A long walk ahead of us, together

This is one of the hardest posts I've ever had to write. I never wanted to write the word 'cancer", especially in the same sentence as "my dog."

But on Wednesday my dog was diagnosed with osteosarcoma. Bone cancer. She'd been limping for several weeks, at first just a vague disruption to her gait, almost imperceptible. Then it was more noticeable, and we took her to the vet. We tried anti-inflammatories, and suspected arthritis, so on Monday she went in for x-rays. Meanwhile, we'd discovered some swelling on her front leg. The x-rays showed a bone mass, so they performed a biopsy and prepared us for bad news.

There is no way to prepare for the fact that your dog has cancer. I knew the risk in this breed; I've heard of so many goldens who are diagnosed with cancer. I've even blogged about it before, here, after I read that Macy, the golden retriever who starred in the book Travels with Macy and A Dog Abroad, had died from cancer.

I can't put my thoughts into words any better than Macy's human, Bruce Fogle, did, so I'll direct you there. If you've ever loved a dog, you'll recognize yourself, and if not, you'll understand better those of us who do.

We aren't at the end of the road yet. We likely haven't walked our last walk, though our long hikes are definitely over. We've more days, weeks, maybe months yet.

The treatment for bone cancer is harsh, but the alternative is even worse. No, not death—that's inevitable no matter what we do. But as the bone dissolves, the pain is excruciating, and the risk of fracture increases. I can't let that happen. So we have some tough decisions. Fortunately, my husband loves our dog as much as I do, and we're making these decisions together.

I thought I should write something more here, end this with some poetic words about how much my dog means to me. But I just realized I don't have to do that. In the endless posts I've written about her, the straight-faced recounting of our conversations, the embellished anecdotes, the photos of our miles and miles of walks—my camera unerringly finds her blond tail waving ahead—it's quite obvious.

She is my dearest companion. 

Plaited together, yes. For as long as we're on this earth.

"Baa-aad dog!"

These sheep live near North Leigh Roman villa in Oxfordshire, which we visited last month with our dog. (She's a keen archaeologist.) You can read about our visit here. After we'd explored the ruins, we went down a footpath to the River Evenlode. Suddenly these sheep showed up at the top of the ridge on the other side of the river, keeping a cautious eye on the dog, who frankly is more interested in exploring Roman ruins than in chasing sheep*. But they couldn't have known that, of course.

*There is also the problem that she is scared of sheep.

The other day I ran into someone I knew in the post office. As one does, I complained about the weather, specifically the endless rain we've been having. She pooh poohed my concern. "It's November; it always rains in November."

"But this seems worse than past Novembers," I said, shaking the rain off my jacket before I soaked the address label on the package I was mailing.

Again she scoffed. "This isn't the worst, and I've been here 26 years; I outvote you." 

Well, I wasn't equipped to combat that, and besides, I just wanted to mail my package and get out of there. But I did start to wonder. Clearly the floods in northern England—Cockermouth had once-in-a-millenia flooding—meant that Cumbria was having record November rainfall. Further south, hardly a day has gone by since the month began that rain hasn't fallen at least part of the day. The ground is saturated, but that's happened before. Our garage flooded one day during a particularly violent downpour, but that's happened before too—in fact we deliberately keep things off the ground where possible.

I poked around the Met Office website, but the latest monthly totals were for October. Past records did indicate that November is typically the wettest month in the UK. But to my mind, this November had them all beat.

And yesterday, the Met Office confirmed my suspicions: This November was the wettest on record, breaking a record that had stood since 1929. For the whole UK, the previous record of 193.6 mm was smashed, with 217.4 mm of rainfall (8.6 inches, about the amount that Albuquerque, New Mexico sees in a year). The heaviest rain was isolated in places like Cumbria and Snowdonia. November was also warmer than average—the National Trust tweeted a photo of daffodils blooming at one of its Cornwall properties.

Violent weather, and fall daffs. Weather extremes—something predicted by climate change experts, and confirmed by our very eyes, or rather, our sodden clothes and garages. And for the people in Cockermouth, by the homes that have been underwater, the bridges washed away, and by the sad farewell to the policeman who lost his life trying to direct people away from a flooded bridge.

And to my acquaintance in the post office, I believe the Met Office outvotes you.

*It's still Friday on the West Coast, right? Hawaii? You still up?

The cows enjoy a rare sunny day in southern England.

We've had a lot of rain. You may have heard about it on the news—floods and record rain have deluged northern England (poor Cockermouth!) and here in southern England we've seen endless gray and rainy days.

So when the sun came out the other day I was beside myself. I was racing upstairs to put on jeans and socks to take the dog for a walk when I noticed the cows out back. So I headed for my camera instead and brought a pocketfull of apples to the fence.

They were as happy to see me as I was to see the sun. After the first cow, the gray one who loves apples, spied me and rushed over, the others came racing down to the fence, literally sliding across the mud to get to me. I was glad there was a fence and a few feet of brambles between me and a small herd of 1000 lb cows. 

This isn't the best shot; I don't really know how to adjust my camera for sunny shots yet. Haven't needed to all that often, frankly. But I thought you'd like to see the cows—notice the new baby walking just in front of Mum in the back—before they're sent to the barn (or worse) for the winter. Normally that would have happened before now, but along with the rain we're having an unusually warm fall. There are even daffodils blooming in Cornwall.

Once in a millenia flooding, record rainfall, daffodils in late November...global warming, anyone?

