It is time for dogs everywhere to be up.
Not the drowsing kind of up where you keep the awareness channel open, just in case They want something of you or They fail to see an impending danger. No, not that kind. I mean up, up.
As I lay drowsing last night, the Boss was having a telephone conversation about something called The Great Gatsby. He has spoken of this Gatsby thing to me on several occasions, informing me of his regard for the person who created it, although it seems remarkable to me that something as potentially splendid as this Gatsby thing could have been produced by a person without a dog. Boss assures me that this was indeed the case, and so I suppose it could be true, which means I have to accept the possibility that on occasion something slips through the cracks of the known and unknown universe.
I'm confident I know the person at the other end of the telephone; the Boss does not sound that particular way with anyone else. I can also tell when C. is at the other end of the line; there is a particular jollity in Boss's response, for indeed C. is probably the Boss's closest friend. C. has dedicated books to Boss and has done a handsome portrait of the Boss's long time pal, Molly, a portrait that makes me think with some relief that Boss has had a history of dog in his life. I can't complain; there is a large photo of me, at least two feet by three feet, taken by ENK, occupying the entire mantle over the fire place. Were you to see it, you'd agree that I am up to the task of keeping Boss at operating level. In terms of pure size and personality, that photo keeps potential trespassers on their guard. I don't think Epstein would dare enter the room, because of my projected aura.
It is now time to get the Boss in gear, hopefully reflecting with his work the same connectedness with his work that he exuded when he was talking about this Gatsby thing last night. Work and connectedness are all important. I was connected well with Greenwell Avenue yesterday afternoon when Boss took me there. The trees, chaparral, and rich smells of the place are a tonic. I catch up on the animal news--a horse having been here, a rabbit there, some dumb Golden over there, and that fucking coyote I sometimes chase. We spent time with ENK, then it was back to work and the connectedness of work.
There are many pleasing things to say about connectedness. It is good that Boss sees this, finds it with people and with his work. It is what we have, and when we become lost in it, over our heads in the concentration and devotion in it, we are in something Boss and some of his friends call love, and which we dogs, we who know when it is time to be up, call being.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
The Boss: A Good Sort
These are times that try men's souls.
Of course, every time for them is trying so what's a dog to do but try to herd them into making the most of their time, whatever the time is. In his attempts to domesticate the dog, mankind has attempted to remove certain canine give-and-take from the equation. True enough, Man has given Dog such dubious pleasures as chasing cars and herding United Parcel delivery persons, possibly even keeping the resident cat population in some kind of order, but in mitigation Dogs now have to cope with philosophical constructs that go with the territory of working for one of Them.
The Boss is a good enough sort and I do think he has a perspective on why he got me and what my job description is. He was actually good-natured about the way I got rid of the dragons at about 1:30 this morning, even muttering to me, "Ah, safe again," as I returned bedside. As though he could actually see the danger.
He is well along on his latest project and I find from time to time the outpourings from him of being genuinely connected with himself, particularly when he reads to me from a paragraph or two of which he is pleased or spontaneously gives me the let's-go-for-an-adventure nod, then moves us out to Hale Park or Greenwell Avenue or some other sensible place where there are scents and trees and a sense of land having been put to some appreciated use rather than, ugh, Vons Market or even the Peet's Coffee Shops of which he is so fond.
He has his job, which is producing things of enough resonance to please him into reading some of it to me. I understand this about him in much the same way he understands my need to bark as a means of expression. I have my job, which is watching his back. We often share sandwiches. We often exchange glances. He keeps envelopes of chicken and duck jerky in the glove compartment of our car for me. I let him rub my tummy. He claims that when he first saw me, at that dreadful animal shelter, he knew. I admit I warmed to him, but it wasn't until he came back a few times, explaining my job duties and how it was with him that I took him on.
Of course, every time for them is trying so what's a dog to do but try to herd them into making the most of their time, whatever the time is. In his attempts to domesticate the dog, mankind has attempted to remove certain canine give-and-take from the equation. True enough, Man has given Dog such dubious pleasures as chasing cars and herding United Parcel delivery persons, possibly even keeping the resident cat population in some kind of order, but in mitigation Dogs now have to cope with philosophical constructs that go with the territory of working for one of Them.
The Boss is a good enough sort and I do think he has a perspective on why he got me and what my job description is. He was actually good-natured about the way I got rid of the dragons at about 1:30 this morning, even muttering to me, "Ah, safe again," as I returned bedside. As though he could actually see the danger.
He is well along on his latest project and I find from time to time the outpourings from him of being genuinely connected with himself, particularly when he reads to me from a paragraph or two of which he is pleased or spontaneously gives me the let's-go-for-an-adventure nod, then moves us out to Hale Park or Greenwell Avenue or some other sensible place where there are scents and trees and a sense of land having been put to some appreciated use rather than, ugh, Vons Market or even the Peet's Coffee Shops of which he is so fond.
He has his job, which is producing things of enough resonance to please him into reading some of it to me. I understand this about him in much the same way he understands my need to bark as a means of expression. I have my job, which is watching his back. We often share sandwiches. We often exchange glances. He keeps envelopes of chicken and duck jerky in the glove compartment of our car for me. I let him rub my tummy. He claims that when he first saw me, at that dreadful animal shelter, he knew. I admit I warmed to him, but it wasn't until he came back a few times, explaining my job duties and how it was with him that I took him on.
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