"The Typing of the Dead"

This bizarre game never fails to make me break out in fits of giggles while I am playing it. For those unfamiliar, "The Typing of the Dead" is based on the arcade classic "The House of the Dead 2." The difference is that instead of using guns to kill zombies, you use a keyboard to hurriedly type out words as they appear on the screen. As you advance in the game, the words become harder and longer, eventually progressing to actual sentences, some of which involve the quick brown fox, but most of which do not. Your character and his colleagues are armed with backpack Dreamcast consoles powered with giant batteries and keyboards held by shoulder straps. The game is completely ridiculous and hilarious, and it improves your typing skills to boot. According to Wikipedia, Game Informer even named it the weirdest game of all time. How can you not love that? So strap on your keyboard and come save the world from an evil scientist's army of evil zombies.

Fancy Rats and Mice

I had hamsters once. Two adorable Siberian dwarf brothers. The girl who gave them to me said that since they had been together since they were babies, the would get along just fine. They did--for a while. Until the night that, while my husband and I slept, one brutally murdered the other. I could never look at the surviving hamster the same way again. I was done with hamsters after that.

Enter my first fancy mice. I bought four females and named them after famous female writers. What sweet, gentle creatures they were. They lived in a four-room habitat that my husband built, and I loved watching them work together to set one room up as their sleeping chamber. We would dump in shredded paper and watch them collaborate to move it from room to room. They would sit on your shoulder or in your hand and would never bite or act aggressively. I owned a number of lovely female mice after that, eventually deciding to give rats a try.

A friend of a friend needed to rehome two rats to which she was allergic, and that's how Garin and Hastings entered my life. Hastings was grumpy and irascible, like the Thoroughbred of the same name. Garin, on the other hand, was sweet and friendly. He eventually developed a tumor on his face, which was a sad, terrible experience. After that, I resolved to only buy rats from breeders rather than pet stores, in hopes that these rats would be less susceptible to tumors.

I found a wonderful breeder in my area called Phoenix Gate Rattery and was put on the waiting list. The rat that I ended up getting was a lovely lilac/tan color. His name was Px Walk the Plank (the litter theme was pirates), call name Heiko. Heiko was yet another kind, genial rat. He never showed the slightest aggression to anyone. Even Hastings got along with the amiable fellow.

When Hastings passed on, I decided that Heiko needed some new friends, so I went back to Phoenix Gate and got two lucky-themed brothers--a black male named Px Fortunate One (Taavi) and a chocolate named Px Make Your Own Luck (Raimo). Heiko accepted these babies with his usual equanimity. After the brothers were grown, Heiko died unexpectedly. In the meantime, we had taken on a petstore rat from a friend of my sister-in-law. Louie is a lovely silver and white fellow, very affable and winning. So we have a happy family of three rats right now.

Rats and mice are sociable, gregarious creatures. If you are looking for a small mammal as a pet, you can't do better than rats or mice. While they might nibble your fingers if you stick them through the bars of their cage, none of my rats has ever bitten when being picked up or held, something I can't say about hamsters. In contrast, they are exceedingly agreeable. And even my mother, who never anticipated that she would be favorably disposed to these rodents, has to admit that they are cute. Fancy rats and mice want to be your friends. And don't we all need more friends?

Natural-Eared Dobermans

When Marietta, Georgia dog show judge J. Donald Jones was chosen to judge Best in Show at Westminster, the AJC interviewed him and asked a crucial question. Here is a portion of their Q&A:

"Q: What kind of dog do you have?

A: I don't have a dog right now. I'm a single man, and I travel so much. When my last dog died, I didn't get a replacement.

Q: But if you did have a dog, what would it be?

A: If I had a choice for a house dog, I'd have a dobe [Doberman pinscher] bitch. They're the sweetest dogs in the world."

J. Donald Jones is clearly a wise man. Dobes are incredibly sweet dogs. They are also loyal, intelligent, gentle, fun-loving, and affectionate. All Dobermans are lovely, with their sleek coats, athletic builds, and proud bearing, but Dobermans with their natural ears (and even better, their long, whip-like tails) are especially appealing.

The first natural-eared Dobe I fell in love with was our friend Tony's dog Dozier. We used to dogsit Dozier, and his goofy, fun personality coupled with his unbridled enthusiasm was quite winning. I had wanted a dog for a long time, and Dozier helped me settle on a Doberman as my breed of choice.

