Yesterday, Abner and I went to the vet due to a recurring licking issue in one spot on his behind. While normally I wouldn't consider this a particularly noteworthy event, nor one to celebrate, a couple things arose that made this visit a little out of the ordinary.

When we arrived in the waiting room to the usual chorus of greetings for Abner (I get none. . .I am not certain any of the staff there knows who I am) and he finished his mandatory sniff and greet with the other dogs in the room, one of the women waiting with her teeny tiny longhaired dachshund puppy asked me how much Abner weighed. Since the answer has been 91 pounds for almost a year, I started to say it again, but realized that I needed to put him on the scale anyway, so we trotted over to the large walkon digital number in the waiting area and he climbed on in his usual casual but cooperative manner. When the scale finally settled down, it read 95 pounds. I am so proud. He has finally gained back the weight he lost when the weather turned warm last year. He is still positively emaciated compared to Harvey or Dan Delaney's Big Moosh aka Everest, but this is a step in the right direction.

Once inside the exam room, we had a fairly lengthy chat with Warren Riggle, our primary vet, who went through all the possible causes of Abner's apparent irritation and consequential licking, but in the end, he suggested that he may just do it when he hasn't got anything better to do. Well, that wasn't particularly good news, but the surprise is how this is treated. It seems that the recommended treatment for a dog who licks his butt, or any other portion of his anatomy, out of boredom, is an antidepressant made for humans called amitryptoline, more commonly known as Elavil. So Abner, the least depressed dog on earth, is now on antidepressants. We will try this for a while and see if it stops him from licking without causing any unwanted side effects. . . like sleeping all day.

The Marshalls (Brian and Stephanie, Jason and Kim, Laverne and Victor and all associated kids) threw their annual St. Patrick's Day bash at a beautiful outdoor pavilion at the Wolf Laurel Ski Resort about 30 miles from Asheville up in the higher mountains that form the border between North Carolina and Tennessee. Prior to heading up to this event, I had never driven this far North from Asheville along I-26 and was unaware of how pretty it is and how dramatic the terrain. The freeway drive to the exit, three miles south of the Tennessee border, was quite beautiful. It is a relatively new stretch of freeway with scenic overlooks and huge runaway truck ramps that are characteristic of newer mountain roads. Fortunately, it was still light enough on the drive up to see the sights.

Once you leave the freeway and begin the ascent into Wolf Laurel, things get pretty interesting. It appears that this development was plunked down in an area that previously had housed the cast of Deliverence, some of whom may still live there and may still be having carnal knowledge of pigs. It is quite strange to drive up this valley and pass very old decaying mountain cabins with trash of every imaginable type lying on crumbling porches and in front yards and then, a few hundred yards later on the same road, pass a rather grand new home, immaculately landscaped with the requisite Range Rover or Cadillac Escalade parked in the loop driveway. It makes you wonder what the remaining inhabitants of the crumbling structures think of the invasion all around them. Gentrification appears to be a pretty big issue in these mountains.

Upon arriving at Wolf Laurel, after religiously following the directions Brian had emailed us, Holly and I encountered the entry gate and the guard whom we nicknamed Gomer. Gomer was very nice but certainly was a relic of the region's past. We explained that we were there for the Marshall party for St. Patrick's Day (Brian had advised us to tell him we were Irish and that we needed to get in but we thought conceptually that might be a little too complex for Gomer so we stuck with the truth). Gomer was very large and reminded me of Tennessee William's "no-neck monsters" but he was very pleasant and helpful. He informed us, in an accent that I attempted to emulate later that evening, that the "poarrty is at thu pervillion" and that you "kin git thar ifn you tern raht at the ferst street". Holly and I both kept our composure just long enough to get past the gate before we both burst out laughing and had a whole conversation in our newly learned dialect.

Once we got to the party, we realized that most of the other guests had also be treated to the same greeting and were equally entertained. Now you must understand, Holly went to Alabama for college and has spent a good deal of her life in the South, and several of the other guests with whom we shared this experience were native Carolinians who were just as entertained by this dialect as I was.

The pervillion is a beautiful structure composed of columns made from whole tree trunks with the bark still on them, and roof beams and rafters made of branches of appropriate smaller sizes, all bolted together into trusses. It is a striking building with lots of uplighting mounted in the beams so the roof and all of its components are celebrated as you approach it in the dark of night. There is a very large stone fireplace on one side with a large hearth that no one used for very long due to the heat being generated by the roaring fire. The Marshalls had also brought two more portable firepits that were roaring as well. It was a good thing since at this altitude the temperature after dark was 35 degrees and there was a pretty good breeze.

The crowd was largely the usual suspects who attend Marshall events and since this was my fourth (2005 Superbowl Sunday, St Paddy's and Christmas) I am beginning to feel like I know some of these folks so it is fun to see them each time. The Marshalls, as I think I have mentioned before, are an almost unnaturally warm and gregarious lot. Little kids were running around with glow sticks and various hats and wigs. . .I particularly liked Brian and Stephanie's two year old daughter Emma Cade who wore a bright green afro for much of the evening but had to be kept far from the fire to avoid a wardrobe malfunction in view of the probably petroleum content in her do. Jason and Brian both wore kilts and Brian at least had the good sense and decency to wear slacks under his kilt. Jason treated us to a view of his very white (actually blue as the evening got colder) lets coming out of black boots. Periodically he pulled his kilt up to expose full thigh and some black undies. I chastised him severely and said he would be responsible for a lifetime of psychological damage for some of the younger children but he insisted on his appalling appearance for the whole evening. At one point, I believe because he was so cold, Jason was dancing some kind of Irish Jig with Brian.

Food and drink were plentiful and pretty good. Burgers, hot dogs, salads and side dishes of every description, chips and dips for days, and a table of desserts that were all pretty good kept everyone busy. We tended to huddle in group conversations close to the fires but all in all, it was a hell of an evening.