I suspect most of my American readers don't realize the extent of the Marmite love here, so when I saw this tanker truck on the M40 the other day I snapped a photo. (Fortunately, my camera was right next to me and I was in the slow lane, getting ready to exit, so I managed to do it without causing an accident. Don't try this at home.)

That's right, Marmite comes in tanker trucks. Now you know.

The grass is always greener outside the stable. 

This horse lives near East End, Oxfordshire. Tomorrow I'll tell you what he's gazing at.

"Kathy found a sad lonely calf on Farmville...err, the real farm."

This morning I had just finished playing Farmville on Facebook (you know, that annoying Facebook application that causes your friends to post annoying "Just found a lonely pink cow/sad turtle/homeless kitten on my farm" notices). I went to let the dog out before heading off to class and noticed one of the cows near the fence. She looked so bedraggled and lonely out in the rain, I decided to toss her some apples. When I did, I saw a new baby calf lying on the other side. This wasn't one of the ones I noticed last month; this one couldn't have been more than a day old. I tossed out the apples, and Mum came over. Baby struggled to her little legs and followed Mum.

She immediately began nursing, safe on the other side where I couldn't get a good photo. Mum was very protective, even though she knows I wouldn't harm little Baby.

It's been raining all day, so I hope little Baby is staying dry.

It's a reminder that real farming is not quite as bucolic as virtual farming.

Here's Baby, getting her morning milk from Mum. I imagine the next time I see her she'll be loping around the pasture with her friends, not afraid to leave Mum's side.

Mr. and Mrs. Charles Dickens

London is such a small town, I keep running into the same Victorians.

Yesterday we went to Charles Dickens' house on Doughty Street. I don't have much to say about it, except that there's a nice collection of Dickens memorabilia, including his desk and some fine portraits and photographs. Dickens didn't even live there very long—he moved to posher digs after he became a successful author. And if it's a typical Victorian home you're after, you're better off at the Linley Sambourne House.

But as my friend and I toured the home, there was one display that caught our eye. It was about a friend of Dickens, a philanthropist named Angela Burdett Coutts, who I'd never heard of. Or so I thought.

After inheriting her grandfather's banking fortune in 1837, Baroness Burdett Coutts became the richest woman in England. Dickens and Angela Burdett Coutts shared an interest in improving the plight of poor people.

As I was reading the display about her, I almost made a comment to my friend about a place I'd seen the week before while walking near Highgate Cemetery. A sweet cottage with an imposing Gothic entrance gate had caught our attention, so much so that we stopped to take photos. But I remembered that it had been two different friends with me on the trip to Highgate, and besides, the cottage we'd seen had nothing to do with Angela Burdett Coutts. At least that's what I thought, though a niggling thought still stirred in my mind.

My friend and I were so interested in Angela—she's an overlooked figure of Victorian history—that I took a photo of the display, so that we could look her up later. When I did, I realized why the place we'd seen—called Holly Village—had popped into my mind when I read about her at the Dickens house. Turns out she owned Holly Lodge, including the area in Highgate around the lodge. She was well known for entertaining there—you can read about it here.

I looked at the photos I took of the lodge, and sure enough, on the gate is a plaque which reads:

No Public Entry

HOLLY VILLAGE homes were built by Baroness Burdett-Coutts & Henry Darbishire, architect, in 1865.

Some piece of my brain had retained that name, and when I read it at Dickens House, the memory popped into my consciousness long enough for an image of the lodge to pop up.

Here are some of the photos I took that day:

The Gothic entrance which first attracted our attention, in the middle of a North London residential area.

We peeked inside at the sweet looking cottage, with a table outside ready for tea.

I took this picture because I wanted to remember the architect's name.

If the No Entry sign doesn't deter you, maybe these heads on the wall will. 

Holly Lodge (or Holly Village, as the plaque reads) is located directly across from the south end of Highgate Cemetery.

For more photos of Dickens House, keep reading.

The door of Charles Dickens' home on Doughty Street in London.

Charles Dickens' desk, where he wrote some of his novels.

The parlor is decorated for Christmas. No Scrooge here!

While I was sleeping, a health care reform bill passed the House. That's nice. Now if it passes the Senate and becomes law, about a million people a year who would otherwise declare bankruptcy when faced with mounting bills for medicine and other medical expenses probably won't have to. And around 40,000 people a year will get to keep on living instead of dying from a preventable illness or medical complication.

It's hard to believe, but 215 Representatives, mostly Republicans, voted against the measure.

I have a modest proposal: Each of those no-voting Representatives should have to attend the funerals of those who die for lack of health care. Since the new proposals won't take effect for a while, there are still certain to be a few thousand who will die this year alone before the legislation is enacted.

And before the Senate even has time to vote, thousands of families who won't get a chance to purchase affordable insurance on the new exchanges will have to declare bankruptcy when faced with the cost of medical treatment. I propose that the dissenting Representatives have to explain to their creditors why they didn't vote for legislation that would have prevented this from happening in the future.

And then all 215 should be striped of their own health insurance, so that one day they will have to face the choice of paying their mortgage or paying for a daughter's operation.

And finally, I propose that those Representatives who voted against providing health care for all Americans be excommunicated from their church congregations.

Because Jesus dies just a little inside every time someone votes to deny one of His loved ones health care.

This nice looking horse lives near Chenies. He wanted to be friends with my dog, but my dog is more a people person, so she ignored him.

Berlin Cathedral, with the "pope's revenge", the star-crossed TV tower, in the background.