We found our own Doberman at animal control. She was kenneled with a dog that was barking constantly, so she was hanging back a bit timidly. I wasn't too sure about her, but the sign on her cage said "Super Sweet," so my sister and brother-in-law encouraged me to take her out of the kennel and get to know her. She was thin and dirty and a bit depressed from having recently been spayed, but she was indeed sweet. Unfortunately, they were getting ready to close, and I didn't want to make an impulse decision, so we left her there. On the way home, I settled on the name Ilsa and made up my mind to get her, so we went back and got her the next day that the facility was open. My sister, brother-in-law, and I caravanned to animal control. On the way home, Ilsa rode in the front passenger seat of my brother-in-law's truck, while my sister and I followed in my car. Ilsa sat politely in the seat, occasionally leaning over to lick my brother-in-law on the cheek. I guess she was thanking him for the ride (and for facilitating her escape).

My husband had not wanted a dog, being more of a cat person. Getting a dog was my idea, spurred by a lifelong dream to have a dog and the desire to have a watchdog since I was home alone in the evenings a lot. I think she officially won him over the night she politely woke us up to let us know that the house two doors down was on fire. He had to admit he was impressed with her, and now he regularly hugs her and calls her his "favorite dog." He also says he would have agreed to get a dog a lot sooner if he had known how helpful they are at washing dishes and cleaning up cooking spills.

Ilsa has adapted quite well to being the token dog in a three-cat household. Our youngest cat, Ro, fell in love with Ilsa at first sight. He shows his love in a variety of ways, including swatting at and biting her wagging tail, running up to her and swatting her in the face, and licking her on the head. She tolerates this behavior with nary a complaint, perhaps because cats mean cat food, and that means empty cat food tins that can be stolen for prolonged sessions of licking.

I love many things about Ilsa, including her big nose, her whiskery snout, her monkey paws, the way she curls her paw around her head when she sleeps, and her loving gaze, but I especially love her floppy ears and the way they bounce when she walks and flop wildly up and down when she runs (or attacks imaginary enemies in the waves on the beach). I also love it when she makes Big Ears at us when we have something she wants. Dog ears are simply a wonderful thing, especially when they are attached to a Doberman and left in all their natural, floppy glory.

Star Trek: The Next Generation

Star Trek: TNG is the answer I always give when asked to name my favorite television show of all time. When I was younger, I would stay up late and watch the episodes with my father (we also watched the movie The Beastmaster far too many times, but I'm not sure that's something I should readily admit). When I went to college, I proudly (and dorkily) displayed a Star Trek: TNG poster on my wall. It had the entire cast on it. As kids, my sister and I, being sci-fi dorks from a young age, had watched and enjoyed syndicated episodes of the original Star Trek, but something about TNG is even dearer to my heart. I love all the main characters, including Riker, Data, Beverly, Geordi, Worf, and Troi, but Picard is my favorite--wise, intellectual, compassionate, witty, a brilliant strategist, a scholar, and a born leader. The characters on this show are more than just crewmates--they are family--and sitting down with them for an hour is as comforting as spending time with close family or old friends.

Even today, the show retains its emotional impact for me. I still cry when Tasha gets killed by the tar monster in "Skin of Evil" and when Data's daughter Lal dies at the end of "The Offspring" (which as a bonus, is directed by Jonathan Frakes). Other favorite episodes include "Darmok", with the alien race that speaks entirely in metaphors (a joy for anyone who teaches the use of figurative language to literature students); "Cause and Effect" (also directed by Jonathan Frakes), where they get stuck in a causality loop and repeat the same fragment of time over and over (also done to hilarious effect in my favorite Stargate: SG1 episode, "Window of Opportunity", not to mention the movie Groundhog Day); and "The Next Phase", in which Ro Laren and Geordi are out of phase, leading everyone to think they are dead (written by the renowned Ron Moore of Battlestar Galactica fame).

