Filmmaker Tony Comstock goes contrarian on Contrarian:
We’ve had a smattering of inbound links from the Dish going back to his days at Time, and our experience is that a link from Andrew Sullivan doesn’t generate the volume of inbound traffic, or the cash, it used to. Not nearly.
Whatever Tina paid Andy, I think he was smart to take it. I think he’s selling while his stock is high, and with more downside than upside. Business is, after all, business.
I’m not sure. One of the highest traffic days in Contrarian’s short history came fon an inbound link from the Dish — to Rosie the beagle’s obituary. News stories about the Dish sale speculated that Andrew’s blog accounts one-quarter to one-third of TheAtlantic.com’s traffic.
The decision to sell does seem to have been all about money, a topic on which Andrew’s conspicuous silence continues.
I promise not to go on about this ad nauseam, but I just discovered that Beagle-owner Andrew Sullivan of The Atlantic noted Rosie’s obit in his Daily Dish blog Sunday. Rosie’s sardine can caper reminded Andrew of the time his now aging beagle Dusty broke into an overnight bag some house guests had imprudently left on the floor of his loft—with two large boxes of Godiva chocolates hidden inside. Moneyquote:
It was a beagle Linda Blair – with viscous chocolate liquid projectile vomiting everywhere in sight. I went to grab her to get her outside. She decided this was a game. So yours truly spent the next ten minutes chasing a projectile chocolate vomiting beagle around my loft until every single item of furniture, every rug, and the bed was covered in what felt and looked like chocolate mucus. My low point was actually slipping in some and careening headfirst into a pile of still-warm, and very slippery chocolate goo. That’s when my guests returned, to find their secret busted. But all they could do was laugh at me until they near-collapsed.
Andrew closed with some wistful thoughts about his attachment to dogs in general, and Dusty in particular:
I used to think that dogs were just dogs, beneath us humans, different in fundamental ways. I don’t any more. I see the trace of God’s love and God’s creation in every one. But I only really see it in the one I love and have lived in the same room with for twelve years and counting.
Doug MacKay, who edited the Halifax Daily News in its heyday, writes from Toronto:
I am sorry to read that Rosie passed away. From the moment she peed on the editor’s carpet, I knew she and her owner were of like mind. A great companion.
For the record, Rosie only ever peed on the editor’s carpet once, and at a young age. It is acknowledged, however, that the stain never came out, and may have played a role in Transcontinental’s subsequent decision to abandon the Burnside location.
UPDATE: What is it with beagles and journalists? James Cobb, Automobiles Editor of the New York Times, writes:
We lost our own eternally voracious beagle, Chad, more than two years ago. I still cannot open the squeaky pantry door, where the treats were (and are) kept, without expecting him to materialize with hungry eyes and pleading tail. He managed to hear the faint sound wherever on the property he was, no matter the activity he had been engaged in.
Chad looked remarkably like your Rosie, and we miss him terribly. My heartfelt condolences.
Rosie, who died yesterday at 13, was the World’s Most Food-Motivated Dog. She won the title with a stunt modern science has yet to explain.
One evening about five years ago, I returned home from a day-trip to Sydney with a notion to make a sardine sandwich for supper. I had left an unopened tin of sardines on the kitchen table before leaving for town. At least, I thought I had, but now I couldn’t find it.
Losing things is nothing new for Contrarian, and finding them is not his long suit. I spent a few minutes searching for the sardines, then made something else for supper.
While putting Rosie to bed later that night, I spotted the sardine can stashed among the blankets at the back of her sleeping crate. She had chewed the top off, and extracted every morsel of fish and every drop of sardine oil. The can didn’t even smell of sardines anymore.
In horror, I rushed to inspect Rosie’s mouth, expecting to find her lips and tongue shredded. Not a nick. Rosie was fit as a fiddle, and wondering when her next meal would arrive.
“Golden slumber close your eyes.” And sate your tummy.
[More tributes after the jump.] Continue reading Rosie