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.