Tag, I'm What?

So I have been tagged with a meme, which could not come at a more difficult time since I'm up to my puppybutt keeping coyotes, racocons and possibly dragons away from the house. Approaching holiday season is never easy on a dog.

Also two trips a week to teach, a Saturday workshop, and tomorrow the Bay Area for a workshop.

The one shining thing is that Z. got an award of 50000 smackers. You go, Big Z!

Tag, I'm What?

24/7 on the Job

Up betimes as SP used to write in his daily journal, picking up Fido and then out for the morning patrol. I caught the scent right out of the car, had to get Fido to back me up on this.

A bobcat. Hissing and spitting the way cats do, but we treed the sucker, showed him what for.

Like whatsisname, the president, GWB. Mission accomplished. Only mine was. You are now able to move safely along Mountain Drive without fear of bobcats.

No, don't thank me, just get out of the way; I've got work to do.

Maybe a little nap after breakfast.

Dogs Need Palmpilots

I need an intern. Perhaps a young Border Collie or a pure ACD, someone to tend to the basics. I already have my paws full, making sure Boss gets to his classes, workshops, that oh so long late night whatever it is he does at the writers' conference. I have my own duties. Mascot for the whole graduate writing program. Trips to the Bay area for workshops there. Stops along the way to get a sense of what's going on in the Interior. And coyotes! Jeez! Last night, I had to fight off at least twenty, keening, and barking, and snarling. At least sixteen, maybe even ten; surely six from the sound of their voices. One dog cannot get it all in and still maintain order. I'm thinking maybe someone in The College of Creative Studies at UCSB or perhaps one of Boss's better students at Antioch. An intern, that's the ticket.

My summer routine

Up early because some monster is prowling around outside, looking for ways to jimmy the front door, maybe murder up the place. (I could stand to see the cats go, but there is a trade-off in that with no cats, then no cat food which, because of some dumb rule, has more protein per volume than dog food has.)

Dispatched the monster.

Got some sleep, but woke self up snoring. Got to work on that.

Cat's food for breakfast, then a ride over to Fido's, pick him up, then over to Cold Springs Trail for a stroll. No real action. Some raccoons had been there and a rabbit, but you call that action.

Home for more breakfast and a snooze.

Helped Boss get started on an overdue book review.

Another snooze, then off on a photo shoot with Boss and LNK, who doesn't like it when I use her middle name. She is all, how will I get used to this new prime, an 85. She worries about lenses, LNK. I pretty much take what comes.

I think they got some images.

Home for another snooze before dinner, which was not bad. Swordfish. Never had a run-in with one, but I'm certain I could take one if it started acting, you know, uppity.

Out for a walk in Hale Park. Saved their sorry asses from a coyote. They might have handled it. Might. But I put the little sucker to rout fast enough.

Another day, another coyote.

Do I get any thanks?

Actually, I think they recognize they'd have long since been toast without me.

A Dog's Guide to the Better Universities

Negotiations completed. My letter of acceptance is in, and I have signed. My first official act was to demonstrate my alpha-dog status to the statue of Tommy Trojan. I think the gig pays off after a time with an honorary degree. I rather like the sound of Dr. Sally.

http://www.usc.edu/dept/LAS/mpw/students/index.php

A Dog's Guide to Dumb Places in Los Angeles

For two hours they're driving me around the Valley side of Los Angeles, making me suspicious in the first place because who goes to the Valley in Los Angeles but dog catchers and Republicans. Then they start down the 405 southbound and they're looking for Getty Circle Drive, which can only mean I'm going to log some in-car time, right?

They promise me Art's Deli for lunch, but first it's going to be Nice doggie, stay in the car, right?

Which isn't too bed a deal because, to tell the truth, I feel a nap coming on.But then we get into the parking lot and bingo, here we go. No pets. Sally is not a pet, Boss says, Sally is a dog. No dogs.

We don't want to take her into the museum.

No dogs in the parking lot. Pull your care over here and make a left turn out onto the road.

Okay, so they think fast and go to the parking lot across the street, the lot for the L___ B____ Temple. Nice man, that L____B____. Yeah, sure. They have an attitude in the parking lot there, too.

How about, I suggest, we forget this Mickey Mouse and go to Art's? I could handle some pastrami.

Boss gets behind this plan and we are off to lunch it up, then go on in to drop of grades and maybe pee on the USC lawn, show the world a dog's on the job.

Boss says piss on the Getty.

I wouldn't.

