Let OB Vote!

Posted on March 12, 2012 by Susanna J. Sturgis

Contrary to earlier reports, in the newspapers as well as in this blog, voters in only five of the six island towns will get to express their opinion about the proposed roundabout in a non-binding referendum this spring.

Guess who’s being cut out of the game?

You’re way ahead of me: It’s the voters of Oak Bluffs.

Oak Bluffs, without whose board of selectmen the roundabout would have died before it ever got to the drawing board. Oak Bluffs, whose residents are about as enthusiastic about the roundabout as those in the other five towns — which is to say “not at all.”

The explanations seem a little muddled. The town administrator claims that the petition wasn’t submitted in time. This is not true: it was submitted at least 90 days before the town election. The selectmen discussed it at a subsequent meeting, but they did not vote on it; a vote is required to put a referendum question on the ballot. Why didn’t they vote? Good question. Maybe because that would have forced the roundabout boosters, led by Greg Coogan, to put themselves on record as saying that they didn’t care what the town’s citizens think?

In another interesting development, the question seems to have wound up on the town meeting warrant. The petitioners did not want to put the question on the town meeting ballot. How in the world did it get there? And why? My best surmises:

  1. Fewer people go to town meeting than to the polls.
  2. Voting is anonymous; town meeting is not. (A secret ballot can, however, be requested.)
  3. The selectmen can bump the question to the end of a long warrant, by which time most people have left and everyone’s else’s eyes have glazed over.
  4. At town meeting, the selectmen will have another opportunity to repeat the unconvincing rationalizations that we’ve heard ad nauseam in the last year. If anyone is still mentally and bodily present at this point, they will probably head for the exit.

So why, in their infinite wisdom, is the Oak Bluffs board of selectmen pulling this latest in a series of fast ones? The referendum is non-binding, facrissake. At this point, it seems only an executive order can stop the rush to roundabout. The citizens of Aquinnah, Chilmark, Edgartown, Tisbury, and West Tisbury will all have a chance to express at least a non-binding opinion — but not the citizens of Oak Bluffs, in whose name the deed is supposedly being done.

Remember the fable of the frog and the scorpion? Scorpion asks Frog to ferry him across the river. Frog says, No no no, you will sting me and I will drown. Scorpion says, Why would I do that? If I sting you, you will drown but I will drown too. So off they go, and halfway across the river Scorpion stings Frog and down they both go. Why? cries Frog with his last breath. Because this is Oak Bluffs, says Scorpion.

 

Posted in Martha's Vineyard, public life | Tagged , , | 3 Comments

Doomsdog Coda

Posted on March 11, 2012 by Susanna J. Sturgis

In my last report on Zion and Sensi, the two Akitas who ran afoul of the law in my town of West Tisbury, an agreement had been made to turn the dogs over to the Lexus Project, an organization based in New York state that provides legal defense for dogs on “death row,” often because they’ve killed livestock and are thus considered “dangerous” or “vicious.” (Don’t get me started on that one. The overwhelming majority of dogs who kill chickens are neither vicious nor dangerous, except to chickens. Nuff said.)

Questions were raised, by me among others, about the suitability of Lexus for the task of “rehoming” these dogs. Finding new homes for dogs who need them is the core mission of rescue groups like AMRONE, Alaskan Malamute Rescue of New England, which sponsors the Camp N Pack weekend that Trav and I have attended for the last two years. Good rescues have a network of volunteers who provide foster care, evaluate the dogs, screen and educate prospective adopters, and help raise the money to pay for it all.

The Lexus Project is not a rescue, and it seemed reluctant to establish contact with Big East Akita Rescue (BEAR), which is. BEAR is based in New Jersey but covers New England as well. As its name suggests, it specializes in Akitas, which means that they screen prospective adopters with this in mind. Akitas, like Alaskan malamutes, are not for everybody — like people who live near chickens and can’t manage to keep their doors shut.

Zion (left) and Sensi. Lexus Project photo.

The West Tisbury selectmen, however, signed the agreement, and a week ago Friday, on March 2, Sensi and Zion were turned over to a Lexus Project representative on the ferry dock in Woods Hole. Shortly after, the photo at right was posted to the Lexus page on Facebook. It was cool to see: no photo of the dogs had appeared in either island newspaper.

