The Gatsby Thing

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.

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.