Don't let the soaring modern architecture fool you; Berlin is chock full of some of the oldest remnants of civilization. The Pergamon Alter, the Ishtar Gates of Babylon, the 2000-year old bust of ancient Egyptian queen—and that's only a small part of what you'll find in Berlin, as modern a European city as it's possible to find. 

I first visited Berlin 20 years ago, right after the "fall" of the Berlin wall (the wall was mostly still there, but free travel was possible). The worn out architecture of the East, which had been the pride of the Soviet empire, is now gone, replaced by the towers of Potsdamer Platz, and modern hotels, office buildings and monuments.

But don't despair; the old stuff—the 19th century museums, built to house the treasures German archaeologists brought back from their explorations, are still there. They've been restored to their former glory. In fact, the New Museum—the Neues Museum—has recently reopened after decades of restoration. The long wait was worth it—it's a fantastic museum. 

Let me back up. No, not twenty years ago—Berlin seems eager to forget its divided past. It's only the tourists who flock to Checkpoint Charlie and the scattered remnants of The Wall. The rest of the inhabitants have gotten over it. No, back to when I arrived, to a darkened city full of lights. On the eighth floor of our hotel, we looked out over the Otto Bock building, a smaller building with dancing lights prancing on its side as if hung by a mobile. And next door a giant green beam made a light show on the side of the hotel. And on top of the Otto Bock building was a modern garden with giant modern sculpture.

Light shows are pretty common in Berlin. A walk at night is a spectacle, as we found out when we walked across the edge of Tiergarten to the Reichstag. The Reichstag, where the Bundestag (Germany's parliament) meets, is an imposing old building, built in 1894. But now it sports a modern glass dome observatory. It's hard to describe the inside. You walk up a spiral walkway inside the dome, while an audio guide tells you what you're looking at. Then you walk back down, and at some point you look down in the middle and realize that way below is where the Bundestag sits, in bright blue chairs the size of pin cushions. (Warning: don't do this if you're afraid of heights. I almost lost it when I glanced down.)

"Vibrant" is the word someone used to describe Berlin to me, and it's easy to see why, looking out at a sparkling city of lights. 

Unter den Linden, with new linden trees.

But then you walk down Unter den Linden, the old thoroughfare named after the linden trees (lime trees in England, basswood in North America) replanted in the 1950s after being damaged in the war. There was a lot of war damage in Berlin, some of it still obvious on the walls of the old buildings. In Bebelplatz, where in 1933 fascist Brownshirts burned books they considered subversive, among them books by Helen Keller, there's now a haunting memorial consisting of a square of plate glass overlooking a room with empty bookshelves.

In London, modern buildings are set aside, on an island formed by the Thames. In Berlin, it's the old buildings that get their own island. Crossing the River Spree, you come to Museum Island, the spit of land where nineteenth century Berlin showcased its treasures in a series of museums. At one end the rounded Bode Museum fits perfectly at the tip, on the other end the Altes Museum (the Old Museum) looks out over the Lustgarden. But don't get carried away—the Berlin Dom, the cathedral, stands overlooking the Lustgarden just in case anyone tries to take its name too seriously.

The Altes Museum is tempting, standing there in its Classical glory. But it's not worth much more than an admiring glance—much of its Egyptian collection was moved to the Neues Museum. And don't stand in line at the ticket booth outside the Neues, either. Go into the Pergamon and buy your ticket there, and get a combined ticket, since you'll want to see the Pergamon too.

Market Gates of Miletus

If you only have time for two museums, the Pergamon and the Neues are the ones to choose. (Unless you're into Renaissance art, then go to the Bode.) You'll need a timed ticket to get into the Neues, so spend the hours beforehand touring the Pergamon. It's a very hands on museum, so to speak. You can climb the steps of the Pergamon Alter, go through the market gate of Miletus, and then reverse through the Ishtar Gates after proceeding down the Ishtar Processional Way, lined with lions and daisies.

Be sure you don't miss your timed entry into the Neues Museum, however. I found it to be the best museum I'd ever visited, for the simple reason that instead of a vast, dim space, like many museums offer, the Neues is well lit by the sun streaming in through the large windows. Secret confession: I don't really like museums that much, since it's so hard to read labels in dim light. I had no trouble reading the labels here, written in German and English. There's also an audio guide, which allows you to find out even more about many of the objects. It's a vast collection of antiquities from Egypt, Rome, Greece, Europe, plus an interesting collection of Paleolithic items (which particularly interested me, as I was able to see some of the items we've seen in my archaeology class in a proper setting).

Nefertiti, in her new home in the Neues Museum.

Not all Berlin's museums are on Museum Island, of course. The Jewish Museum is also worth a visit, for the architecture of the place alone. And Checkpoint Charlie museum, while a little shabby these days, is interesting, especially now that the anniversary of the fall of the wall is coming up.

If it's monuments you're after, a walk through Tiergarten will do. I ran into a badly damaged Goethe, Bismark, and others, sternly overlooking the visitors to the park. There's also the Victory Column, or Siegessäule as she's known. This is the spot where Barack Obama spoke last summer, though it's hard to imagine 200,000 impassioned Germans filling the space between the Column and Brandenburg Gate.