Don't Let Your Puppies Grow up to Be Republicans

Just mulling over the implications of the latest poll in Human: A Dog's Guide to the Other Species has left me frustrated and depressed:

Dogs who get into fights are dogs of Republican owners

Dogs who get into the Westminster Dog Trials are dogs of Republican owners

which means we do their fighting and they get to do dumb tricks for dumb treats

There is some Second Amendment thing that Republicans use as a basis for owning concealed Pit Bulls

Ain't no pinko gonna take ma Pit Bull

Republicans are opposed to Welfare payments for mixed-breed mothers

Right--make 'em get jobs as body guards for pedigree dogs

Bugger all! I'm going to Deer Creek to run off my outrage.

Sally's Excellent Escape

The Boss somehow got word that they were holding me for ransom. Tracked me right to the spot, leading me to think his nose is better than I thought.

Just like R. the IInd, I was, held by these terrorists, but Boss came, distracted them, and whisked me out the front door.

We got out of there in a splendid squeal of tires on the pavement.

I am a bit drowsy, but no worse for the wear.

A dog has to be on guard. They may think to sneak up behind me at any time.

Mothers, be sure to instruct your puppies not to talk to suspicious looking humans, especially those from Animal Control, but not to forget the leash bearers. I should render that Leash Bearers because They are all over the place, just waiting for their opportunity.

A Dog's Guide to Dumb Places

1. McDonald's Dog and Cat Hospital on lower Milpas Street, Santa Barbara, CA--this is the standard by which all other dumb places are judged. There can be no number two on this list because this place is dumb beyond measure, setting an insurmountable chasm, a Sargasso Sea, a fucking Bermuda Triangle between numbers one and two on any scale.

3. The hospital where Boss stayed three and a quarter years ago is pretty dumb, too. Same results; we didn't get to see one another.

4. The Arlington Theater on State and Anapamu, downtown Santa Barbara, because I think all movie theaters are pretty dumb.

5. Pep Boys, State and Haley Streets. Have you ever seen a Pep Boys anywhere that wasn't dumb?

Dear Boss

Get me out of here!

There are two Labs who fart,a cat who has sniffles,another dog who snores, and some college student who comes by to check on us and who means well enough, but just doesn't bring sincerity to a fine point.

This is infinitely worse than when you go off to your workshop in Woodside and leave me because the people where you stay are allergic to dogs.

I may have complained a time or two for being left in the car while you go out hunting for supper or lunch, but you have to admit I was still happy enough to see you when you returned.

Listen, I'll make you a deal. I have a few bones buried in the back yard and I know of one place where there is a portion of a hamburger, ageing near the rose bed. I'll go sharesies on them.

I'll pick up the tab at Art's Deli next time we're in Studio City.

You're shrewd enough to get me through the check-out process here. They mean well, but oh, please, I've got work to catch up on.

Yr. Pal,

Sally

Hospitals Suck

It is said of us--by humans, I might add--that we are short on long-term memory, interested only in such things as walks, treats, and such stratagems as will give our people status among their friends. As in, What a well-mannered dog. Or, worse, I wish my dog could do that trick!

Even though it was three and a quarter years ago, I remember when Boss was in a hospital, away from his job, away from me.

Now it is my turn and although the situation is reversed, I am away from my job and from Boss. There was something said about an IV drip to ease the pain and get me out of shock, which in a way reminds me of the story Boss told me on the occasion when an artist named Zoe Strauss didn't get a Guggenheim grant she'd applied for. Well told. In fact, fuck shock, hospitals, and IV drips. Fuck not being able to work, or have any sense of getting things done.

Some dogs apparently like this kind of life, the lay-about life. There was a dog at Peet's the other day who seemed to have a handle on things. Called itself a Therapy Dog. Goes around to hospitals and rehab centers, inspiring people to get off their sorry ass and out into the weather, where there are things to be sniffed, plans to be made.

I don't mind the occasional wait for Boss in his car, which he also refers to as my office. Mostly I go to class and faculty meetings with him and we work the writers together, so the occasional wait isn't too bad.

Waiting in a hospital, on the other hand,is simply against Nature. Dogs were not meant to wait in hospitals. Dogs are meant to get on with it, to get the job articulated, to get the job done.

Of all the places in the world to be, a hospital on the lower end of Milpas, even if it is across the street from The Habit, which does a pretty good burger, is no place for a dog. No place at all.

They have got me fucking drowsy, which may be from the meds, or it may be the result of this being one boring place. When I get a nap, I'm going to look for a way out of this. I think the term is AMA, against medical advice. Being a good patient is not in my job description. I am a dog. That is my job description.

A Dog's Guide to Literature

So Books-on-Tape, so CDs and iPods, okay?

Life on the Mississippi:Enough to make a grown dog cry.

Anne of Green Gables: So I have a sentimental streak, so sue me.

