The grass is always greener...

...unless you live in Denver, in which case it's sort of a crispy brown unless copiously watered.

However, it's apparently a very desirable crispy brown, according to the Pew Research Center's Social and Demographic Trends Project.

1 part skiing + 1 part cycling + 1 part crazy=

ski cross

Debuts in the 2010 Vancouver Olympics.
Fascinating articles on the sport to be coming soon to the Journal of Orthopaedic Trauma.

Gwen

In the summer of 1999, after Jenny's graduation from Williamson High School and mine from Cornell, a scrawny, hyper Rottweiler named Gwen entered our lives.

Caught in Greece (a suburb of Rochester) this Rottweiler was in the city pound, awaiting euthanasia, when a representative from G.R.A.S.P. (Greece Residents Assisting Stray Pets) saw her. Despite being a street Rottweiler, she had a sweet nature. The GRASP volunteer decided to take a chance on her and arranged for her to live in a foster home in Greece.

Several months earlier, we'd lost our beloved Tasha, who since birth had been Jenny's constant companion. Without a dog, the house seemed somehow empty, and we began to look at listings from Lollypop Farm, the local humane society. At first, we consciously tried to avoid the Rottweilers, but have always been drawn to their intelligence and steady natures. Eventually, we saw a listing for the goofy-looking Gwen.

We arranged to visit Gwen at her foster home, and took her for a walk along the city sidewalks. Excited, Gwen jumped around and strained on her leash, the antithesis of steady, doting Tasha. Jenny and I were doubtful that Gwen would be able to transition from urban sidewalks and yards to acres of fields and open space, but Dad was sure she would adjust if given the chance. He arranged for Gwen to come out to the farm.

Gwen's visit to the farm was a bit of a disaster; overwhelmed by the new smells and strange sights, she jumped around, barked, and panted incessantly, even snapping at the horses in their stalls. In the house, she paced around, nervously carrying her Lamby Doll like a security blanket. Dad confidently signed the adoption papers, despite Jenny's and my misgivings--to us, it felt as though we were insulting Tasha's memory.

Over the coming days, Gwen settled in to her new surroundings: she was able to walk into the barn without barking at the horses, and stopped panting uncontrollably. To me, it was clear she'd adjusted when Lamby went from being a security item she'd carry around the house with her and sleep with to a tossing, thrashing, ripping-limbs-off toy.

As I was away working, and Jenny was away at school, Gwen became the primary topic of many conversations with our parents: we'd call to discuss classes, and end up hearing about the latest cute thing Gwenny did. Imperceptibly, years passed, and almost as imperceptibly, Gwen became the steady, loving dog Dad had seen in her from the very beginning.

In what seemed like overnight, Gwen's muzzle began to show a few gray hairs, and cataracts started to form in her eyes. Even as arthritis slowed her down, she would still do a happy dance when Jenny or I came to visit, though with slightly subdued wriggles.

Recently, Gwen's esophagus stopped working, and she began to spit up her food and lose weight. Dad had to elevate her food bowl, and awoke every couple of hours at night to feed her canned puppy chow and encourage her to sit up to digest her food. Sitting hopefully next to the dinner table, her struggling digestive noises earned her the nickname "Gurgle Girl," which she took in good humor.

Last week, though, Gwenny aspirated some of her food and became septic, unable to eat and only able to take sips of water. On January 15, 2009, ten years after she was saved from being destroyed at the city pound, our family veterinarian put Gwen to sleep, with Dad there to hold her and to thank her for her love and companionship.

We miss you, Gwenny.