A visit to The Kennedys Museum, just past the Brandenburg gate, helps explain the fascination the Germans have with our president. Along with a fine collection of photographs of John F. Kennedy and his family, a current exhibit shows Obama and Kennedy in similar poses and situations. For instance, a cute photo of Jack Kennedy with his daughter Caroline is positioned over a photo of Senator Obama with a young Malia. Don't miss the film footage of Kennedy's trip to Berlin, when crowds gathered close (much closer than would be allowed today) and screamed "Ken-ne-dy!" over and over. It's easy to see how he's become to be regarded as an honorary resident of this city he once proclaimed his own.

Just like Nefertiti, who faces possible deportation (the Egyptians are now demanding her back, since she's turned out to be such a popular tourist attraction). I would imagine the plucky young queen loves her new home in Berlin. For despite its tragic past, Berlin has emerged as a plucky survivor.

For more photos of Berlin, check out my photo album here.

This is Knut, the famous polar bear born at the Berlin Zoo, the first "ice bear" born at the zoo in 30 years. His mother, a rescued circus performer, rejected him, and he was hand raised by a zoo keeper. Eventually Knut became a media sensation (you can read about it at Knut's wiki) and earned the Berlin Zoo millions of euros.

I'm not normally a fan of zoos—I don't like seeing animals in captivity, but for Knut I made an exception to my no-zoo policy. Plus, we visited the Berlin Zoo in 1990, when my daughters were small, and I wanted to see it again.

Knut had been separated from the other polar bears, and has a girlfriend now, though both are still adolescents. He's become a symbol of the threat to polar bears from climate change, and cheerfully lends his picture to the cause. 

Knut cleans his paw

But when I saw him, he was more concerned with licking his paw than with climate change (the temperature was in the 40s, and while I was freezing, the polar bears seemed to feel right at home).

The other polar bears, including, I suppose, Knut's negligent mother.

I didn't stay long at the zoo—seeing monkeys in cages, with rude people making fun of them, freaks me out. I prefer safari parks, where I'm the one in the cage and the monkeys make fun of us.

East German trucks wait to dispel protesters. Taken from the other side of the wall, November, 1989.

In November, 1989 my husband visited Berlin. The next week the wall fell down, torn down by the force of millions of protesters energized in East Berlin. Originally, we (the girls and I) were due to visit the following week, during the time the wall came down, but with a ten-month-old baby, I decided to wait.

Oh, did I kick myself as I watched history being made that week on television.

Goosesteppers of the DDR. Notice the early 90's fashion in the background.

We instead visited Berlin the next summer, spending the Fourth of July in what would soon become one of the last Communist countries—formal reunification of the two Germanys took place a few months later.

Today I'm heading to Berlin again. I'll be interested to see the changes that have occurred since my last visit.

A few more retro pics below. When I return I'll post more photos, both old and new.

East Berlin underground station. 

Daughter Number One walks with her dad in East Berlin, July 1990. (She was afraid to visit, after we told her we'd see the plaza where they burned Helen Keller's books.)

Russian war memorial, East West Berlin, November, 1989

Three cows, waiting

They see me at the back fence, and they come lumbering over. A friend gave us a bag of dessert apples, sweet and crisp. I cut them in half so they'll go further. The cows wait patiently for me to toss them over. They're patient creatures, cows.

The one in the middle plants her stubby legs firmly on the ground, waiting to veer toward the apple when it lands on the ground. The other watch for flying objects.

I need to work on my aim.

Chastleton House, unlike many stately homes, is set right upon the village road.

Two years ago we were walking in the Cotswolds when we came upon a beautiful, gracefully aging National Trust home, Chastleton House. At the time we were in no shape for a proper visit—we were muddy from our walk and had an even muddier dog with us, and, as I later discovered, admittance is limited on a timed entry scheme. But I vowed to return one day, without the dog and the mud, and yesterday, a friend and I made the hour-plus trek out along the A44 to Chastleton.

Chastleton was built between 1607 and 1612 by Walter Jones, a lawyer and MP of Welsh descent. He acquired the land from the previous owner, Robert Catesby, who was killed while trying to pull off the Gunpowder Plot. He tore down the existing structure and built the Jacobean Chastleton House, which stayed in his family for centuries, despite their declining economic circumstances.

Due to an unfortunately alliance during the Civil War, the family were taxed heavily and over the years lost much of the surrounding property, and thus the ability to make modern updates to the home. Unfortunate for them; lucky for us, as it's one of the few Jacobean structures in existence with its interiors and exteriors in almost original condition.

The croquet lawns, at the back of the house.

In 1991 the National Trust acquired the home and its contents, just in time for the aging roof to be blown off during a severe storm. The house, unlike many National Trust homes, was allowed to remain as it was, or as one steward told us, "it hasn't been tarted up". That makes for an interesting tour—scarred wood, fading tapestries, and obvious signs of shabby gentility remain.

The gardens, however, are in splendid condition. A round topiary garden is carefully pruned, though its original shapes have disappeared. Chastleton House is where the rules for croquet were first written by Walter Jones-Whitmore, so appropriately the croquet lawn is set up for croquet competitions.

The Topiary Garden, first laid out in Tudor times, once featured distinct shapes of a cakestand, teapot, sheep, chicken, horse, squirrel, ship, peacock and crown but now have faded into amorphous lumps.

The 12th century parish church, the Church of St Mary, next to the property is worth a peek inside, as well. The graves outside have long since lost their imprints and are covered with moss and ivy, but inside are several well-marked graves and memorials, and some lovely floor tiles.

As in many old English churchyards, the grave stones are illegible, moss-covered and in danger of toppling.

