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.