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.
.
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.