Since then, I’ve been watching the Lexus Facebook page for updates, but all the news has been about the several legal-defense cases that Lexus is currently involved in, so yesterday I e-mailed Robin, one of the Lexus Project’s co-principals, for news. She soon e-mailed back with this message: “They are decompressing and doing well in a foster home. That’s all the news we have.”

That’s good news. It’s also good news that, before they were turned over to Lexus, both Zion and Sensi were neutered: this was a stipulation of the agreement signed by Lexus, the previous owners, and the town. According to some reports, the previous owners had planned to breed the two dogs, or — according to one account — to “see what happened.” On the whole I think it’s best to leave dog breeding up to people who know what they’re doing.

So dogspeed to you, Zion and Sensi, and may you find human partners who are worthy of you!

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Who’s an Islander?

Posted on March 7, 2012 by Susanna J. Sturgis

On Martha’s Vineyard, “Islander” is what the academics would call a contested term, which is to say not only that there’s considerable disagreement about what it means but also that some people are willing to fight about it and many more will argue passionately about it.

Woods Hole ferry dock. Am I coming or going?

Before I’d lived here more than a couple of years, I learned that “Islander” and “Vineyarder” are not synonymous, though in the last decade or so I’ve heard them used that way more and more often. A Vineyarder is someone who lives here year-round; early on, I heard it said that once you’d survived three winters here, you could call yourself a Vineyarder. An Islander, however, grew up here, and most likely has parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and more remote ancestors who grew up here to.

Aside: In a Facebook conversation yesterday morning, two people who’ve been here a lot longer than I have said it was the opposite: To be a Vineyarder, you had to have been born here, but Islanders could come from somewhere else. My hunch is that the terms have flipped in the last generation or so. How? Why? Fascinating questions to which I don’t have any answers (yet). The distinction, however, seems to have remained intact: the highest degree of belonging goes to those who were born and grew up here and, ideally, whose ancestors had been around for a while.

Of children born here to parents who hadn’t been here very long, the late Fred Fisher Jr., of Nip N Tuck Farm, used to say, “If a cat crawls into the oven and has kittens, that doesn’t make ’em biscuits.” I’ve heard the same saying attributed to equally crusty farmers in Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine, but still — point taken. Who belongs and who doesn’t, who’s authentic and who isn’t, is a matter of considerable interest to just about every group that ever existed. “Who’s an Islander?” is about our homegrown version of identity politics.

At the same time, Fred — a quintessential Islander in many people’s eyes — wasn’t one by the strictest definition of the term. He came here from somewhere else. But he put down such deep roots here, raised kids and now has grandkids here, and was so fully integrated into a centuries-old aspect of island life that only the strictest of strict constructionists would dispute the claim that he was an Islander.

Category “Islander,” it would seem, is somewhat permeable, for all but the strictest of the strict constructionists. It is possible for someone not born here to become an Islander. In my early years I was told more than once that you become an Islander when an Islander calls you one. This seemed right to me. It put the naming in the hands of those most qualified to know what an Islander was. “Islander” was a name conferred on a person rather than one she chose for herself.

When I was soliciting blurbs for my Mud of the Place, I contacted mystery writer Cynthia Riggs, who lives in a house that’s been in her family since circa 1750. What she sent me was this: “A sensitive, witty, and tightly plotted portrayal of life on Martha’s Vineyard that only a true Islander could have written.” I bawled when I read it. Yes, Islanders had called me an Islander before, but never in writing, and Cynthia’s island credentials are impeccable.

It occurred to me that Mud might be a book that only a true Islander could have written — but no true Islander would have written it, because a true islander isn’t likely to be that fascinated by the workings of island life, and then there’s that old island dictum that one should only get one’s name in the paper when one is born, when one gets married, and when one dies. In addition, though my body doesn’t stray very far, I’ve been dabbling in other worlds since I moved here: those of fantasy/science fiction, the women’s movement, the lesbian community, Morgan horses, and Alaskan malamutes, to name a few. For the almost 13 years that I’ve been a full-time freelance editor, virtually all my income has come from somewhere else. How could I be an Islander?