Chastleton House is located just east of Chipping Norton on the A44 near the turnoff for the Rollright Stones and Little Compton. It's almost 2 hours from London by car, almost unreachable by public transport. There's a lovely walk from Adlestrop, however, which is apparently near a rail line.

The house is open until the end of October, but only Wednesday through Sunday between 1 and 4 p.m. Call ahead for timed tickets.

Chastleton House, one of the finest Jacobean homes in England, in nearly original condition.

It's that time of year. October is when thoughts turn to Thanksgiving, and what kind of turkey we'll have. Will it be wide-wattled Bubbles? Or Rhonda, with her pale pink wattle? Gideon is awfully pretty too, but he's in California—a bit far from our shores.

Of course I'm talking about adopting a turkey from Farm Sanctuary, and fortunately, the turkeys stay right where they are—being cared for in a loving environment at either the Watkins Glen sanctuary in New York, or in California. The adoption fee helps provide care for the turkeys that have found their way to the sanctuary rather than a dinner table. As you can see from the photo above, the turkeys love Turkey Day at the sanctuary!

More photos of the adopted turkeys enjoying Thanksgiving are here, and if you'd like to sponsor a turkey, go to Adoptaturkey.org. Each adoption is only $25, and you'll receive (if you opt to) a certificate with a photo of your turkey, suitable for framing.

Adopted turkeys are lovely gifts, too, for animal lovers you love. Each year my daughters get two turkeys. (You might remember Daughter Number Two's reaction the first year I told her we were adopting a turkey. "Does Dad know?!" she asked, alarmed at the prospect of a turkey coming to live with us. These days she's a little more sanguine.)

If you'd like to adopt a turkey, I warn you: it's a tough decision. But if you really can't decide, you can adopt the whole flock, for $150!

(Photo by Connie Pugh)

Very few Republicans have signed on to the Democratic health care reform bills that have passed through the committees in Congress, and those who have are either not currently in office (Bill Frist, Bob Dole) or are not in a position to run for president: Arnold Schwarzenegger. In other words, they have no partisan ax to grind and are willing to simply speak out for what's right, not what's politically expedient.

But now Bobby Jindal, the young governor of my home state of Louisiana and a possible contender for president in the future, has penned an editorial in the Washington Post that endorses the Democrats' health care reform plan. That's right, Jindal is on board with Obamacare.

Before Jindal's people call my people to protest, let me say he didn't exactly use the words "I endorse the Democrats' bills." But that's essentially what his editorial does, in calling for ten basic health care reforms. Nine—count 'em, nine—are already in the bills in one form or another, in fact, in at least one case, Jindal's prescription goes even further than what's in the bills. The tenth, tort reform, doesn't exactly belong in such a bill, nor does anyone who's looked at the matter seriously believe malpractice reform would lower costs, but regardless, President Obama has already said—on the very floor of the House and Senate—that he would be willing to add tort reform to the mix if that's what Republicans want.

One of Jindal's prescriptions deserves special mention. It's the one nearest and dearest to my own heart, since I have two daughters: The part about covering young adults on their parent's insurance plans when they graduate from college. (Currently they're kicked off their parent's plan, even if they can't find work or decide to go to grad school. This happened to my oldest, who was without insurance for over a year while she subbed in high school, and will soon happen to my youngest.) And yes, it's in the Democrats' plan, always has been.

Here's Ezra with more, and also the background on Jindal, who used to serve as President Bush's assistant secretary of Health and Human Services.

So why aren't Republicans in Congress lining up to endorse what one of the bright young leaders of their party thinks is a pretty nifty idea? Could it be that they don't really want any health care reform at all? Could it be that, like in 1994, when Clinton's failure to pass a health care plan doomed the Democrats to lose their majorities in Congress, Republican congress critters would prefer nothing at all to pass?

The answer is yes.

I suggest you ring your Republican congressperson and ask him or her why she or he isn't planning to vote for a plan that even Bobby Jindal is willing to endorse. And maybe, if Louisiana Senator David Vitter is in between sex scandals, Governor Jindal could give him a ring and tell him all about how swell Obamacare is.

What does a cheating senator have to do with a 4.4 million year old upright-walking human named Ardi? Well, not much other than the fact they've both been in the news lately. Which is why I read the National Geographic article about Ardi, and the sex habits that possibly led to this early human's upright posture, immediately before reading the New York Times piece on John Ensign, the cheating Republican senator from Nevada. This seemingly unrelated convergence resulted in a flash of insight: Cheating senators (and their equally duplicitous mistresses) were evolutionarily programmed.

Seems Ardi was not so well-provided for by her tree-living mates with their "clacker-sized testicles":

Fast forward several millennia later and the New York Times investigative report in which a small, upright walking primate, Senator Ensign, brought loads of fruits and tubers to his mate, Cynthia Hampton, who was also the wife of his staffer, Douglas Hampton. But due to modern campaign finance rules and the US tax code, Ensign was prohibited from gifting his mistress outright. Instead, those fruits and tubers took the form of employment contacts for her husband, and in at least one case, a $96,000 check.

Not bad for fruits and tubers.

It's a pretty sordid story, both the story of Ardi, who was wooed by a hands-free man with small canines, and the story of Mrs. Hampton, who was wooed by an ethics-free senator with a fierce bank balance. But don't feel too sorry for Ardi, or Mrs. Hampton, whose husband ended up blackmailing the senator (he first asked for a "financial settlement" of $6.5 million, then later adjusted that downward to $2 million). Turns out our female ancestors knew how to get the best of both worlds as well:

Pierre, keeping the world safe from lizards and mailmen.