For Whom the Bell Tolls:I pee on the tree of thy mother.

Pride and Prejudice: She is a way cool observer; could almost be a dog.

The Fountainhead: Boring.

The Loved One: A classic. Ghost written, dictated, really, by a Border Collie.

To Kill a Mocking Bird:Old Harper's got one fine ear.

Fear of Flying:I don't like designer dogs or designer books.

A Dog's Guide to the Restaurants of Santa Barbara

Presto Pasta on Milpas Street at Guitierrez: so so meatballs, passable if rubbery chicken

El Pollo Loco upper State Street: although a tad over-salted, the flame-broiled chicken is juicy and tender.

Shalhoob's on Santa Barbara Street near Ortega: righteous steaks and chops.

Zaytoon's on De la Guerra: splendid lamb kabob, reasonable chicken

The Shang-hai on Milpas Street: good fish, pork, acceptable lamb

The Habit, on lower Milpas near the roundabout: ENK frequently gets my hamburgers there. Lovely double patties. Not bad tri-tips.

Alteno Rincon, next to the 7-11 in Carpinteria: stunningly good chicken platter, excellent beef tacos, and huevos rancheros to die for

Esau's on lower Linden Avenue in Carpinteria: first-rate sausage patties

Restaurant Nu, 1129 State Street, Santa Barbara: oh, man; rack of lamb, leg of lamb, scallopini, beef ragout!

Holderen's Steak House, 512 State Street, Santa Barbara: splendid steak sandwiches

Via Vai, upper Village, Montecito: a first-rate stripped bass

Piatti, Pierre La Fond center, upper Village, Montecito: sublime sweetbreads

The Surf Dog, Bailard Road park, Carpinteria: this man knows hot dogs, and dogs.

I have had some lovely prosciutto and melon at the Intermezzo on Anacapa Street, spitting out the melon, of course, and the shrimp from the bouillabaise at The Fish House on Cabrillo is quite succulent, but road kill it is not.

Greenwell

Next to Deer Creek,this is my fave.

For variety, it is fun to start just past the turn from Ortega Ridge, then run down, toward the bottom, pausing to hurrah Kit, the three-legged Aussie Shepherd. Poor fellow, he comes from a single gene pool.

Best of all is to start at the bottom, then barrel up the grade, stopping at the avocado grove just adjacent to Ortega Ridge.

This is how I look when I am doing it.

There are times when my joy becomes so intense, I simply have to let the world know that I'm out there.

Overprogrammed

Boss is seriously overprogrammed.

We do not go to campus on Thursdays, not until Spring semester is over and the Summer session begins, right?

Right?

So today, I am hustled out of my morning nap and led to the car, which could be some adventure for lunch, except that we keep going, and suddenly I am thinking that this is some whacked-out mistake and I should do something about it, but I catch a whiff around Mugu Rock and I'm thinking, okay, I should do something about it after I get my run up Deer Creek.

Which I do.

After Deer Creek.

Boss is so forgetful that we go all the way to campus, and we even go to the restaurant where I customarily get half a steak sandwich.

He still fucking thinks this is Tuesday.

I feel guilty all the way home for not having made a statement earlier.

Monkeys and bears use sticks to get honey out of hives.

I could not care less about honey, but Deer Creek is another matter.

I allow Boss to think this is Tuesday. It is a small thing, really.

Meaningless Distractions: The iPod, Cell Phone, and Skate Board

So there I am, as humans are wont to say. On campus, with a lovely grass sward to roll on and sniff before going off with Boss to our four o'clock in WPH 201, which we get in the Spring Semester. And what do I see? Everywhere I go, co-eds with cell phones, co-eds with Uggs, co-eds glassy-eyed over some iPod stuck in the ear, co-eds with luggage carriers. Hey, the males! Skate boards! Skateboards are moving and noisy, and I am wired to react to anything that looks as though it might want to move away from the herd. Jeez! All I do is try to nudge them back.

What gets me, frosts me, as it were. They have all these--these accouterments. Can't humans get by without accouterments?

What accouterments they need is a dog, not an iPod.

You think I hyperbolize? A full forty percent of them, male and female alike, when they notice me, call out to me, trying to lure me over. For what? For a pat, a scritch of my ears. They say the newer, enlightened hospitals have come to their senses, allow dogs in for a visit to their people. Why not more dogs on campus? I'll bet grade-point averages would shoot through the roof.

But no, there always seem to be No Dog rules, No Dogs in restaurants, No Dogs in movie theaters (although I do recall once being taken to a drive-in movie, which at first I thought was just a long, long traffic signal. Anyway, what dog would actually want to go to a movie?

Dogs have noses; they don't need accouterments.

