I’ma Let the Dogs Out

Ladies and gents and four-legged friends…

The cat (or dog) is out of the bag. I just sent out an email to various writers, friends and colleagues announcing my new magazine. A while back, I mentioned that I had an idea about what to name it, and I’ve moved forward with that idea. The email is out, the positions are open and I’m set to have a Skype meeting with Northeastern’s Student Involvement Board a week from tomorrow.

I’ve already been working closely with someone on SIB and have cranked out a constitution and bylaws. But then I went ahead and made T-shirts… because that’s how I roll. So, my fellow huskies, be sure to keep your eyes peeled this fall (fingers crossed!) for the first edition of…

Here you go, Daddy. I may have written Ma a poem, but I named a magazine after you (so stop complaining). For those of you readers who aren’t my dad (there are more? Say what??), “woof” has some very deep roots in my family. So yes, we NU students are huskies and huskies woof. But the four letter word (one of the only ones I like) has much more meaning.

When my dad was growing up, he and his buddies used to call “wolf” to find one another. If it sounds silly, give it up; you know you had secret handshakes and the like. Anyway, somehow “wolf” morphed into woof. Even now, nearly half a decade later, it still stuck.

And it’s contagious. As those boys grew up and moved all over the state, woof spread from the core group to siblings, spouses and families. Somewhere in the morphing mix of things, it also became my dad’s nickname. Hence the shout out.

When I am walking around a public place—say, the grocery store—and need to find my mom (I always get lost in the cookie aisle), I’ll “woof,” rather than say “Mom.” After all, in Suburbia like PQ, there are tons of “Moms” in the grocery store.

I woof. And she woofs back. It’s inbred, instinctual. Even 3,000 miles from home, sometimes I hear something like “woof” and have to consciously stop myself from shouting. My childhood friends (especially Bo) are used to woof, and sometimes even use it to get my attention. But people here think I’m a little cuckoo. And there you have it: the real reasoning behind the name.

This magazine is quickly becoming my baby. But I’m thrilled to get the ball rolling. I have my mother’s habit of throwing myself into new and exciting adventures and this is no different. Stomach ulcers are all the rage this season, no?

So yes. Woof Magazine. Out this fall (**insert girly scream**).


  1. Well, at least you got some of it right…

    the Original Wolf was Jon Huddleston–stories of Wolf would fill a separate blog.

    So powerful was the word, that we all took it–me to college where the use of 'woof' resulted in it becoming my nickname. A separate woof all unto itself.

    Today, it is a language–spoken and received only by those that know its significance. It is like a special password, or a secret decoder ring all wrapped together.

    And, it's been half a century, not half a decade, but who's counting? Like a fine wine, it is only getting better with age.

    So, I am honored to be associated with the birth of your new time-consuming and self-sacrificing cause. I will help contribute, or I am willing to buy all the issues you produce–whichever is best for my princess!



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Hi, I'm Marian.
By day, I'm a PR maven with a nerdy affinity for research and branding. By night, I'm an explorer; I delve into books, food, design, and the murky waters of my own psyche, then share my musings here.





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