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If you have been reading The Chronicle lately and find yourself wondering how life at Duke became so abominable, so dominated by the "nattering nabobs of negativism," as the adorably corrupt Spiro T. Agnew liked to say, you are not at all alone.
When he abstained from sex at breakfast, we knew something had gone horribly awry because every morning for the last 10 years he had been there, mounted and irrepressible. But there he lay, splayed beneath a juniper, his usually lascivious eyes vacant and his fleshy mouth drooping open, his blotchy tongue hanging off to one side. Not quite dead, he waited for several hours until we could rush him to the veterinarian and have several hundred dollars worth of tests done before lapsing into his final coma. And, despite an anxious vigil, Odie passed into oblivion.