Humans have accouterments; they need dogs.

The M-Word

Although I have given Ralph a bad time on occasion, actually causing him to puddle with fear, I have never called him a name, much less have I used the m-word on him. Since dear old Angus got clipped by that car on Hot Springs Road and became lost to me, Fido is the closest thing to a best friend I have. B.'s dog, Godiva, isn't bad, and there was that full Aussie Cattle Dog, Cowgirl, that used to hang out at Peet's. Kit is no slouch, either. He's had some occasionally feisty words, but never the m-word. Actually, humans are more likely to use it than other dogs, although those awful days I spent in Animal Control, waiting for Boss to come and take me home, I heard some of the dogs there using it.

Dogs who are behind fences often use it, simply because they are jealous when a free dog goes by. That dreadful Afghan Taliban Hound on Parra Grande uses it on me as I strut by. It may be a neighborhood thing; the German Shepherd on Riven Rock used to shout it at Angus, who, for all he didn't look it, was a pure Border Collie.

But there, you have it. Some dogs can't stand to see other dogs out on the town, doing their jobs, getting some exercise. There have been some dogs on Milpas Street, especially when we used to go to--you'll think I'm making this up--The Dog House, where I was given my own sausage and a choice of mustard or plain; these dogs would use the m-word, but they used it as much about themselves as to other dogs.

I was taken aback the first time one of them approached me and warned me, You watch your back, little lady, they's some mutts out there gonna want to rank on you. And one of them even told a friend, hey, that mutt can take care of herself. Takes a mutt to know.

All this is to show I am as free of bigotry as some dogs, but not the the three who live behind the fence at the outskirts of Toro Canyon Road. Mutt! they shouted after me as I ran by. All three of them. Mutt! Mutt! Mutt! I had to explain: I am half Australian Shepherd, half Australian Cattle, and I can herd your sorry ass in a circle.

So okay, I lost my temper. But I didn't use the m-word on them, and you could see the m-ness, combining forces really to smooth out the more disagreeable tendencies of a pure breed.

I have had some conversations on Milpas Street about d-dogs, which to me is even worse than the m-word. None of us had much control in our heritage, and to take it out on a designer dog or a mutt is to miss the point that we have jobs to do, we excel in our jobs, not some silly paper that says we're registered somethings or other.

It would surprise me to learn that d-dogs have a sense of mission, but just the other day, Fido was suggesting that their mission was to please, which although low on my priority list is still something to think about.

The next time those Toro Canyon dogs use the m-word on me, I know just what to say. Get a life. Get a job.

Life on the 101--er, the 1, now Chapter Two

Having reached the first turn out at Deer Creek, a longish plateau more or less running parallel to the coast line, we stop for sniffing and from a remarkable supply of bottled water Boss seems to have cached in the trunk of the car. I catch my breath from running up the grade, sniff, pee, look about at the ocean which has its moods just as some animals have theirs. (I don't have time for moods--too much work to do.)

With luck, the ocean is a deep, jade green with occasional flecks of kelp beds, floating like a male humans toupee, blown off in a good wind. Other days, there is more blue to the water, a steely blue that catches glints of sun and throws them back at you like tennis balls. (Can you imagine dogs chasing tennis balls! Jeez.)

Back on the highway, we move on past the restaurant, Neptune's Net,which, true to its name,casts scents of fish. No hamburgers. Or to put it another way, if they have hamburgers, they smell like fish. I will eat fish in a bind, but it is not me at my best.

Soon we are on the outskirts of Malibu, followed shortly by Trancas Canyon,where Boss used to stop on occasion for coffee at the Starbucks. Now, aware of the Peet's outlet on campus, we generally whiz on by, unless E.N.K. needs to use the Chevron station. (Always amazes me why so many people pee at Chevron stations. I try to catch some clue in the scent, but so far as I'm concerned, Chevron stations smell more like dead seals, and who wants to pee near a dead seal?

You can have Malibu, and indeed some humans have done just that. Once past Zuma Beach (which is named after the Chumash word for plenty) all Malibu smells like a place to pee. It is not what it is cracked up to be, no place for a dog.

Santa Monica falls just south of Malibu. Boss keeps reminding me he was born there. It is certainly more civil than Malibu, more attractive, too. You could get used to it. At one point, Boss drove me past the house he was brought home to when his parents got him at the pet store.

I am often comfortable in Santa Monica, trying to settle down for a brief nap, just as we head through the McClure Tunnel and emerge on the famed 10, the Santa Monica Freeway, heading south toward USC, where they have real grass, and where I can bury things in the rich brown top soil.