But category Islander isn’t monolithic. Growing up as a summer kid on Tisbury Great Pond, I knew John Whiting as an avid Sunfish sailor and the genial commodore of the summer Sunday Sunfish races, which culminated around Labor Day in the Demerara Cup. He was born in Chilmark, his mother was a Mayhew: he was an Islander for sure. It wasn’t till Nora Groce’s Everyone Here Spoke Sign Language: Hereditary Deafness on Martha’s Vineyard was published in 1985 (the year I moved to the Vineyard) that I realized that John Whiting, who wrote the foreword, was also a world-class professor of anthropology.

For some Islanders, it’s a point of pride that they haven’t set foot on the mainland for several years, but others have their feet in two worlds, or pass regularly from one world to another. They’re part of a long-running Vineyard tradition. The island only looks isolated from the mainland, and the rest of the world, if you think entirely in terms of land travel. By sea it’s not isolated at all, and Vineyarders are seafarers. The captains and crews of whalers and merchant ships saw a lot of the world, and they brought the world back with them.

Maybe I’m an Islander after all?

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Saved by a Desk

Posted on March 3, 2012 by Susanna J. Sturgis

I don’t think I’ll ever become the person whose dwelling is so jam-packed with books, piles of newspapers, and other stuff that she has only narrow aisles to move in. For one thing, moving 12 times in 27 years has helped keep the stuff under control. (Thank you, Martha’s Vineyard.)

But I understand how it can happen.

When I was packing to move to my current apartment, I tossed unfiled papers, notebooks, half-used pads of paper, and miscellaneous stuff into three boxes. As this apartment and I approached our fifth anniversary, the three boxes were not only not unpacked, they were now overflowing with stuff and toppling piles of unfiled papers, liberally garnished with dust and dog hair. The smallest box sat on top of the mid-sized one, three of whose corners had split top to bottom.

Every winter I was going to deal with those boxes. Every spring caught me with boxes fuller than they had been in the fall. A little voice started nagging at the back of my head. Season by season it got louder and more insistent. It said things were getting out of control. It said things were getting seriously backed up. The way a pipe backs up when it’s clogged with something that shouldn’t be there.

The backup was weighing my mind down, and I know from experience that this sludginess can slide into depression. On Martha’s Vineyard depression is endemic, which means that no matter how screwed up you are, you can let yourself off the hook by pointing to dozens of people who are much worse off.

Old desk

The paper backup had to do, I was sure, with my desk. My basic desk hadn’t changed in almost 30 years. It consisted of two two-drawer file cabinets with a varnished piece of particle board laid over them. Since this surface was too high to type on, a table held my keyboard, mouse, and assorted papers and paraphernalia. A long-ago housemate scrounged this table from the alleys of Washington, D.C., and stabilized its legs with dowels. To open the file drawers, I had to move the table, making sure that this didn’t dislodge papers, paraphernalia, or computer components. I hardly ever opened the file drawers. No wonder papers were collecting in split-sided boxes and plastic file trays.

Rhodry and the chair in its better days

The other obstacle to progress was The Chair. Once upon a time, this was a very comfy small easy chair, upholstered in brown-and-white herringbone fabric. A former neighbors’ dog had totally destroyed the seat, but I had this idea that I’d have it reupholstered and be able to sit in it again. More than a dozen years later, I hadn’t managed to come up with the money, and the chair, covered with an old blue sheet, had become a way station for not-quite-dirty clothes, and books, notebooks, and papers that I couldn’t risk losing in the toppling unfiled piles.

The chair had to go. So did the desk. Off-island in mid-December, I browsed the computer desks at Staples, the huge office and computer supplies chain store. Yeah, one of those would work — after my checking account recovered from the purchase of my Nooky, which is what took me to Staples in the first place.

At this point, the nagging voice in the back of my head was supplanted by a deep queasiness in my gut. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and those piles hadn’t grown overnight either. Sorting through and organizing and/or tossing all that stuff was going to take a very long time.

Briefly, very briefly, I considered leaving it all for whoever cleans up after me when I’m dead. They would surely hire a dumpster and shovel all the stuff into it with nary a backward glance. Problem was, my father lived to 86 and my maternal grandmother died a week shy of her 105th birthday. The odds are pretty good that I’ll make 80 at least, and if these piles continue to grow and topple for another 20 years I will indeed be one of those strange people who lives and dies in a rabbit warren of unfiled papers. Perhaps I should hire the dumpster and do the shoveling myself?

Poco a poco se anda mucho, as my Spanish-speaking mother used to say; little by little one makes great progress. I’m not sure she believed it, and I had my own doubts, but as a writer I know that starting is the hardest part and it seemed worth a try.