But my very favorite episode is especially important to me because it helped guide me in making a crucial decision in my own life. Having finished a six-year stint as Managing Editor of a top-tier scientific journal, I was looking for a new position (the journal office having moved to Boston). Jobs in STM (scientific, technical, and medical) journal publishing are not always easy to find, and I had been looking for many months. Nothing seemed to be available. Sensitive to my growing concern, an attorney friend asked if I wanted a job at his law firm doing paralegal work. Since I had a mortgage to pay, I was seriously considering it. Then I caught a rerun of the TNG episode "Tapestry" (also written by Ron Moore). Seeing Picard struggle with the reality of altering the life decisions he had formerly regretted, only to wake up an unremarkable lieutenant junior grade, I realized that I too would never be satisfied with such a subordinate position, and that I needed to be willing to take risks for the captain position I truly wanted (being the Managing Editor of a journal is a little like being the captain of a ship, or at least the first officer). So I decided to take the risk of waiting and have faith that something would work out. Not too much later, I was offered a position as Managing Editor of another top-pier STM journal, and I have been there happily ever since. (Of course, this episode is also why it annoyed me so much that Picard's young clone in Star Trek: Nemesis doesn't have hair, but that's another story.)

The wisdom of "Tapestry" and many other episodes continues to resonate with me, no matter how many times I have seen them. Watching this show is like coming home and is guaranteed to make me feel happy and content even if it has been a particularly dreary day. Even better is to read one of Wil Wheaton's brilliantly funny episode guides for TV Squad and then to watch the episode itself. Pure joy.

Orange Tabby Cats

Whether you call it an orangie, ginger, or marmalade, the orange tabby cat is something special. For whatever reason, anecdotal evidence suggests that orange tabbies have big personalities and tend to be more communicative, gregarious, and affectionate than other cats. For example, of all the barn cats I have known, the orangies are the ones who will crawl into your lap if given half a chance, purr like mad when slung over your shoulder, or follow you around the property talking up a storm.

We are blessed with two of these characters, a female orange tabby named Diesel and our orange and white tabby male, Rodchenko. Our cat Diesel was found at a gas station by my twinkle. Diesel crawled right into her lap, clearly begging to be taken to a warm house where she could sleep under the blankets and eat something besides the bean dip that the gas station employees had been feeding her. She was pale and rather moth-eaten, with a long gash across her shoulder. When the vet saw her, she remarked that Diesel would have a beautiful coat when she got some good nutrition. We were skeptical, but the vet was right, and her coat came in a long, beautiful, soft orange. She has the softest coat of any of our cats, and she smells like warm sunshine. I suppose because of her time surviving on the streets, she developed a taste for all kinds of random human food, her favorites being milk, ice cream (really all dairy products), turkey bacon, and pizza. She loves to snuggle under the covers or sleep on my husband’s chest with her nose about ½ inch from his chin. She will also bite his chin if it has stubble on it. She sometimes hisses when people ring our doorbell, and once when I heard a noise downstairs, I carried her with me to investigate because for some reason it made me feel better (this was before we had a dog). I don’t know if I was going to use her as a weapon or what. Originally, we claimed that we were just going to foster her, but I had recently lost The Best Cat in the World, my boy Harley, and when Diesel started sitting next to me while I did jigsaw puzzles, I knew that I was not going to relinquish my new friend, even when she stuck her paw in the box of loose puzzle pieces, grabbed a pawful, and proceeded to shove them in her mouth. She will do the same thing with your ice cream if you give her half a chance.

Last night when we were watching Big Love, I told my husband that every household needs a Margene—someone to be enthusiastic and positive when the world seems to be falling apart. I realized soon after that Rodchenko, or Ro as he is called around these parts, is the Margene of our house. I adopted him as a kitten, the first kitten I have ever owned. His Petfinder description said, “Innocence best describes this little one,” and it was correct. His sunny, happy-go-lucky nature is irrepressible, but he is also completely naïve about the world. Once, at my husband’s insistence, we took him out on the porch so he could see the big outdoors. He started panting and hissing in panic. We never did that again. Every morning when my alarm goes off, he settles on my chest and stares at me until I get up. He is sleeping on my legs right now as I type. He is friends with everyone and even adores the dog. He licks her on the head and swats at her tail when it wags. His purr can be heard across the room, and when he is really content, he coos like a dove. He likes to suck on our chenille blanket and make biscuits with his paws. If you call his name, he will chirp at you, then jump up on the couch to say hello. He has far more fur than any cat could possibly need, but he also has a small head, which makes him look somewhat like he is wearing a fur coat with the hood down. He might not be the sharpest knife in the closet, as we say around here, but for pure positive energy and cuteness, he has no equal.Those who know me know that Alien is one of my three favorite movies, and I’m sure it’s no coincidence that it features an orange tabby. The lengths to which Ripley goes to rescue the wayward Jonesy will seem natural to anyone who has loved one of these cats. The hissing will probably seem familiar as well.