Life on the 101

THE 101, as S.L.C. said of the Mississippi, is well worth reading about. It is not a commonplace highway, but on the contrary is in all ways remarkable. Considering the reach, from the border with Canada at the north, and the Mexico state of Baja California at the south, it is, as S.L.C. would agree, no slouch of a highway, curving its way through some of the best-smelling landscape you could imagine, and being remarkably free of leash laws, animal control officers, and cats. Were you to compare the 101 with the I-5 which goes in some places where the old 99 used to go, and doesn't at all go where it ought, the 101 would stand out even more than it does among roadways.

I've been traveling a chunk of it for some time now, roughly a hundred miles, from our base camp on Hot Springs Road here in Santa Barbara (next door to the wretched C.s, who are in no position to appreciate dogs) to the University where Boss has been teaching from beyond the time I came to stay.

Once you get Boss out of the house and into the car, there is a five-mile shot to the Summerland offramp at E. Street. You could get off at the previous exit, Sheffield Road, which suits my purposes on an L.A. day because that allows a trek up Ortega Hill, then a quick left for about half a mile to where Kit, the three-legged Aussie lives. I like it better when Kit can't get out onto Greenwell, the road that parallels the Main street of Summerland, curving down through an arroyo with a sharp drop-off on your right, and long stands of oilve and avocado trees on your left. When Kit is stuck behind the fence of where he lives, I can get off some good licks. I never allude to the fact that he only has three legs, saving my invective for his parental culture. When he gets out, he tries to bully me and infer that he is the alpha dog, as though he even knows what alpha means.

I couldn't help it. When I linked to olive trees in the previous paragraph, I came upon a painting by vG. You know, the one with the ear problem.

After we clear Summerland, we are on to the 101, southbound through Ventura, which has a Der Weinerschnitzel, should someone want a snack. Nothing like the Surf Dog out of Carpinteria, where I am appreciated and have an account. But I digress.

Soon after we are past Ventura, then the dregs of Oxnard and a westward turn on Rice Road, past some agriculture, but no hot dog stands or restaurants. Maybe a taco/burrito truck for the field workers, on occasion, should anyone be hungry. At this point, I try to nap, but it is no easy task because soon we hit 1, which has its own personality and scent, which reminds me as we pass Mugu Rock that we are fast approaching my favored spot in the world.

Deer Creek.

Deer fucking Creek.

I mean!

Affirmative Action Sucks!

As you may recall, I've been spotting gophers on the grounds, digging into their burrows and otherwise giving them a bad time. There were two places along the front path where they'd made inroads and by digging down to the point where I could get my head pretty far down, I furthered my intimidation.

This morning I noticed new mounds of dirt and new signs of digging, which I promptly addressed. So what if my nose got a caking of dirt! It was all part of the teamwork I try to engage around here.

So what do I discover when Boss and I are headed out to lunch at the Xanadu Bakery? There in the driveway is that dreadful white truck belonging to R. The Gopher Man, lettered on the sides and oh, please, lettered on the back: Let The Gopher Man Bust Their Furry Buns. Gimme a break!

And sure enough, there is R. with his apparatus, messing with my digging, taking credit for the discovery, no doubt slathering at the thought of the bill he's going to send for services rendered.

I know, I know; he needs to get established in the marketplace, too, and I should be more tolerant.

But I'm not.

He wears one of those duck-billed caps and, now that you mention it, walks with a bit of a waddle.

I know, I know: argument ad hominem.

I'll get over it.

Progress Report

Crashed early last night. The bed Boss had purchased from Orvis looking pretty good. Up came a wind, which brought scents of raccoons and, down the block, either a coyote or worse.

Wind wrenched one of the side doors open, allowing a dog an opportunity to check the area. In a moment or two, I'm on to something. Something powerful. Couldn't help it, I sounded my hunting call. I know, I know. It's early morning and I should be more circumspect. The C's who live next door are particularly grouchy about hunting. They don't mind power saws or leaf blowers, but that is another matter.

I soon catch a flashing light down the drive toward Hot Springs Road, then the crunch of movement through the wind-blown leaves. Then I get a whiff. Oh,man! It is Boss. He is not particularly well dressed for two thirty of a cold, windy morning. He appears to be--oh, oh--he's in his sleepy suit, which is to say undies and his UCLA Basketball t-shirt. You know, old school tie, Final Four and all. No boots or even shoes. Not like him.

I head over to greet him, and I think he is beginning to learn. "Dragons, right?" he says.

Just to be sure, I brush against him to let him know this really was work, not some excuse to get out on the town and raise hell.

"Dragons for sure," he says, starting back toward the house

I have the distinct impression it is a good thing for me to follow him. Screw the new gopher hole and the fresh gopher scent.