In principle.

Here Fate and the Muses, knowing of my proclivity for procrastination, took a hand. About a month ago, a used computer desk was posted to the Facebook group MV Stuff 4 Sale. No chrome and plastic item, this: it was solid wood and very handsome, and the price was what I was willing to pay for something from Staples. Seize the desk! cried Fate and the Muses.

I did. The day it moved in, The Chair and the particle-board desktop moved out. Neighbor David trucked the chair to the Edgartown transfer station. The cost of disposal? A measly 12 bucks.

That corner of my apartment can breathe again. I’ve begun The Sorting — I’ve already emptied one box. The logjam in my head is breaking up. I look at my desk and think that anything is possible.

My new desk

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February License Plate Report

Posted on March 1, 2012 by Susanna J. Sturgis

As Februarys go, this was a good one: Oregon, Illinois, North Carolina, Louisiana, and Alaska.

Louisiana and Alaska are good catches any time of year. Alaska was in the parking lot at up-island Cronig’s this past Tuesday.

Here’s the map as February gives way to March:

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Happy 4th, Travvy

Posted on February 27, 2012 by Susanna J. Sturgis

Before he died Rhodry was very clear that I had to get another dog. So was I. After he died I was even clearer, all the more so when doglessness began to seem normal. How to find a dog? I was clueless. Rhodry was the serendipitous culmination of one coincidence after another; I never had to go looking. I put in an application at the local shelter and said I was interested in the northern breeds. I filled out the online application for the New England malamute rescue group. I joined a malamutes e-list. I sat by Rhodry’s grave and asked him to send me a dog.

Rhodry was unique. Apart from his littermate sister Lakota, I’ve never seen a dog that looked like Rhodry. Although I was looking for a northern-breed dog or mix, ideally an Alaskan malamute, I didn’t expect my next dog to be like Rhodry. I did, however, expect my next dog to fit into the life I’d made with Rhodry.

Hah.

Fluffball and me on the way home, late April 2008

When I set out for Masasyu Alaskan Malamutes in Canandaigua, New York, I didn’t know who would be my puppy or what his name would be. By the time I reached my sister’s house in Stow, Massachusetts, on the way home, my new 10-pound fluffball was Fellow Traveller, Masasyu’s Fellow Traveller.

Travvy started his new life as a barn puppy. As the weeks passed, keeping an eye on him while doing chores and riding got more and more challenging. If my attention lapsed, or even if it didn’t, he’d be off to visit the Labradoodle who lived on the other side of the farm where I boarded my horse, Allie. When he was about three months old, he wandered into the paddock of a 17:2-hand Hanoverian and almost got stomped. As he grew, he started coming with Allie and me on trail rides. I’d loved trail-riding with Rhodry — but Rhodry was a mature, sensible five-year-old when I got Allie. Travvy was much younger, more impulsive, and — as he approached his first birthday — apparently possessed of a stronger prey drive.

Springering: Travvy, me, and the Red Menace, fall 2009

At this point the Vineyard was still in the throes of a long-running, very public saga involving mismanaged Siberian huskies who went on chicken-killing sprees when they got loose, which was all too often. Most people can’t tell a Sibe from a malamute, and where chickens are concerned the difference between the two is not much. Northern breed dogs were being profiled. I couldn’t afford to let Travvy get into trouble. He couldn’t run loose. To give him serious exercise, I started ponying him from Allie’s back. I also bought a used bike and attached to its seat post a Springer — an ingenious invention that attaches dog to bike, absorbs almost all the dog’s pulling, and leaves the cyclist’s hands free.

Defying all the odds, we finished our Rally Novice title in March 2010.

The mere idea of Alaskan malamutes doing any kind of obedience is enough to send dog people into gales of laughter, but Karen Ogden of Positive Rewards Dog Training was offering an intro to Rally Obedience class. It sounded interesting, so I signed us up. To say we were the least likely to succeed is to grossly understate the case. At the first class, Travvy was so over the top that he had to go to the opposite end of the venue (the indoor arena at Arrowhead Farm) before he could even begin to focus. The second class we missed because he went AWOL on a trail ride. We kept at it, and lo and behold, Trav’s impulse control started to improve and his attention span got longer. And I got hooked on dog training. In September 2009 we competed in our first Rally trial, and earned two of the required three legs on our Rally Novice title.