Yes, I know, this feature was originally the Friday cat blogging alternative, but I spent a week in Louisiana with my daughter's cat and a scarcity of cows, so Friday Cat Blogging it is. Besides, Pierre is such a swell cat she deserves her own Friday blog post.

You read that right, I said "she"—Pierre had some sexual identity issues early on. Upon discovering the stray kitten she adopted was indeed a she, my daughter chose not to change her name. It suits her; "Pierre" sounds feminine anyway (apologies to you French readers who may be named Pierre).

I never spent much time with cats, so I was fascinated by Pierre's predator instincts. She's an inside cat, so she hunts bugs, which are prevalent in Louisiana. Most of them were diving against the screen at night, but that didn't stop her from slaughtering them with her sharp green gaze.

And in the morning when I got up, I found her keeping a watchful eye out for waterbugs. Somebody has to do it, and I'm glad it's her instead of Orkin. This is probably the number one reason I could never live in the South, the giant roaches and the pesticides necessary to kill them.

Pierre's a tiny cat, smaller than most full grown cats. One morning she dashed out of the house when I opened the door, but after hearing some dogs bark, she gave up her quest for a walk on the wild side. Smart cat. Even I'm afraid of the dogs in the neighborhood, who run loose, sadly, and are un-neutered. And that's the number two reason I won't live in the South, the deplorable way so many people treat their pets.

But not Pierre—she's a pampered kitty who has a great life with my daughter and her grandparents. She amuses herself by torturing toy mice and bugs, and sits in the window watching for the mailman to deliver postcards from abroad. I wish every cat could have such a life.

"How now, red cow" doesn't have quite the same ring to it, does it?

When I was walking around Hedgerley the other day, we came across this lovely herd of auburn cows. (I would call them redheads, but I hated that term when I was little. After someone pointed out my hair was actually auburn, I insisted on that adjective ever since, which is why my drivers' license still says "auburn" instead of red or brown.)

There were also some other redheads—err, I mean auburn beauties nearby. The fields were full of pheasants, the males with their striking auburn and green plumage, the females a bit less noticeable—unless you're a dog, then you notice everything that runs across the ground.

These cows didn't seem bothered by the pheasants or the dog. Perhaps they thought we were there for feeding time, or maybe they'd heard of the exciting opportunities available on the internet—I'm sure word of Friday Cow Blogging has made the rounds of Buckinghamshire's finest cow pastures. But they stood and posed for us, pleasant creatures that they are. Unlike pheasants, who squawk and run whenever I pull out my camera.

Today we walked around Hedgerley, a very small village not far from here. It is, apparently, the Best Kept Village in Buckinghamshire, and also the Best Kept Secret, since I'd never been there before last week, when I did a pre-hike with a friend. (Pre-hikes are the "preliminary" hikes, when we scout out the area and learn the route.)

There's a pub, a pond, and several noteworthy buildings, including the 16th century Quaker House:

Another 16th century building can't hide its age—note the crooked timbered walls:

Of course, every village must have a pub, and Hedgerley's dates from the mid-17th century:

I understand there's a direct correlation between the amount of flowers decorating a pub and the quality of its ale, which is why you often find motorcycle gangs loitering among the blossoms at some of Britain's finest pubs!

The Old Village School dates from 1844, making it one of the newer buildings in Hedgerley:

Although Hedgerley may be the best kept village in Buckinghamshire, my dog is not the best kept dog. She decided to go for a dip in this inviting pond in nearby Hedgerley Green: 

When she came out, she looked as if she'd been dipped in tar up to her belly. Fortunately, the proprietors of the White Horse let me use their hose to spray the worst of it off.

Tomorrow, I'm leaving the English countryside for the bayou country of my birth—it's high school reunion time, and also time to visit family I haven't seen in a while. It's always a culture shock those first few days in the U.S.—everything's so new! So big! So American!

But do check back in to WDIK. Because old buildings weren't the only thing I found in Hedgerley—there was a herd of beautiful red cows, who got all excited when I told them they'd be on Friday Cow Blogging. That's right, excited red cows. Can't wait, can you?

On our walk yesterday we came across a very tall man. 

At first we thought he was breaking and entering:

Which, admittedly would have been difficult given his size. Plus, I don't think they would have any lingerie that would fit him.

But it turned out he was just drumming up business for a new bespoke furniture shop in town.

(If you don't know what bespoke means, you haven't lived in Britain long enough.)

I'm not sure I want to buy furniture from a man wearing a striped suit, though. Not even a bespoke striped suit.

Uh oh! Where did this one come from?

After a month or so of dormancy, my rose bush decided to put out again. 

I love these big peach roses, but I suspect this is the last of them for this year. 

Crisp fall nights, cool damp mornings; I guess fall is really here. I hate this time of year, when each rose you see may be the last.

I have two types of friends, those who use Twitter and those who don't. Far more fall into the second camp, and, I have to say, I feel a little sorry for them. 

It's not that I'm a Twitter cheerleader or evangelist; far from it. I've seen its downside, particularly when some overblown rumor is circulating with the speed of a million keyboards. It can be intimidating—many of my friends have started an account and then fallen by the wayside as they fail to figure out how the thing works. 