We are homeward bound. I didn't really smell any dragons, but if Boss wants to think dragons, what's the harm?

Making Do

No coyotes today. It may be that I drove them off this morning with some serious barking and swearing. About four a.m.

Never look back.

I was appalled to learn how much they pay R., the so-called Gopher Man. Can you imagine driving about in a truck with Gopher Man stenciled on it? He has to use gas bombs and traps. I, for part, dig. Send the little monsters a message.

A sign up in Toro Canyon warned of bib cat, but I got no scent, and I do not bark at signs.

And so I made do with gophers.

Tomorrow is the promise of Deer Creek and an afternoon at campus. More suited to an accomplished dog.

Making do sucks.

On a Photo Shoot with a Control Freak

I have a first-rate nose. When we are out hunting, Fido recognizes this. When I sound the hunting call--"Hey, kid; over here!"--he comes without question. Even Boss seems to correctly interpret my hunting call as meaning that we are in danger from coyotes or dragons.

Yesterday, I had the rare opportunity to be out on a photo shoot with L. We were investigating the ripe, smelly part of town known as The Industrial Tract or Lower East. When L. points her Canon 5D, something like a sense of smell begins to take over; she becomes a different person. You can see it in her stature, the way she appears to be drawing an entire scene into her being.

The story really starts here, as Boss is fond of noting in his classes and workshops. It starts with my being out on a photo shoot with L. and having taken in the scent of a six-year-old male Lab, having peed on the wheel of a tractor, a fact I immediately called to L.'s attention.

Did she come trotting over to see the way Fido might? Yeah, yeah. She continued her focus on a small, shack-like building, seeming to like the windows and over-all symmetry, completely ignoring what could have been a true find, something that would have done C.-B. or S.proud or even that lady who shot the migrant workers up in Nipomo.

Well, okay. Laissez faire and let laissez faire, I always say, and so I let her have her building, which I proceeded to check out for trances of possible rodents, of which family a gopher is a member. You guessed it. Zip. Nada. Not a trace of rodents. No dog pee, not even a cat. C'mon! You want to shoot pee-less buildings--go for it.

I tried one more time. It was a large trash container adjacent a large, squarish building with an extended eave. Two dogs and one human had peed toward the rear. L. seemed to get the point, and I was pleased when she stood back to get a perspective, but then she began shooting some stenciling on the side of the container, completely
missing the drama.

I barked. Not there! There!

Good Sally she said, and went on bracketing the stenciled lettering instead of the pee-sites. Good dog.

Please!

Good dog. Gimme a break.

You Can Scam Republicans But You Can't Scam Working Dogs

FROM THE DESK OF BARR. ASHAARI ANWAR
SENIOR PARTNER O HASSAN & CO
228, HERBERT MACAULAY STREET
FESTAC-LAGOS.

Honourable Ms. Sally Lowenkopf, ACD:

Permit me to introduce myself as Ashaari Anwar, a solicitor at law. I represented the legal interests of a LATE national of your country, who until his untimely death was an expatriate with an Oil Firm in West Africa.

Unfortunately, during the month of May 2003, my late client was involved in a fatal auto accident in the western part of Africa and immediately lost his life on the spot. Since the unfortunate occurrence I have made several enquiries
through your country's embassy to locate any of my clients extended relatives, which has proved to be abortive.

After several unsuccessful attempts, I decided to trace his last name over the Internet, to locate any member of his family hence my contacting you this day. I initiated contact with you to inform you of the above and also to seek
your assistance in claiming the huge financial 'security' deposits left behind by my late client before they get confiscated or declared unserviceable by the bank where these huge deposits were lodged.

Particularly, the Financial Trust Bank where the deceased had an account valued at US$4.8 million has issued me a notice to provide the next of kin or have the account confiscated within the next ten official working days. Since I
have been unsuccessful in locating the relatives for over 2 years now I seek your consent to present you as the next of kin of the deceased since you have the same last name so that the proceeds of this account valued at US$4.8 million
(Four Million, Eight Hundred Thousand United States Dollars only) can be paid to you and used for our mutual benefit.

Oh, please! It is bad enough having to put up with humans who have leashes without having to suffer this. What must they think to send this to a working dog?

BTW: I got into it with a gopher this afternoon. Little freaker tried to bite my nose. I won

More Q & A:

Q: You've made your preference clear for sandwiches from Art's Deli in Studio City. What is your second favorite food?

A: Anything stolen from a cat.

Q: Where is your favorite place to throw up?

A: The new carpeting in the Community Room of the Montecito, CA library.

Q: You've been up early these past few mornings, barking at coyotes. Any reason?

A: Listen, someone has to look out for them.