Trav works very hard at Camp N Pack 2011.

After a year of riding less and less, I sold Allie in the spring of 2010. Trav and I have continued to compete, with some success. In 2010 and 2011, we attended Camp N Pack, a wonderful weekend for dogs and their people sponsored by AMRONE, Alaskan Malamute Rescue of New England, and held at a Girl Scout camp in western Massachusetts.

Travvy didn’t fit into the life I’d made with Rhodry, but he fits very well into the life we’ve made together. So do I. Have I told you lately, Trav, that I’m glad you’re my puppy?

Trav, me, and some of our Rally bling, October 2011

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Remembering Rhodry

Posted on February 26, 2012 by Susanna J. Sturgis

Me and baby Rho

My Rhodry died four years ago today. I saw him and his littermates born on December 17, 1994, and in the following days and weeks I spent many hours with the puppies. Around week 3 little Han Solo (all the boys had Star Wars names) came toddle-trotting toward me. My heart opened: I knew he was my puppy. I named him after Rhodry Maelwaedd in Katharine Kerr’s wonderful Deverry novels. I named him true: he was definitely a Rhodry.

Being a Vineyard dog, Rhodry had four homes in his 13-year life — four homes and three barns. Much has changed in my life since Rhodry died: I no longer drive a pickup, I sold Allie in the spring of 2010, and of course there’s Travvy. Tomorrow is Trav’s fourth birthday, so I’ll write about him then. This is what I wrote in my old Bloggery on the day Rhodry died.

Rhodry helps out at a yard sale, ca. 1999.

No merry scampering around Allie as I lead her to the mounting block, woo-wooing for the joy of a ride and the hope of a cookie. Loading groceries into the pickup’s front seat because my navigator isn’t there — the front seat is no place for groceries; they belong in the truck bed. No one to feed supper to but myself. It’s raining and there’s no one to call in from the deck, no one to fix me with a look that says, Don’t you know by now that I’d rather be cool and too wet than dry and too warm?

Cat on a cold fencepost

Yesterday when we got to the barn Rhodry collapsed getting out of the truck. He was startled, he was hurt, it was a long time before he even tried to get up. When he did, his left leg hung as limp as a bedraggled tail. At home my brave puppy managed to climb the stairs with his forepaws while I held his hindquarters in a sweatshirt sling. He ate his supper. I gave him a quadruple dose of bute — I’ve been pulverizing horse-size bute tablets with a mortar and pestle, mixing it with peanut butter, and doling it out in dog-size portions at the end of a small biscuit. He had a hard time settling, I don’t know if he even slept, but at the usual hour, around 5 a.m., his little whimpers woke me from sleep: he wanted to spend the rest of the night on the deck.

The sunrise was spectacularly red through the bare trees. Still in bed I heard scraping on the deck. I got up, pulling on my fleece robe as I went to the door. I’d laid plastic patio chairs across the top of the stairs, afraid that Rhodry might attempt them and fall and spend the night broken at their foot. Rhodry was trying to squeeze by the chairs so he could go do his morning business. I helped him down the stairs. His left leg was still useless. The scrubby undergrowth that he used to bound through so jubilantly was fighting his every step. It was winning. He didn’t know where he was trying to go.

Rhodry and his barn cat buddy Dis Kitty. People who knew Rho in his cat-hostile younger days don't believe this picture.

As soon as there was half a chance that someone live would answer my vet’s phone, I called. Any time, she said. I said ten o’clock. Rhodry was finally settled in the scrub. I took brush and comb out there, hunkered down beside him, and did a little grooming, all the while asking him if he remembered various things we’d done together, and telling him over and over how glad I was that he was my puppy. In good times his tolerance for grooming is about five minutes. This morning he didn’t protest at all. Bad sign. Pearl, my neighbors’ Labradoodle, came over to check us out. She stayed to say goodbye. I made a bed for him at the back of the truck bed, using an old comforter that we filched from the little place he grew up in. I picked him up and lifted him in. David, my neighbor, came out, heading off to work, later than usual. I told him this was going to be Rhodry’s last ride. He went back to the house to tell his family it was time to say goodbye. They all came out, Sarah and Willa, who’s in third grade, and Ava, who’s in kindergarten. Willa and Ava showed Rhodry the stuffed animals they’d got this past weekend on a trip off-island. David asked if I wanted him or Sarah to drive, so I could stay with Rhodry. I said I thought I could manage.