I was an early adopter, joining Twitter in July 2007. There wasn't much happening back then, so I basically ignored it for over a year. Then others joined, people I knew started following me, and I started following more people. People whose interests I shared, like @Travelwriticus, who tweets every day from Austria. He's fascinated with European castles and other historically interesting places, just like me. From him I learned about a fireworks display in Heidelberg during the time I was in Germany, which prompted me and my friends to visit Heidelberg and stay for the show. He also provided me with info on the Sound of Music tour my family took during our recent trip to Austria—there's nothing like a local for great travel info.

It was @UniofOxford who gave me the timely tip about this weekend's Open Door Days in Oxford. If I hadn't seen their tweet about it Friday, I'd never have spent a wonderful Saturday tramping through Oxford's hidden places. 

I'm not just interested in travel, of course. I also have a keen interest in exchange rates, particularly the dollar vs the pound and the euro. So I follow a couple of "pip" tweeters: @FreshPips and @forexnews (who just now tweeted about what Tyler Durden can teach us about personal finance—can't wait to check that out!) I also follow several news outlets, including @BreakingNews for breaking news all over the world. Maybe it's too much information: while my daughter was in Japan, I learned of three earthquakes, one typhoon, and one tsunami warning that struck Japan during that month.

And my passion for politics is satisfied by Twitter, too: I follow all my favorite political bloggers and others I've befriended in the political realm, like @barbwire55 and @karinjr. For expats like me, @usembassylondon has helpful updates and news of the home country.

You might argue an RSS feed would provide you with the same information: perhaps. I've never found an RSS feed that suits me the way Twitter does. Twitter provides a pleasant mix, friends tweeting their thoughts—and I only have interesting friends, of course, not those who write about what they have for breakfast. (Come to think of it, I'm very interested in what people have for breakfast—especially @susanffvk and @bazu and @tofu666.) Then there are those I follow in order to get an unexpected laugh, for example @sockington, a cat who does with a keyboard what Thurber did with a pen. 

Speaking of animals, I follow quite a few animal activists, like @FARMUSA and @action4animals. I get lots of recipes from the foodies I follow, too. And there are dog people, like @thedogreporter who recently posted photos from her dog reporting trip to Africa—talk about living vicariously! 

Of course I sometimes follow people who turn out to be Twitter abusers—they post a constant stream of useless junk. But there's a simple fix: unfollow them. Takes about five seconds. Right now I follow about 160 different feeds. That seems to be the maximum number I can keep up with easily in a day. (Remember, many of those I follow rarely tweet, while some post around 10-20 tweets a day. But since each one consists of no more than 140 characters, it's very easy to skim over the ones that don't strike me as interesting, such as, say, the fact that industrial production is declining in EuroZone.) 

If a link someone posts looks interesting, I follow the link, or save it for later. (Fortunately, Twitter opens links in a different window, making it easy to stay focussed on the Twitter page.) And, unlike most people, I don't have a Twitter app on my phone or on my computer—I read and post directly from the Twitter website. Keeps it clean for me, and keeps my internet habit in one place. (Plus I don't have a smart phone. 'Nother story.)

If you don't already use Twitter, I probably haven't convinced you. Just like all those people who've shown off their Kindle and smart phones haven't convinced me to buy one yet—life's already complicated enough. But for me, I've found Twitter to be a useful tool—there are times I've wished I had a smart phone with a Twitter app, so I could ask for help immediately. Like @AdamSerwer, who today tweeted: "Uh, just so my colleagues @theprospect know, I'm locked in the stairwell outside the office."

This has actually worked for me sometimes: one day I was having trouble with TypePad, and after tweeting about it, I got a response from someone on their help team. They started a help ticket for me, and my problem was quickly resolved. (On the other hand, yesterday when I had trouble with Microsoft Word, they merely retweeted my complaint, and never offered any help. Losers.)

See why I sometimes wonder, what did I ever do without Twitter?

If you're already on Twitter, then by all means follow me! I promise I won't write about my breakfast. Today, for instance, I corrected Barack Obama's pronunciation of the word "doesn't". I offered a travel tip to @Travelwriticus who was looking for submarines to tour. And I commented about corn, both the veggie and the political reporter. (But not Corn Pops!) 

And if you're not on Twitter, maybe you want to try it out—but you'll need to find a lot of people to follow, many of whom will follow you back, depending on what you tweet...if you write about a castle, for instance, someone who's looking for a castle in Scotland might find you and follow you. Likewise if you tweet on just about any other topic, you'll be found and followed, eventually.

Why should I care if you're on Twitter? Well, frankly, I don't, not for your sake—sorry, but I really don't know you that well. But Twitter is only as good as its users make it. And you might know something you can share with me: a food or travel tip, a political link, a funny snapshot of your morning. Information on how the trains in Germany work. (That last would be very, very valuable indeed—I still haven't figured them out.)

And that really is the secret of Twitter—millions of people, all over the world, sharing information. Nothing scary about that. In fact, I find it kind of cool.

Through these doors have passed many generations of Oxford scholars, on their way to exams.

Just when I thought I'd seen everything there was to see in Oxford, I discover more secret locations. Yesterday I visited Oxford again, this time for Oxford Open Door Days. That's when certain rooms and gardens normally closed to the public or only open for a fee are open, for free. 

First we went to the Examination Rooms, where students take their first year and third year exams. These were no utilitarian classrooms; instead, there were marble staircases, fine wood paneled chambers, embossed ceilings, and doorways fit for a king. And speaking of kings, there was George IV, in his larger than life splendor, keeping an eye on generations of Oxford test takers. 

