For the past four months, I have been the drummer of a recently-formed jazz trio. We call ourselves The ViolinCellulites (or Cellulites for short) because the leader plays — you guessed it — the cello. Our aim is to breathe new life into those old jazz standards.

We rehearse twice a week as my black Lab guide dog Heath sleeps in a corner, occasionally getting up to sniff for crumbs, poke the cellist’s bow with his nose, or weave between my legs. Like all new bands striving to get better, we struggle with stringy communication, banging egos, and sticky situations.

We have our first groupie: a graceful, spunky, regal, strong-willed, excitable female beagle named Diva Daisy Doodleley Doo. At random moments, Diva Daisy Doodleley Doo struts into the room and provides a deafening shrill counterpoint to our art. She especially loves drummers, only vocalizing when the drums get beyond a loudness level. Her orgasmic excitement increases as drums get louder and faster. She favors the kick drum and tom-toms.

Heath generally sleeps through this ecstatic adoration, occasionally raising his head with what the band leader describes as a disgusted look. Occasionally, though, he leaps to his feet, and adds his shrill bark to the mix, with a matching twirling dance step and wagging tail.

At Diva Daisy Doodleley Doo’s insistence, we included her on one of our early tracks, and will probably feature her vocals on our Christmas recording scheduled for release in early December.

According to the band leader, Diva Daisy Doodleley Doo has bitten the feet of other drummers, but I have yet to receive such treatment. In order to protect both my dignity and feet, I am honoring her insistence that I include the following YouTube link as part of this blog post. She asserts that the song is all about her.

Who am I to disagree?