Michelle, my vet, whom I’ve known for almost as long as I’ve lived here, wanted to make sure this was the right decision. We could try stronger painkillers, she said; corticosteroids. I told what had happened the day before, how I thought it was no longer just about pain and discomfort. After she gave Rhodry the injection that would make him unconscious, she felt his leg. Broken, she said. The bones are at the wrong angles. She thought the cancer had metastasized to his bone, which is what I was thinking this past weekend, as Rhodry gave up putting more than minimal weight on that leg. You’ve made the right choice, she said. I know.

Jim Lobdell and his tractor dug Rhodry a grave, up the hill at the end of a line with Black Kitty and Black and White Kitty, both of whom Rhodry knew, and Amber the yellow Lab, who was before his time. Jim and I lifted him in on the stolen comforter, and I laid one of his favorite squeaky toys by his head. Rhodry used to snooze at the top of that hill, keeping an eye on the barn; as soon as I emerged from the tackroom and started bridling Allie, he’d pelt down the hill to make sure he wasn’t left behind. He can’t come along anymore, but maybe he’ll know when we’ve come home safe.

Good night, Rhodry. I’m glad you’re my puppy.

Spring, spirit dancer, nimble and thin
I will leap like coyote when I go
Tireless entrancer, lend me your skin
I will run like the gray wolf when I go

. . . .

And should you glimpse my wandering form out on the borderline
Between death and resurrection and the council of the pines
Do not worry for my comfort, do not sorrow for me so
All your diamond tears will rise up and adorn the sky beside me when I go

Dave Carter, “When I Go”

In late January 2008, the day after I learned that Rhodry had cancer, photographer Betsy Corsiglia came over for a photo shoot. There wasn't a bad shot in the bunch. Here's one of them.

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The Pit Stop Goes Legit

Posted on February 25, 2012 by Susanna J. Sturgis

Sisters Nina Violet and Marciana Jones, and Willy Mason take the stage.

The Pit Stop is official! On Tuesday, Feb. 21, the Oak Bluffs board of selectmen approved Don Muckerheide’s application for a business and entertainment license. The venue’s grand opening is a two-night extravaganza that showcases the diversity of the island’s younger musicians. Last night featured Nina Violet, Marciana Jones, Willy Mason, and Adam Lipsky in a pop-folk-blues vein. Tonight the Pit Stop will rock on with a CD release dance party for the band Master Exploder.

Charlie Esposito watches.

Both events are free, but they also signal the opening of the Pit Stop Workshop Co.’s membership drive. In a Feb. 22 Martha’s Vineyard Times story, Don described the new enterprise as “a member-supported community recreation room, consisting of a performance space for music, poetry, plays, puppet shows, and independent films, as well as a gallery for the visual arts.” Memberships go for $100 (yearly) or $15 (monthly); members get a 50% discount on admission prices and other benefits.

I splurged on the yearly option. Writing the check felt like a vote for faith in the future of year-round Martha’s Vineyard.

Willy Mason solo

The show opened with a bold piano set by Adam Lipsky — the Pit Stop boasts a real piano — then moved into a solo turn by Marciana Jones, Nina Violet’s younger sister. Nina soloed on viola, on which she’s a master — she’s not called Violet for nothing! — and the well-traveled Willy Mason has no trouble holding an audience by himself.

Nina on viola

But my favorite parts of the evening were the duets, trios, and larger ensembles among the players. These musicians enjoy playing together, and you can feel, see, and hear the synergy when they do. I especially love Nina and Marciana’s vocal harmonies, which can be heard on Nina’s wonderful new CD, We’ll Be Alright. (That link is to the digital version; CDs are currently hard to find, but a second pressing is planned.)

Zack Sawmiller’s drums provided a strong foundation for the group numbers, and Elizabeth (last name TK) added another backup voice.

Now that the Pit Stop is duly licensed, watch for increasing activity at the Dukes County Ave. space. FleaPit will offer its “shabby, chic cinema experience” on Wednesday nights, and All’s Well That Ends Well, the next production in the popular Shakespeare for the Masses series, will take place on Friday, March 9. (SforM specializes in staged readings of ingeniously abridged versions of Shakespeare’s plays.)