Q: There are those at the hot tub of the Montecito Y who think you use Donald Trump as a role model.

A: You're fired.

Q: Do you have a role model?

A: Should have fired you last week. I'm an Australian Cattle Dog-Aussie Shepherd mix. I don't need no stinking role model.

On Guard

Awakened at about three this morning by the ululation of coyotes. Thought seriously about getting up a petition.

Boss told me to sleep on it.

Later this evening, as I began my usual run up Greenwell Road, I saw another. Gave chase.

Humans have mosquitoes. Dogs get stuck with the real work.

Coyotes. Oh, please! There goes theneighborhood.

Canine Cosmic Verities

1. Humans invariably explain how fond they are of dogs before complaining to Boss that I am not on a leash.

2. Humans who broadcast their fondness for dogs are most likely to be authoritarian.

3. Dog walkers are okay, but dog trainers--oh, please! Like that guy with the cigar and the radio program, R.L.

4. The better the veterinarian, the greater the likelihood he/she will keep their thermometers warm.

5. When dogs fight, it is called savagery. When people fight it is called politics.

6. Dogs owned by Republicans tend to be neurotic.

7. Sometimes throwing up on a carpet is a dog's only way of making a statement.

8. Humans are surprised to get affection from cats, surprised not to get affection from dogs.

9. Working dogs have less stress than lap dogs.

Sally: Q & A

Q: Why are you so protective about the back seat of Boss's car?

A: It is my portable work/rest room. It is my office. I want it to smell right and have close to paw things that get me through the day. A scrap of bone, a bit of pastrami from Art's deli, a Milk-Bone.

Q: You were once heard to observe that you could quickly identify in a room of humans those who were so-called dog people. What do you look for?

A: Do they like going for walks? Are they likely to share food? Do they like adventure? Do they like to play?

Q: What is your least favorite trait in humans?

A: Their tendency to want to get us to do dumb tricks? Roll over! Please! Their seemingly inexhaustible urge to want to dress us in dumb things. Their never-ending attempts to get us to pee on newspapers.

Q: What thing do you most wish humans would learn?

A: Listen, we all know humans would be of better temperment if they learned to chew grass. Dogs know that plugged-up humans are no fun to be around.

Street Smarts

Because I am adept at opening the front door, which allows me access to the lawn of the C.'s who live beyond the hedge line, I am regarded as clever, some say brilliant. But it is neither smart nor profitable to conflate dog hard-wiring with human hard-wiring.

We get our downloads from different sources.

Even though I am wired to herd animals, some of whom are considerably larger than me, it took experience and judgment calls before I could work the room, get to the point where in any given gathering of humans, I could scope those willing to give the time of day to a dog.

Intelligence is something that has to be worked at. For a working dog, as opposed to a couch potato dog, working means wanting to do something. I could not have cared less about getting out the front door for its own sake. Boss opens the door when we need to leave. I want to get out the front door to go after raccoons, coyotes, squirrels, and the occasional bob cat who wander in off Hot Springs Road or who drift down from the more open fields off of Riven Rock. I want to get after the occasional dragon who comes through--not that I've ever seen one, but I can smell them, sometimes from a mile off.

Boss is pretty good about keeping Republicans off the property. Once in a while, I can smell one at a distance, and it doesn't hurt for me to give a low, warning growl.
The point is, I do these things, innovate and such, because I have to, not because I am all that damned smart.

I do not know, for instance, why some people prefer cats to dogs. Oh, please! We had a decent cat, Armand, who was a mean drunk and you had to watch his catnip binges, but otherwise a splendid fellow. The two house cats now are the feline equivalent of losers on American Idol.

Smart is doing tricks. Smart is keeping busy. Smart is like those people at county fairs or birthday parties, twisting balloons into animal-like shapes. Big deal--they're still twisted balloons.
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Intelligence is needing an answer and messing with the front door knob or the back door latch until you get out.

Smart is showing off.

Intelligence is getting out the front door.

But Somebody Has to Do It

Boss is not a neat person.

He starts out neat; I'll give him that.

But things catch up with him: the odd spill of jam on his shirt, the dribble of mustard on his lapel, the tint of ink on his fingers. The back seat of our car!

Not a slob, mind you. Slobs don't care. Boss cares. But as humans in twelve-step programs put it, he is powerless. Has no control over his life because of mess. It is fun to watch him try to cope with the mess in his room. Books. Student papers. Magazines. He does not have the eye for organization.

I am told his father had it.

When Boss says he has to get organized, I slip over to my cache, dig up a real bone or a Milk Bone, and get out of the way. He is not fit company when he is trying to be neat.

Cosmic Verity

Fire hydrants are strictly for wimp city dogs. A telephone pole on a back road is a canine version of the Bayeux Tapestry.

The Second Pee from the Corner

Male dogs are all about peeing as macho behavior, pure and simple. A male dog and his bladder are like a human tagger with a paint can.

It is not that female dogs are above peeing to mark a territory or to one-up a rival. After all, what does the expression "pissed off" mean?

Yes, of course; we pee to rid ourselves of waste, but there is a practical side to it. A female dog peeing is the equivalent of a human bookmarking a Web site. When we pee, there is a purpose,which differentiates us from male dogs, who pee too show off. I enjoy bullying Ralph to the point where he pees from fear. If Fido pees too much when we're out on a hunt, a good quick slash to his heels or his chops works wonders.

I could tell from the scent he brought back with him yesterday that the Boss had had lunch with C., who is no slouch as a trompe l'oeil artist in addition to his writerly talents. Thinking about C's work, I began to wonder how long it would take him and the Boss to recognize my strong suit, the trompe du nez. Have I not given clues with the almost constant rime of dirt on my nose? Of course those two, the Boss and C. are more sight oriented, although damn straight, they are both so blind at night that it takes a dog to lead them. Trompe l'oeil. Trick of the eye. Mine is the trick of the nose. Certain human artists, the still-life painters and photographers, begin to, ha ha, get the picture when they represent hanging birds, hares, cheeses; when they arrange fruits and veggies on a table or window sill. W.C.W. wrote a poem about plums that, even though I detest the thought of fruit in my own diet, makes my mouth pucker just to think about. There is something captivating about the thought of a bird or hare, hung for a few days while the artist gets the work down. Ah, rotting flesh! Ah, dead seals at the beach! But I digress. Trick of the nose, here I come.

Probable Worst Day of Week

Woke up growling at about 3 this morning. Imagine Google imposing an age 13 barrier on blog sites. Yeah, yeah; that's for kids. Why should a dog have to wait? No sense to it. Got back to sleep with a neat dream about chasing a rabbit on Greenwell, shearing off just once to hurrah Kit, the three-legged Aussie, who lives in the roadside estate. Good dog for a three-legger. Up betimes, as P. would say in his journals, for a walk with A., who stopped by J's to pick up Fido. Some morning dampness and fog along Mountain Drive. Good for holding in scents. Got a good whiff of a possum, a deer, and a coyote. Damn few coyotes in the area. Was relieved when Fido missed scenting the skunk down by the stream. Last time Fido scented a skunk, we both paid for it. I am not big on baths in general, but a tomato juice bath? Forget it.

Home to wake up the Boss, watch him struggle with making coffee. Thursdays probably my worst day of the week, but I'll probably get a good morning run at Toro Canyon, either before or after Boss has lunch with C. Might even get a second shot at Toro when Boss goes to Summerland to meet F. for more manuscript stuff. Three dogs on Toro Canyon, all yowling and snarling when I come by. They hate the fact that they are behind a fence and I am not. Well, buzz off, you yahoos. You may live in a neat estate near the park, but I am not without credentials. Dean K. of the Master in Professional Writing Program at USC has named me mascot of the program. Great campus, although Boss assures me UCLA has more wild life to sniff. Still, lots of lawn to roll on. SC students often leave portions of meat sandwiches, which are nice to bury in the soft loam of the new planting beds. Boss says if I am not careful, I'll have sub sandwiches blossoming before very long.

Spring break now, which means no stopping at Deer Creek on the way down to L.A. While it is true that I love Greenwell, and Toro Canyon, and the SC campus, there is nothing--nothing like Deer Creek. The tangy iodine scent from off the ocean. Crisp bite of white ceanothus. Coyote. Deer. Once even caught a whiff of mountain lion pee. That's the place for me. Deer Creek. Just saying it puts me in a good mood. Doesn't hurt that we stop at Art's Deli after class. Pastrami. Brisket. Corned beef. Not bad.

Last time we were on campus, I got an itch on my back and rolled over on the grass to give it a scritch. Some student walking by. Said, "Hey, that dog is comfortable!"

Comfortable, I don't know. But I make a living.

WTF

It's time to begin. To cast my own. It is one thing to announce my presence by dashing across the lawn to where the C.'s live, the scent of raccoons or coyotes burning in my nose. Wired to do that. Writing. Another matter altogether. Don Marquis and his archy and mehitabel! That was in the days of the typewriter. Lazy cockroach. I am computer literate. Instead of not judging a man until you have walked a mile in his moccasins, try imagining what it is like to have a sense of smell five, six times more exquisite than a man's. Go ahead. Try it.

WTF

It is a big world and someone has to make sense of it.