The building was necessary after the university decided to switch to modern written exams rather than oral exams in the early nineteenth century. Finally, after Thomas Jackson won a design competition, the Examination Schools building was completed in 1882, and now almost 2500 exams are given to 12,000 students in its splendid rooms. (Can't make it to Open Door Days? Take a virtual tour of the Examination Rooms instead.)

Strange beasts about on Merton Street.

After that, we walked through Oxford's lovely back streets to the Town Hall, where several civil ceremonies were taking place today. But we weren't there to celebrate anyone's nuptials, so we peeked at the main hall and the courtroom, where we pretended we were on trial. "Have mercy, Oh Wigged One!" I especially loved the wooden desks where participants sit, still with a sliding brass inkwell and carved pencil dips.

Next, the Museum of Oxford had a special exhibit on, featuring the bicycle. Since I'd written a paper recently on how the bicycle changed Victorian society, I was anxious to see that. But with a lunch reservation at noon, we only had thirty minutes to first see the exhibit and then take a backwards look through the museum, which deserves more time and the proper respect for chronology. Fortunately, the museum is open year round, except on Monday, and the exhibit is on until October 17.

After lunch we peeked into the Divinity School, which normally charges a small fee for entrance. This time, however, the rope preventing entrance into the further half of the room and the entrance into the Convocation House and Court was absent. We crowded into the small room where Charles I held his Parliament during the Civil War and admired the 17th century rooms, left in their original condition. (Oxford temporarily became the seat of government during the time Cromwell held London and Charles I was clinging to power.) 

An implacable reminder of just why that power is worth clinging to: In Broad Street, I finally found the marker where the three martyrs were burned, Latimar, Ridley, and Cranmer, for refusing to recant their Protestantism during Queen Mary's reign.

Canterbury Quad in St. John's College, with the loggia supporting the Laudian Library as its focal point.

We turned off Broad and slipped past the road construction on St Giles, finally turning in at St John's College, one of the wealthiest of the 39 colleges. Its Quadrangle and gardens were hushed and formal. The College Gardens, laid out in 1722, consist of the Great Lawn and a section of trees and shrubs, including a pretty rock garden. Before leaving, we visited the imposing Victorian gothic chapel, dedicated to St John in 1557. St John's was started as a school to rebut the Reformation, so perhaps it is appropriate that the near-Catholic Tony Blair was a graduate of St John's. 

From St John's we walked across town, through the Covered Market, to Merton College. Merton is much older than St John's—it was founded in 1264, making it one of the oldest Oxford colleges. The chapel dates from 1290, with the magnificent tower added in 1450. It has, of course, been refurbished over the centuries, most recently by Christopher Wren and, in the nineteenth century, by Sir Gilbert Scott and his Victorian contemporaries. 

It was also during this time that the interesting wooden ceiling was painted, a vision that I immediately declared more awesome than the Sistene Chapel ceiling. (That probably had something to do with the fact that our quiet voices weren't competing with hundreds of noisy visitors and recorded instructions.) The acoustics at Merton Chapel are said to be the best at Oxford; you can check them out by listening to a podcast of the Merton College Choir on iTunes. (Search the store for Merton College.)

Merton College, from the sunny lawn of the Fellows' Garden.

The Fellows Gardens at Merton were also open to visitors, a rare treat we took full advantage of. Lots of people were sprawled out on the beautiful lawn, barefoot and relaxed. Though we are well into September, the Fellows' flowers were stoic, standing tall despite the cool nights we've had. Maybe it was the presence of the stern statues and stone carvings; I'd have looked smart under their watchful gaze, too. 

Oxford Open Door Days is on through today, and will be held again next September. But the good news is that, although many of the places are only open to the public during Open Days, it is possible to tour the colleges throughout the year, although they may be closed certain times for student exams. Go here for more information. The Divinity School and the Bodlian Library are also open for tours throughout the year.

I am constantly amazed at how many American expats I meet who live here and have never visited Oxford. It's one of the loveliest cities in Europe, and has so much to offer—museums, colleges, libraries, a fun river, gardens...and even a few quirky bits: it's here you can see the world's only remains of a dodo bird. If you don't live here, but are planning a visit, it's pretty easy to get to Oxford—study, study, study! No, seriously, you can visit even if you have no intention of ever studying or attending the university. It's located about an hour west of London, by car or by the easy Oxford Tube (which is actually a bus). 

So even if all the doors aren't open, there's still plenty to see in Oxford.

For more photos, you can check out my photo album.

Number 1666 checks me out.

It was pretty nice to stay in a castle the one night we spent in Belgium. But even better than our nice digs were the lovely cows that lived on the rural estate. Of course I went out the next morning and made friends with them, though the language barrier was an impediment. I tried a little French, but since these cows live in the Flemish part of Belgium, they probably didn't appreciate that. So I stuck with English, which all Belgians are taught in school.

"Scuse me, while I kiss this cow."

I guessed that Number 1666 and Number 1667 were sisters. The younger one, assuming they were named chronologically, continually licked her sister, first in the ear, then on her face, then on the white splotch on her back. This bovine grooming ritual was new to me—during all the years I've photographed cows up close, I've never seen such a gesture. 

I suspect it's related to the European kiss, a common greeting ritual among both sexes in Europe. Perhaps this custom hasn't made it across the Channel to our more reserved cows. 

A French kiss

I would have liked to have spent more time with these lovely ladies, but check out time was 11 o'clock. Plus, I was beginning to suspect they wanted to be alone.