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The Doom Is Lifted

Posted on February 22, 2012 by Susanna J. Sturgis

Zion and Sensi, the two young Akitas who have killed many chickens and several geese in a total of five escapades, are no longer on death row. For background on the story, see my earlier blogs “Doomsdog” and “Doomsdog Update.”

An agreement was reached at the West Tisbury selectmen’s meeting this afternoon to turn them over to the Lexus Project, a legal defense group formed to save greyhounds who had been condemned to die for being “vicious.” Recently it expanded its mission to include threatened dogs of all breeds.

After evaluating the two dogs, Lexus will find them new homes. According to the agreement, Sensi and Zion cannot be rehomed with the current owners, Taggart Young and Anna Bolotovsky, or their family members, and they cannot be brought back to Martha’s Vineyard.

The agreement also stipulates that both dogs must be neutered before being turned over to Lexus. The transfer is expected to take place by the end of next week. At the request of the current owners’ attorney, who joined the meeting by telephone, the selectmen voted unanimously not to require the current owners to pay the town’s legal fees in the case. They are still responsible for making restitution to the livestock owner, covering Zion’s kennel fees, and paying for the neutering of both dogs.

What a relief. Quite a few people have played key roles in bringing this agreement about, but I especially applaud Young and Bolotovsky for agreeing to give the dogs a chance by giving them up. It must have been a heartwrenching decision, but they’ve done the right thing.

Update, Wednesday, Feb. 23, 12 noon

Questions have been raised about the arrangement made by the dogs’ current owners and their lawyer. The Lexus Project is a worthy organization dedicated to the legal defense of dogs who are sentenced to death as “vicious.” It isn’t a rescue group. The decision to turn the dogs over to Lexus was made by Young and Bolotovsky, and as I understand it, the arrangements were made by their lawyer.

Young, Bolotovsky, and their lawyer were aware of Big East Akita Rescue (BEAR), an Akita rescue group based in New Jersey that covers the Northeast. BEAR, like any good rescue group, knows the breed it’s dealing with and takes great care to rehome rescued dogs with suitable owners. Why did the dogs’ current owners choose to surrender the dogs not to BEAR but to Lexus? Good question.

In the agreement settled on yesterday — but not yet signed — West Tisbury stipulated that the dogs not be rehomed with Bolotovsky, Young, or any member of their families, and also that the dogs not return to Martha’s Vineyard. Will these conditions apply to any arrangement that Lexus makes with a rescue group? Another good question.

Two selectmen and the town’s executive secretary have been alerted that there may be a problem here. I hope there isn’t, but given the track record of the current owners, I also hope that the town takes a closer look at the agreement before anyone signs it.

Posted in dogs | Tagged , , , , | 9 Comments

Are You a Meeting-holic?

Posted on February 22, 2012 by Susanna J. Sturgis

My previous blog, “Meetings,” inspired Dan Waters to write the following. Dan, poet, artist, and musician, is also a trustee of the West Tisbury Free Public Library and very, very involved in its renovation and expansion plans. In other words, he knows whereof he speaks. Dan is the proprietor of Indian Hill Press, which turns out the best notecards on Martha’s Vineyard, written, illustrated, typeset, and printed by Dan. (In this capacity he does not have to attend meetings.) He says that when this list reaches 10, he may print it as a broadside. This would be an instant collector’s item for all the meeting-holics of MV and their long-suffering friends and family members. Why should golf and fishing widow(er)s get all the attention?

You know you’re a Vineyard meeting-holic when:

  1. You know all the MVTV camera people on a first-name basis.
  2. “Aye” and “Nay” no longer sound like pirate lingo.
  3. You can quote Open Meeting Law by heart.
  4. You can write minutes in your sleep.
  5. The Town Hall staff treats you like you work there.
  6. Your group gets asked to make room for another meeting, and you’re supposed to be in THAT meeting too.
  7. You know exactly where to find plastic spoons in the Howes House.
  8. You can set up a PowerPoint presentation blindfolded.
  9. You go to a selectmen’s meeting in another town and it feels like somebody recast your favorite play . . . same roles, different faces.

Extra! Extra! We have a 10!

10.  It feels wrong to sit down to dinner without a quorum present.

Posted in Martha's Vineyard | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments