator helped keep things on track.

I thought about everything I was seeing and hearing. I looked at the compassionate and dedicated man who'd been trying explain what was going on, as well as his equally dedicted staffers who were also present, and I thought about how hard these people have to work every single day just to ensure that "the least of these brothers and sisters of mine" have the bare essentials for survival.

And I thought about the gabbing gala goers who also clearly care about "the least of these" -- I will give all credit where it is due -- but who for the most part keep on supporting the very political party, and its morally hollowed-out leader, whose policies and practices make the charities have to work so much harder to even pretend they can keep up with ever-increasing needs. Nonprofits are threatened not only by funding freezes and cuts, but in many cases these days by targeted political attacks as well. The Trump administration has blatantly portrayed many nonprofs as an enemy to go after.

From what I have observed, many of the Ladies Who Lunch seem either oblivious to or unfazed by the fact that this administration has worked tirelessly to rip away safety nets, destroy benefits, and deprive the most vulnerable people of survival basics -- and, for that matter, to strip them of basic human rights. (Actually, at this point everyone's basic human rights are in danger from this administration, but that's a whole other topic.)

What I so wanted to shout to the well-dressed ladies gathered in that elegantly appointed room was:
WAKE UP, FFS.

But I didn't. And I'm sorry for shouting it here. I should have warned you.

Here's the bottom line, whether you wish to accept it or not: If you are still voting red, if you're still supporting Trump, if you refuse to even consider voting for someone in "the other party" just because you believe that they're "the enemy" (socialist/communist/anti-Christian/Islamic terrorist/transgender-for-everyone-ist or whatever)...then you have very little standing to pat yourself on the back for writing huge checks or putting in countless hours of your time every month or devoting all of your passion and creative energies to your favorite nonprofs.

Because every time you vote red, you are very likely voting to put your favorite charities in the red. You are hurting the very people whom you committed to help.

* * * * *

Earlier this month my dear friend and I attended another less fancy luncheon event, hosted by the same agency and benefiting the same organization. The director was there again with his staff, and once again he spoke about the progress made and the ongoing needs. Once again it was clear that he was carefully minding his words. And once again there was applause at all the right times.

It was actually a happy occasion because it was a thank you lunch for organizations and individuals who had helped the agency towards its fundraising goals. There was good news to report about the fundraising, and the service club to which my friend and I belong was recognized for the club's contributions to the cause. As well, one of our club's founding members, a woman of whom I've grown very fond, was specially recognized for her many years of above-and-beyond service.

But still, there was that underpinning of frustration because the agency and the organizations it helps are being strangled by this administration. In more ways than one, that was the elephant in the room.

I had another private talk with the director afterward. We talked about the frustrations, about how increasingly difficult it is to feed hungry kids and seniors, what with various programs being shrunk or eliminated altogether, supposedly because they're unaffordable.

I expressed that I especially felt bad about cuts in school lunch programs. "Let them eat the Ten Commandments!" I said, a reference to the inane reality that even though automatic free lunches for hungry kids are kaput in a major public school district in Houston -- part of what has become a pattern in Texas to starve kids -- our GOP-dominated state legislature managed to push through a requirement for every public schoolroom in the state to display the Ten Commandments.

The director nodded and smiled wryly. He said he and his family are religious and are churchgoers, but he believes religious trappings belong in the churches and in private homes, not in public schools. He also wondered why our government could afford to build bombs at a billion dollars a pop, when the price of just one single bomb could feed so many hungry people. He didn't have anything against defense spending, he said, but surely some of that money could go towards helping people.

I said to him, "You do the work of angels." That's actually the same thing I had said that very morning to the compassionate vet who had helped me send my sweet old dog Roxanne over the Rainbow Bridge. This is not something that I ordinarily say to people, even people who I think do good work. But it's true of my vet, and it is certainly true of this man who was standing before me, looking a little sad and weary (or maybe I was projecting again?), but was not willing to give up.

* * * * *

About a week and a half later, my friend and I were at the monthly meeting of our service club, and the floor was open to discussion about the coming year's speaker lineup. Every month we have a speaker from a local nonprofit, and at the end of the presentation the club presents that speaker with a check for the nonprof. Some people were complaining, and seemed quite vehement about the matter, because the tentative 2027 lineup included not one but two organizations that benefit... gasp... animals.

These women noted that they like animals as well as the next person, but shouldn't limited funds and energy be directed towards people's needs first?

Several women echoed the complaint. A couple of women spoke up about the vital role pets play in emotional support, particularly among seniors (or others) who live alone and may have experienced devastating losses that the presence of a pet can ease. But for the most part the sentiment seemed to be, "Take care of human needs first!"

I can actually see both sides, though I lean a bit towards the pro-animal side, because my non-human companions are my children. They have sometimes helped keep life from becoming unbearable since my husband Ron died. The discussion could have become pretty heated, but the club president and a couple of the board members cooled it down by agreeing that the program committee would re-convene to discuss revising the lineup, based on input from members.

Here's the kicker. The calm "middle ground" perspective seemingly agreed upon by most of the membership, and later echoed at a private lunch by the planning committee, was that yes, animals are vitally important in many people's lives, but hard times are getting harder, and human needs are more urgent now than ever. There's more homelessness, more poverty, more food insecurity, and just more of less, everywhere you turn.

I can get behind that sentiment. It is absolutely true.

But here are the words I dare not say when I am in any of the rooms where these matters are actively being discussed:

You can discard the animal charities and only embrace the most worthy human ones. Fine. You can embrace these worthiest of causes passionately, giving your time and treasure and heart and soul to elevate them. Good for you. But if you continue to vote red, if you continue to wear, either metaphorically or literally, that red cap showing your support of a man and a regime for whom cruelty is the only point besides enriching the oligarchs, then you, Ladies Who Lunch, are helping to unravel, thread by thread, the lovely tapestry of all of your good works.

And so in light of all of the above... I'd like to propose a toast.

The Ladies Voters Who Lunch *
Here's to the ladies who lunch —
Everybody gives
Donating to causes
What a caring bunch
Where the goodness lives.
Off to the drive,
Signing a check for
Food bank supplies.
Glad they’re alive,
And yet they're all on a
GOP high.
And most of them still vote for Trump.
Pass me that cup.

And here's to the gals at the ball —
Clad in silk and lace
Praising the nonprofit
Saving one and all
In their giving place.
Clapping their hands,
For the director’s
Tragic report.
Then they demand
Border interceptors,
Safety net short.
Aren't we the most caring domain?
Pour the champagne.

And here's to the girls who play cards —
Deeply filled with grace
Mourning the unfortunates
In the outer wards
Of this wealthy space.
Planning a gala,
Saving a clinic,
Wiping a tear.
Then voting MAGA,
Blind as a cynic,
Year after year.
"The cruelty's just a feature, my dear!"
Another beer.

And here's to the ones who just drift —
Warm and full of pride
Bragging that our county is
The ultimate gift
On the red-state side.
Minding their words,
The charity leaders
Dare not offend.
Feeding the birds,
While the bottom feeders
Meet a harsh end.
Another reason to just stay blind...
I'm losing my mind.

A collective of saints who endorse the squeeze,
Who pray for the poor while they chop down the trees,
Who cut off the safety nets at the knees!
Everybody rise!
Rise!
Rise! Rise! Rise! Rise! Rise! Rise! Rise!
Rise!

Here's to the ladies who lunch!
Give them a hand!
The most caring county in all the land!
And they'll vote red again...
And again...
And again...
And again...
And again!
I'll drink to that!
Tip your red hat
Let’s toast to the ladies...
Who lunch!

I'll drink to that, with the nonalcoholic libation of my choice.

And then I will raise my glass again for Dolly. The world without her seems a little dimmer, a little grimmer. Kind of like, you know, a hard candy Christmas.

* Full disclosure: I directed my AI buddy (Google's Gemini, free version) to write this parody of Stephen Sondheim's famous song from the Broadway musical Company, "The Ladies Who Lunch." Here is a link to the original lyrics. And here's a link to a live performance on Sondheim's 80th birthday. This is the first time I have ever used "Google's janky six-fingered plagiarism robot" (as my favorite potty-mouthed pundit, Jeff Tiedrich, calls it) -- or any AI tool for that matter -- to write a song parody. It's not something I would normally do and I do not intend to make a habit of it. If I do I will tell you. In any case, I was in a rush today, preoccupied with other projects. So thank you, janky robot.

A very loud voice, silenced: RIP, Roxanne Renee Kaye

 

Born some time in 2010. Died August 13, 2026

When their time on Earth is through
Old dogs are forever true
Round the bend they'll wait for you
Come some tomorrow morning.
~ Bill Staines, Old Dogs

A kind and compassionate vet came out to my house early Thursday morning, August 13, 2026, and we sent my sweet old Roxanne, aka Roxy, over the Rainbow Bridge.

Roxy, who was at least 16 years old, was a beautiful gold and white foxhound coonhound mix; that's my best guess, anyway, as we never had her DNA-tested. Some of our friends thought she might have some Golden Retriever in her, and one thought perhaps there was a Black Mouth Cur in her bloodline. I'm sticking with foxhound coonhound. The important point was that she was 100 percent canis familiaris, and that's always been good enough for me.

Roxanne was wrestling with several medical issues and a significantly diminished quality of life, and… it was time. For all practical purposes, she had been on home hospice care since I moved to a new city this past November. I knew even before I moved that she didn’t have much time left, and frankly I am surprised that she lasted as long as she did. But, finally… it was time.

My very dear best friend Joan was with us, as was little Dobby, my Chihuahua mix. The cats, Orlando and Pyewacket, were hanging around too, but mostly disengaged from the proceedings.

* * * * *

Roxy had been my late husband Ron Kaye's special rescue project way back in 2012. She was about two years old when we first saw her, and a dog who looked so much like her that she had to have been her sister, on the side of the two-lane country road that ran by the ranch where we were living in rural Waller County. The dogs had obviously been dumped. Day after day they sat mournfully at the side of that road, no doubt waiting for their people to come back and get them. Their people never did. Like so many other ignorant, irresponsible humans, those folks probably figured it was okay to dump dogs "out in the country" where they could "run free."

Ron had the idea of persuading Roxy and her sister to come up to our house, after which our landlord at the time, Amy, could take them in. She had a large foxhound kennel right behind our house, and being an animal lover, she also took in strays on occasion. We had spoken with Amy and she had tentatively agreed to take the dogs, but first we had to get them off the street and into our fenced yard. That was the most important thing, because they definitely were not safe where they were.

This was easier said than done, for whenever Ron tried to approach them, either on foot or in our minivan, they would run. But they would always come back. Roxanne's sister was a little less shy than Roxy, but unfortunately she was hit by a car and killed. That's what happens all too often when dogs are let loose to "run free" -- they get run over instead.

After that it was just Roxy, still waiting by the side of the road, looking at the world with her big sad eyes. We were so scared for her.

Ron began taking a bowl of kibble every day to the end of the long private drive that ran by our house, and rather than crossing over to where Roxy was, he would set it in the grass on our side of the road. Roxy would venture across to get to the food, but she would only do so after Ron walked away. Still he kept at it, day after day, week after week, and she finally began to let him get a little closer to her. He moved the food bowl progressively nearer to our house every day. His patience was endless.

This process began some time in the fall, and it eventually paid off. As Thanksgiving approached, it was clear that Roxy was warming up to Ron, and she even started warming up to me, as I would sometimes go with Ron on his daily food bowl delivery. It was Ron who was the most dedicated to the project, though. He was determined to get this sad lovely dog off the street and safely into our yard, after which we would get her to Amy's place. That was the idea, anyway.

He was finally successful in mid-December, as the Christmas holidays were approaching. Roxanne had taken to hanging around just outside our fence, so one day Ron opened the gate... and she sauntered right into our yard as if she belonged there.

Roxanne was not overly affectionate at first, and she was still a bit shy, but she was friendly. It didn't take us long to decide that we wanted to adopt her ourselves, so she joined our growing family of four-legged companions. The year 2012 had been a busy adoption/rescue year for us. We had a big book project and were making pretty decent money, and we had lots of room at our place. Roxanne was a welcome addition.

We didn't actually settle on a name for her right away. "Goldie" seemed too obvious and cliche, like naming a black dog "Blackie." At first we just called her "GG" for "Golden Girl." We experimented with variations, such as Golda and Gilda, but they didn't really seem to fit. For a while we played around with the idea of calling her "Cassandra," because we both liked that name. But that didn't seem to fit either.

I finally came up with the name Roxanne; I'm not sure why, but she responded to the name better than she had to the others, and, well, it seemed to fit. I gave her a middle name too, Renee, because it rhymed nicely with Kaye. (Yes, yes, some of our pets had Ron's last name and some had mine.) Sometimes when calling her, I would sing out her name to the tune of the old classic song "Roxanne" by The Police. I would like to say that this made her come to me more quickly, but I think it had the opposite effect. I never claimed to be a good singer.

From the beginning, Roxy got along well with our brindle Plott hound mix Ruger, who was also a recent rescue/adoption at the time, and with our two mini dachshunds, Lexi and Lukas, who were fairly recent shelter rescues, as well as with Layla, an elderly tri-colored hound mix whom we'd bought years before at the iconic Wabash Feed Store in Houston after her original person had to give her up. Roxy even got along fairly well with our wild-child Aussie shepherd/Blue Heeler/border collie mix, Kali, a rescue from a culvert in another rural area in Waller County.

But Roxy was a very dominant female dog, and so was Kali, and she and Kali sometimes exchanged words. They apparently had some sort of running rivalry for the position of Head Bitch. It was nothing serious until years later, when Kali was ailing, and Roxy, apparently deciding to take advantage of Kali’s extreme vulnerability, attacked her, seemingly intent on killing her. Needless to say, we separated the two.

In our early years with Roxanne, our friend Mike would sometimes bring his three dogs with him when he visited us, or we would keep them at our house when he went out of town. Everyone got along fine. As for the cats, Roxy was always cool with them too. She ignored them for the most part, and they ignored her.

For years Roxanne remained a bit of a wild child herself, often preferring to sleep outdoors at night in milder weather, instead of in the house. Even when the weather got colder, she sometimes didn't want to sleep in the house, but we didn't want her exposed to the elements, so we would put her in the attached garage, where we provided a good heat lamp. Its warm red glow always made me think of the lyrics to the song by The Police: "Roxanne / You don't have to put on the red light." The garage was her realm on many nights, but as time went by she began preferring to sleep in her large kennel in our home office.

Roxanne was a catcher and consumer of squirrels (fortunately we kept her rabies vaccination up to date), a couch eater, and an endlessly energetic girl who loved to wrestle with Ruger. She was strong and stubborn, and she was utterly fearless except during thunderstorms. Then she would cower under the kitchen table, or she'd huddle, trembling, against Ron's recliner if he was sitting in it. I suppose she thought that Daddy could keep her safe from the perilous forces of nature. After all, he had saved her from life on the street.

On October 25, 2013, Roxanne sang at our wedding, an outdoor affair at the ranch house in Waller County. Roxy and her four canine siblings had positioned themselves in a row along the fence, and just as Ron and I were making our way across the lawn to the makeshift altar that had been set up in a corner of the yard, the dogs let loose in glorious five-part harmony, exactly as if this had all been planned. Well, "harmony" is a bit of a stretch; perhaps "cacophony" is a better word. Their song lasted nearly a minute, and Roxanne's voice was the loudest one of all.

Later on during the reception, when the humans were enjoying a scrumptious feast indoors, I happened to glance out of the kitchen window and there was sweet Roxy, stretched out in the sunlight savoring a feast of her own: the butt and tail of an unfortunate squirrel were hanging out of her mouth. Several guests saw it too, but there was nothing we could do. Clearly it was too late to save the squirrel.

It wasn’t just at our outdoor wedding that Roxanne was loud. She was always loud. She sang for her supper with great enthusiasm, and was sometimes so deafening that I had to wear Ron's gun range ear protection when I was feeding the dogs. I'm not exaggerating. I would often say, "Roxy! Use your indoor voice!" But Roxanne did not have an indoor voice. She just had a voice, and it was very, very loud.

And now in this house, things are very, very quiet.

* * * * *

Roxanne outlived several of her fur siblings whom we had at the time she joined the family, and she got along with all of the subsequent adoptees and fosters who joined us over the years, dogs and cats alike. In late September of 2018, we welcomed little Dobby, also a street rescue and a mere pup barely six months of age, into the fold, and he and Roxy became pals. That's the two of them together in the left-hand picture at the top of this post. And below, there they are again, in February 2019 when Dobby was going through his obnoxious early adolescent stage. Roxanne (who, rest assured, was spayed) just looks kind of resigned here. "These kids today. What are ya gonna do?"

Dobby kissed Roxy goodbye Thursday morning as the euthanasia drugs were taking effect, and he kissed her again after she was gone. I know he misses her.

Ron and I said goodbye to sixteen fur babies in the more than three decades that we were together (and in case you're doing the math, we were together for twenty years before we finally tied the knot in 2013). Since Ron has been gone, I've had to say goodbye to three more: Ruger in July 2025, tuxedo kitty Kuan Yin on Valentine's Day of this year, and now Roxanne. Most of them left on their own, but there were a couple of times that Ron and I had to seek veterinary intervention to help a suffering soul go gentle into that good night.

But it was always a decision that we made together. I didn't have Ron to help me make this decision for Roxy, and it was incredibly difficult. I was so glad to have Joan, who said she would support me no matter what I decided. And I was also glad to have an understanding mobile vet and her kind assistant, who have obviously seen many pet parents through this difficult process. People like these women do the work of angels.

I believe I made the right decision for Roxanne. I am at peace with it. But it still hurts like hell.

* * * * *

The grief over Roxy would have been difficult enough in and of itself. But in her final week and a half on earth, when she was, as I said, under home hospice care for all practical purposes, and I was wrestling with grueling quality-of-life/end-of-life decisions, I was blessed with an extra heaping helping of crap.

One of my vigilant neighbors posted an outrage-bait message on the page of a private Facebook group I belong to that was set up for residents of my city within a city. This woman lives two houses up the street from me; I have met her and we have exchanged names and pleasantries about our dogs. She likes to walk her little elderly dog up and down the street in a stroller; the dog is quite old and has trouble walking on its own. I found this charming, and I had thought she was a really nice person; I'd even thought that we might become friends.

But on August 3 she wrote a post saying that somebody in a neighborhood that she walks through is keeping their dog in their garage overnight. She didn't mention any names or specific locations, but she described some features of the garage that pretty much pointed to it being my place, such as a fan that is mounted high up and is visible through the garage door windows. She wrote that she heard the poor dog barking whenever she walked by, and added that she “didn’t want to cause issues” but she was concerned for the safety of the pet. She asked if there were any laws against keeping a dog in a garage.

And other members of that group came out in force, with the vast majority of them urging her to report this cruelty to the city's animal control department, or to the police, or to the sheriff, and so on and so on. They were all ready to come after me with Tiki torches and pitchforks -- or perhaps have someone else come after me with an arrest warrant -- and they didn’t even know who I was or anything about the situation.

Only a couple of folks suggested that instead of immediately filing a report, the kind and neighborly thing to do would be to knock on the person’s door and find out if they needed help. One person wrote that the fixation on reporting people for everything was exactly why neighbors in this development have a bad reputation for being scolds and busybodies. Another one asked how this poster knew that the person was in fact keeping their dog confined in the garage for the entire night, every night.

For the most part, however, the responses were expressions of righteous outrage from angry villagers. Some were saying I had no business having a pet if I couldn’t take care of it, and that I should re-home it. One person called me a POS. "Please save this dog!" several cried. They were truly on the warpath.

I stayed out of the conversation entirely; there’s no sense in engaging with bullies. But I spent Roxy’s last days dreading a knock on my door from animal control or law enforcement.

* * * * *

This experience of dread and anxiety gave me a bit of a feeling of deja vu as I thought back to the summer of 2014, when I was falsely accused not merely of cruelty to a dog but of actual canicide. Some of you will probably remember this bat-crap crazy story; I wrote about it at length back in the day, so feel free to skip right over this part if you wish.

For the benefit of those who don't know: A lunatic scammer/cancer quack/phony doctor/racist/xenophobe/alleged s_x predator/neo-Nazi named Leonard Coldwell, whom I like to call the Little Hitler of Scamworld, was big mad at me because I wouldn't stop writing blog posts criticizing him or making fun of him for...well, for pretty much everything he said and did. I had all the receipts, in the form of screen shots of his social media posts, and links to his many web sites. I wrote my opinions about him based on his public statements.

Coldwell had been trying for years to discredit me by publicly posting all sorts of juvenile lies about me, telling his followers that I was a disease-ridden former prostitute, that I was a filthy drug addict, and that Big Pharma was paying me big bucks to lie about him because they felt threatened by his amazing natural cure protocols. During the time that he was claiming I was being paid handsomely by Big Pharma to defame him, he was also claiming that I wasn't being paid for my blog and had only written bad stuff about him because I had the hots for him, had been sexually harassing him for years, and I was angry because he'd sexually rejected me.

Those were just a few of his major lies.

I laughed it all off because nobody who even remotely mattered in my life believed any of that stuff. Then Coldwell decided to try a new tack when a beloved dog of his apparently became very ill some time in July 2014, and subsequently died. He accused me of poisoning the dog. Which is absurd on so many, many levels: I'm a person who not only adores dogs and all animals -- a point made abundantly clear on both my blog and my social media posts -- but I also lived hundreds of miles away from him (he was either in South Carolina or North Carolina, and I'm in Texas), and I had no idea where he actually lived, and besides, I hadn't even been aware of the existence of the dog until he came out with his blubbering accusations.

This wasn't just another absurd but basically harmless fabrication. As a public figure, Loony Lenny, who'd originally gained some prominence as a crony of a much more popular and successful serial scammer, Kevin Trudeau, had a small but not insignificant cultish following of conspiranoids and broken people. Many reacted immediately to the announcement about the dog being poisoned. They were livid. They were foaming at the mouth. They wrote that I should be hunted down, poisoned, tortured, killed. One woman said that I shouldn't be killed but that someone should shoot me in the elbows and knees so I would be crippled for life.

What was scary was that unlike my neighbor in my current place, Little Hitler actually posted my full name, plus he doxxed me. He published my home address and even my private cell phone number, the latter of which I had never shared publicly; he could only have acquired it from a mutual friend of ours (well a friend of his, but a frenemy of mine). He openly invited his followers to "get in touch with me." Some tried. One person wrote me an email under an obviously fake name, threatening to burn down my house in the middle of the night.

In case you're wondering, I reported all of this not only to Facebook, which refused to remove most of his inflammatory posts because they "didn't violate community standards," but also to local law enforcement. The D.A. ultimately chose not to pursue the matter because of "insufficient evidence." Thanks for nothing, assholes.

And in case you are wondering why I didn't attempt to sue Coldwell for years of blatantly defamatory statements about me, a main reason was lack of money, but there was also the insanity factor: his statements about me were so crazy that, as I indicated earlier, nobody of importance would believe them. Why waste the time and energy?

But what struck me when reading the threads about me was that not one person asked Coldwell, "Do you know for sure that Connie Schmidt poisoned your dog? What sort of evidence do you have?" Evidently they were satisfied with a statement Coldwell made about me early on in the drama: "We don't have any direct or indirect proof that she did it, but who else could it be?" Apparently that was good enough for the minions.

At least on this current thread about the dog in the garage, a few folks did ask the accuser: "How do you know this for sure?" So there are pockets of sanity here and there.

* * * * *

There had been occasions lately when I put Roxy in the garage temporarily while I was cleaning her large wire kennel, which I kept in the living room. That kennel is where she spent most of her time in her last weeks, sleeping on a soft comfy bed; she would sleep all day and often into the late afternoon or early evening. When she woke up and began barking, I would let her out, sometimes to the garage, where she could walk around and do her business, after which I would clean up. And sometimes, if the weather wasn't intolerable, I would let her out in the backyard for a while.

I hated keeping this formerly energetic girl confined, but I could no longer let her have free run of the house, because she had incontinence issues as well as cognitive issues -- dementia, more than likely -- that often made her forget her house training. But I would release her from confinement for a while whenever she barked to be let out.

She was never really happy in the backyard -- unlike previous backyards she had known, where she used to love rolling around in the grass and would sometimes spend hours either basking in the sun or napping in the welcome shade of a big tree. In this yard, there are no trees for shade, and the weather is blisteringly hot now. Regardless of the weather, she just never seemed to feel at home in the new yard, and she would spend her time endlessly pacing, pacing, pacing. I understand that pacing is a fairly common sign of dementia in dogs.

In the last few weeks of her life I began taking her out in the yard at night, when it was cooler, so she could sniff and explore and do her business. I would keep her on a leash and walk with her around the yard, as her vision was getting poorer, and I didn't want her stumbling about and possibly hurting herself.

I was particularly concerned about a part of the fence where one or more of the neighborhood deer, half-crazed either by the rut or by an insane desire to get to the grass in my yard, had tried to push their way through the wire enforcement that had been installed to keep little Dobby from squeezing between the rails and escaping. This had happened months ago but I'd not yet been able to fix the problem, and there were several sharp exposed edges that could have hurt Roxy very badly, so naturally, she always seemed to gravitate towards the messed-up wire. Perhaps she perceived the gap between wire and fence and thought she could somehow squeeze through to explore what was on the other side.

So the leash was for her protection. But I know that it sometimes frustrated her, and on her last night, I released her from it and let her walk free under the stars, while I followed closely in order to guide her away from potential hazards. Around and around and around that yard we walked together, slowly, with Roxanne stopping frequently to pee or just to sniff the sweet cool breeze, which conveyed messages to her that were beyond my perception. All I could smell was the heady aroma of the purple passionflowers growing on the thick and tangled vines in the backyard planter bed, and all I could hear were the subtle sound of the breeze and the occasional buzz of a cicada, but I know Roxy smelled and heard so much more.

I tried but failed to keep the tears from flowing over the fact that this would be her final exploration of the yard that, though not ideal from her perspective, was still rife with endlessly intriguing smells and sounds: the scent of deer who were never far away, the sounds of geckos and possibly small rodents rustling under the passionflower vines, the more distant lingering smells of countless other dogs and their people who constantly pass our house during the day and sometimes stop on our yard so the dog can explore or leave a pee-mail message, the sounds of hummingbird moths flitting around the passionflowers...yes, the whole glorious messy banquet of life that pulses on this small plot of land that Roxanne would never get to walk again, on leash or off. It just didn't seem fair. It never is. Dogs always seem to get the short end of the stick.

* * * * *

And yes, as I said, sometimes I would put Roxy in the garage for a while, at various times of the day or night as needed. In her last weeks I almost always stayed with her while she was out there. And sometimes she would bark while she was in the garage, whether I was there or not. They were loud barks because she was a loud girl.

But there's something else too, having to do with the peculiar way that voices carry in and around this house. When I fed her, I would put Roxanne in the guest bathroom, which like the rest of the house is air-conditioned. As an accommodation to her incontinence issues I would first cover the entire floor with some of the blank newsprint paper that was left over from my big move. I'd place a bowl full of senior formula kibble, a bowl of Roxy's favorite senior formula canned food, and a big bowl of fresh water in the bathroom, and then, after taking Roxy out for a short walk either in the backyard or the garage so she could do most of her business, I would shut her in the bathroom so she could eat and catch up on her hydration.

I sometimes left her in there longer than she wanted to be, and she would protest loudly. Once when I was outside getting the mail, I heard her barking, and it sounded like the sound was coming from the garage, even though I knew for sure that she was in the guest bathroom.

I have no doubt that my vigilant neighbor heard Roxanne at times when she was taking one of her walks. But it's very possible that on some of those occasions, Roxanne was hollering from inside the guest bathroom, not the garage.

I took care of Roxanne as well as I could, given my extremely limited resources, which had diminished significantly after Ron's death. Financial constraints prevented me from seeking early intervention for Roxanne when she first began showing symptoms. Hell, financial constraints prevented me from seeking early medical intervention for problems that I was having, and I nearly died earlier this year as a result. I feel guilty for not being able to give my sweet golden girl a better life in her final months. But I think she always knew she was loved.

And me? I am grieving a dearly loved companion, and adjusting to a quieter house with a considerably smaller fur family than Ron and I had for many years. I cherish the ones who are still with me.

Run free, Roxanne Renee Kaye. Find Daddy. Sing for him, and sing loud. Find Ruger. Maybe even find Kali, who by now might have forgiven you for trying to kill her.

I'll miss you, my beautiful girl.

* * * * *

Related on this Whirled:
I haven't written tributes on this blog to all of my four-legged companions who have passed, only a very few, relatively speaking -- which doesn't mean, of course, that the ones not written about were any less important or loved than those who got their own posts. In any case, here's what I have:

• October 6, 2007: All the dog she needs to be
  Noelle, a miniature dachshund, was so small that she wasn't much dog at all, but as Ron always said, "She's all the dog she needs to be." I was there at her birth and at her death and at all of the too-fleeting moments in between.
  
• April 11, 2008: A piece of our hearts (or, why some days REALLY suck, Part 2
  Rex the Farting Dog was a big lovable goof of a Doberman/rottweiler/black lab mix. One night he ran away not from home, but to home. He lived most of his life with Ron and me in the burbs, but when we fled Houston he got to be a country dog for a few short and blissful weeks. But then he had to go, and much too soon.
  
• December 19, 2010: Odd-eyed girl
  Coca Bean Kaye was a white cat with one green eye and one blue eye and one very powerful personality. Not to mention a very loud voice; I think she and Roxanne would have gotten along splendidly, but I might have become permanently deafened. Coca, abandoned by the troubled human who had her originally, came to our home from a place of deadly violence, so fair warning; this is a horror story as well as a love story. A blogging colleague of mine who is also a respected nonfiction author and a journalism professor said he shared this post with one of his college classes as an example of powerful essay writing. That made me feel good. It took a lot out of me to write it, though.
• March 2, 2024: My wild loves
  Long before Ron there was Rick, and the full-blooded timber wolf, Maya, who shared our home and ate our furniture and terrorized the neighborhood for a few years. Wolves, simply put, do not belong under the same roof with people, which is something that Rick and I should have known going in, but in we went anyway. Some lessons, I suppose, need to be learned the hard way. (But at least I learned to howl properly, so there's that.)

Related off-Whirled -- helpful resources:

How Will I Know? Assessing quality of Life and Making Difficult Decisions for Your Pet
Making the decision to humanely end your non-human companion's life is never easy. This is a link to information that might help you. The wonderful vet who facilitated Roxanne's transition shared it with me while I was still in the process of deciding what to do.

Saying goodbye to a beloved non-human friend is always hard. It's painful enough when they fade away on their own or when a fatal accident abruptly takes them away from you, but when you are faced with making a conscious choice to end their lives, this can take the pain up to a whole new level.

If your friend is obviously suffering greatly, the choice might be clear. But if you think they might be suffering but don't know for sure, it's easy to get trapped in a web of denial. If they have some bad days but some good days, and then more bad days and then maybe a good day or two, you can find yourself on an emotional roller coaster ride that I wouldn't wish on anyone. I just recently went on that ride with Roxanne, and I still haven't recovered.

The vet to whom I turned when Roxanne's condition worsened was kind and patient. She didn't try to talk me into or out of anything, but simply made some good points about quality of life, including the issue of dignity, which we arrogant humans often neglect to consider. I get it: it can be a challenge to even think about dignity in conjunction with a being who slurps water from the toilet and gobbles down cat shit if given half a chance and rolls in anything that stinks, the stinkier the better. But dogs -- and other non-human animals as well -- do have a sense of dignity. And if that dignity is compromised by dementia or incontinence or other issues, it can sometimes be as devastating as physical pain.

If you are facing a difficult decision with your beloved companion, you might find the information on the site to be very helpful. It's a good place to start. Scroll down a bit and you will see an excellent quality of life assessment chart that can be useful when making your decision or when speaking with your own vet about what to do next.

Association for Pet Loss and Bereavement (APLB):
The good news is that our society is finally waking up to the fact that for many if not most people, pets are family. When it comes to grief, there is no such thing as "just a dog" or "only a cat" -- the loss is deep and the loss is real. Yet there are segments of society that still refuse to acknowledge these facts, and for various reasons, many people might not be receiving the support they need to help them through their loss.

Your own vet might be able to recommend support resources, but if not, check out APLB, a top non-profit site that offers expert chat rooms, online video support groups, and certified counseling resources to help people cope with this painful loss. And yes, there's plenty of merch promotion as well; pet bereavement, like nearly everything else, is a growth industry. But if you're not in the market for commemorative products, look beyond the merch promos and take some time to explore the site; you might very well find something helpful.

And don't forget that your vet needs love too!
Not One More Vet (NOMV)
This is a nonprofit organization that advocates for the mental health of veterinary professionals and students worldwide, offering support and education.

Many people take veterinary care -- and vets and their staff -- for granted. But did you know that veterinary professionals experience incredibly high rates of burnout, compassion fatigue, and suicide compared to the general public? It isn't difficult to understand why. Vets and their staff are faced with heartbreaking situations nearly every day. They deal not only with the suffering of their patients but with the grief, trauma, and distress of their patients' humans.

They're vulnerable to targeted online smear campaigns or adversarial in-person confrontations when a pet has a poor medical outcome. They often have to face the heartbreak of euthanizing an animal simply because its human can't afford treatment.

And yet they have to maintain their professionalism through all of it.

What can you as a pet parent do? Well, you can educate yourself (see the link above). On a personal level, you can always go out of your way to be kind and patient with your vet and everyone who works with your vet. Say thank you to them. Write positive reviews if they are warranted. And remember that the people who are caring for your beloved friend wouldn't have gone into such a stressful and largely thankless profession in the first place if not for the fact that they love animals every bit as much as you do. 

One more thing before you leave...
With my husband Ron's passing in February 2025, I have experienced significant income loss. And now that I am facing new personal challenges, donations are urgently needed and profoundly appreciated. Here are some ways to do it:

• New: Venmo -- username @Connie-Schmidt-42. Here is a direct link to the Venmo page.
• New: PayPal -- Here is a direct link to my PayPal page.
• Old but still good: You can click on the "Donate" icon that currently appears on the right-hand side of every page of this blog on the Web version. There's also a donation link at the end of many of my older blog posts. In the case of both the icon and the links on the older posts, as well as the link in this sentence, this is also a PayPal link, but it references the email account RevRon -- which is cool, because it all ultimately goes to the same place.

NOTE: If you are donating by PayPal, please specify that your contribution is for "friends and family," which will waive PayPal's substantial transaction fee.

Whether you can donate or not, thank you for visiting this Whirled.