The Dog Chronicles

LOVE POWER! GET IT FREE!

2012-02-21T17:44:00.000-08:00

This is my granddaughter, Anika. She's not even 16, yet she's already gone on a mission to Mexico to build homes for the poor, she used to give up free time in elementary school to help out with mentally challenged kids, and she is now fostering a dog that was afflicted with parvo virus. I'm incredibly proud of her. She's given a lot of time trying to make the world better for others. For a kid her age, it's a great effort. It takes time and especially love. Love works miracles.

Here's Blue, her foster dog now, hopefully recovering from the illness and soon to move on to a family that will love him.

I'm amazed at the effort people

expend to help out.

Isabelle Ann Tiberghien runs the organization BAJA S.A.F.E. She rescues dogs left for dead in Baja, Mexico. Mexico is a haven for those who run puppy mills, and the practice of spaying/neutering would be nearly unheard of if not for Isabelle. I expect there are times she must feel that she is running up against a brick wall, nevertheless, she carries on, making a difference. Naturally, BAJA S.A.F.E. needs your help. The dogs they rescue are adopted out to good families, and that costs money. They have a page on Facebook. Pass it on. Any exposure helps.

I have a point in mentioning these two individuals in this blog.
You don't have to donate all the time and effort that Isabelle gives to her organization to help improve this world. You don't have to go on a mission to Mexico. We can all help make our world better just giving a minute of time here and there. Maybe it's a matter of leaning down, getting at eye level with a child and encouraging him or her. Or perhaps, next time you visit someone in an assisted-living facility, you can chat in a public area and include another person who is lonely.
There's a million different ways to help the "strays" in our society. It just takes a little awareness, some patience, and a commitment to create a better world.

As I mentioned, I'm amazed at how giving people can be. I have friends on Facebook who go out of their way to help others everyday. I won't mention names because I know these people aren't looking to be lauded. One friend of mine is helping put her godchild through college. I was amazed to hear that, but I shouldn't be. This person knew me when I was young and, let's say in need of someone who cared. You know what, she has been in my corner ever since.

Another friend of mine from Facebook works with mentally challenged children. Her lap is always at the ready to offer some love and affection. It's not in her job description, but it is in her heart.

Whether it's helping out animals in need, people in need, or the environment, it is just a matter of a minute or two sometimes, and a lifelong commitment. We all can make a difference.

Thanks to all those who are trying to make this world a better place.

Before And After: What Sniffing Crack Does to Dogs

2012-02-01T21:07:00.000-08:00

Crack sniffing dogs.

What does sniffing crack do to canines? Check these before and after photos.

Spot before.

Spot six months later.

Toughy before.

Toughy one year later.

Rowdy before.

Rowdy two years later.

Moo before.

Moo one year later.

Photos from Flickr: Tim Dorr, Upali, froghmutt, Scott 597, nagfactor, mindnyc, MICHAEL, Riode, Fugly nation. And the Fowlers.

Boo-boo before.

Boo-boo two years later.

Disposable Pets? It's my blog and I'll cry if I want to.

2012-01-16T17:52:00.000-08:00

t It's not like I have a million converts anyway. I willing to preach to those who will listen. So, brothers and sisters. Raise your hands. Say Amen.

I made a trip to our local San Mateo County Animal Adoption Center over the weekend. What did I find there? No, not Jesus. Not the everlasting light. I found a bunch of Chihuahua and Pit Bull-mix dogs. There were more Chihuahua mix dogs than pits, but Lord help me, I thought we discussed this before. Why haven't you folks seen the light?

Spay and Neuter! Say it again. Spay and Neuter! Amen!

I really shouldn't complain about you folks who are willing to take on the care of a pit bull, if you'd only keep your dogs in your yards.

I saw a young woman at the adoption center--ogling the pit bulls. Holy ghost. She was short, maybe 105 pounds, and I was praying, "Lordy, I hope she doesn't have kids. I hope she can control that dog. I hope it doesn't eat her liver."

I don't get it. San Mateo County, just south of San Francisco, is a fairly rational and in some environs, extremely affluent. We've got Hillsborough, Woodside, Los Altos Hills, and Palo Alto and Stanford University. There's folks here with more money than God. Yet the pound is full of the same dang dogs you could find in a pound in Podunk. Pits and Chihuahuas.

Dogs are a commitment, okay. Chihuahuas are cute when they're puppies, and cute in general, but yes, they begin to yap, whine, pee on your couch and crap on the carpet just like any other dog. So what do we do? Put 'em up for adoption.

And pit bulls? There's a commitment for you. I saw some dogs at the pound that could eat a ten year-old and come back for a toddler or two for dessert. These dogs are the linebackers of the animal world. Again, God bless you folks that take them on, but I just wish I thought most adopters of pit bulls were as smart as their dogs. I've got pretty good fences, and a lot of area for a dog to roam at my place, and I wouldn't expect I could keep the neighborhood safe from one of those brutes.

Am I preaching to the choir? Not likely. I have suffered the wrath of the dog lovers. There's this escalating level of unreasonableness amongst dog people. One guy thinks he should be able to walk his dog without of leash. Another guy thinks his dog should run the neighborhood. There's people who will swear their dogs never get out except the time when they rush out the front door after the kids selling candy for school. (Okay, there may be some rationale for this.) Never, ever can you have a rational discussion with a dog person who feels he or she is just letting his dog be a dog. If the dog eats some kid's face, like a pit bull did in Oakland to some poor boy, damn it, the kid must have been annoying the animal. He should've ran faster.

Despite this attitude of equating dogs roaming the neighborhood with apple pie and America, we still think nothing of dropping our pets at the pound when we tire of them. Ah, well, I suppose it's better than putting them in a sack and dropping them in the river.

Great Dogs of Literature--and Mean Ones Too!

2012-01-05T21:26:00.000-08:00

I know this is a current book on dogs. It is the least weepy, and best recent book about dogs I know. But last blog, I wrote that I didn't know any English-style ghost stories that mentioned dogs. That has changed.

My wife purchased another book of ghost stories by RM James for me for Christmas, and a book called Best Ghost Stories of J.S. LeFanu. LeFanu was another gloomy Irishman, like Bram Stoker, and he wrote what is probably the most amazing novella about vampires--Carmilla. I love Dracula, and he did turn into a dog at one point, but Carmilla is undoubtable the most erotic and tantalizing vampire tale ever. No, I don't read about ghosts and vampires exclusively, but I love 19th and early 20th century books by the Brits and Irish. Check out LeFanu or RM James. No blood and gore in these really, just scary, thoughtful writing.

Now, LeFanu wrote a ghost story entitled Squire Toby's Will that features a hound as out-of-control as any I have encountered in fiction. This dog is a fright. So, dog ghosts, and this dog may be a ghost, are not unheard of in fiction.

I have written before about dogs I love in fiction. And I will stay on the 19th and early 20th century fiction from across the pond. In Wuthering Heights the whole tone of the book is set by the hounds at the Heights. They are dangerous and untrustworthy, just like the main character.

My favorite dog in fiction though is Colin in John Buchan's Prester John. John Buchan wrote The 39 Steps. It is roll-up-your-sleeves, grin-and-bear-it fiction in the best tradition of the British hero. Colin the dog in Prester John is mean as hell, and loyal unto death to our hero. He is my favorite old time fiction dog.

I don't know, maybe I am stuck in the past. I recently finished a volume on WWI by Winston Churchill, followed by a book about Americans in London during WWII. I followed that with a book about Teddy Roosevelt that I'm still reading and ghost stories from the 19th and early 20th century.\

I don't read a lot of fiction anymore but for these old British tales. I did read Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go last year. Yeah, he's still a Brit. Ishiguro is the master of the slow build of despair. His books are not so uplifting, but he is a master. No dogs though.

I read a couple of Barry Unsworth books last year. There's a dog in one of them. Another Brit is Unsworth.

To be fair, I am not obsessed with dogs, though I do seem to be obsessed with the Brits and their authors.

I went to London a few years ago. There's no dog dung on the streets over there. British dogs seem as mannerly as their owners. The Guiness is better in Ireland though.

Okay, so this is another rambling blog. Give one of these old British authors a shot though. Or read Garth Stein's The Art of Racing in the Rain. It's the best modern dog book out there.

Hope the new year is a good one for all.

Keep your dogs in your yard or on a leash, and be nice to one another.

Doggie Ghost Stories for Christmas? Perhaps.

2011-12-06T13:12:00.000-08:00

"Here Lies Fluffy

Hit By A Car

Not So Fluffy Anymore"
My epitaph for a cocker spaniel perhaps

Believe it or not, ghost stories were a tradition for Christmas in England. That explains A Christmas Carol. M.R. James also wrote a number of chilling Christmas tales as did writers like Robert Louis Stevenson and Algernon Blackwood. I have found only a few that refer to animals--dogs especially. American writers also produced some chilling tales about dogs. Whether they were specifically for the Christmas Season or not, I don't know. One is The Black Dog which may be Bierce (or not.) Ambrose Bierce did write Oil of Dog, which is black humor at its darkest. Hound of the Baskervilles is a ghost story in a way. Doyle certainly made it chilling enough.

While many might find the idea of ghost stories at Christmas sacrilegious, I am all for revisiting this tradition. With 3D monsters jumping off the screen into one's lap, maybe the younger generation just doesn't appreciate the nuance involved with telling a good ghost story.

How many of you have told a ghost story around the campfire at any time of the year? Get the kids off the Playstations and invent something for their benefit. After all, if they can slay dragons and murder zombies on the tiny screen, let's get back to mankind's biggest screen, the imagination.

Happy Holidays, and let me know if you find any cool ghost stories about dogs.

Here is a link to one ghost story by M.R. James you might like. I find his stories fascinating and disquieting. Again, Happy Holidays to all--and to all a goodnight--if you can have a goodnight after reading some of these stories.

http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Canon_Alberic%27s_Scrapbook
Canon Alberic's ScrapbookFrom Wikisource

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Canon Alberic's Scrapbook (1904)

by Montague Rhodes James

From Ghost Stories of an Antiquary, 1904.

St. Bertrand de Comminges is a decayed town on the spurs of the Pyrenees, not very far from Toulouse, and still nearer to Bagnères-de-Luchon. It was the site of a bishopric until the Revolution, and has a cathedral which is visited by a certain number of tourists. In the spring of 1883 an Englishman arrived at this old-world place -- I can hardly dignify it with the name of city, for there are not a thousand inhabitants. He was a Cambridge man, who had come specially from Toulouse to see St Bertrand's Church, and had left two friends, who were less keen archaeologists than himself, in their hotel at Toulouse, under promise to join him on the following morning. Half an hour at the church would satisfy them, and all three could then pursue their journey in the direction of Auch. But our Englishman had come early on the day in question, and proposed to himself to fill a notebook and to use several dozens of plates in the process of describing and photographing every corner of the wonderful church that dominates the little hill of Comminges. In order to carry out this design satisfactorily, it was necessary to monopolize the verger of the church for the day. The verger or sacristan (I prefer the latter appellation, inaccurate as it may be) was accordingly sent for by the somewhat brusque lady who keeps the inn of the Chapeau Rouge; and when he came, the Englishman found him an unexpectedly interesting object of study. It was not in the personal appearance of the little, dry, wizened old man that the interest lay, for he was precisely like dozens of other church-guardians in France, but in a curious furtive, or rather hunted and oppressed, air which he had. He was perpetually half glancing behind him; the muscles of his back and shoulders seemed to be hunched in a continual nervous contraction, as if he were expecting every moment to find himself in the clutch of an enemy. The Englishman hardly knew whether to put him down as a man haunted by a fixed delusion, or as one oppressed by a guilty conscience, or as an unbearably henpecked husband. The probabilities, when reckoned up, certainly pointed to the last idea; but, still, the impression conveyed was that of a more formidable persecutor even than a termagant wife.

However, the Englishman (let us call him Dennistoun) was soon too deep in his notebook and too busy with his camera to give more than an occasional glance to the sacristan. Whenever he did look at him, he found him at no great distance, either huddling himself back against the wall or crouching in one of the gorgeous stalls. Dennistoun became rather fidgety after a time. Mingled suspicions that he was keeping the old man from his déjeuner, that he was regarded as likely to make away with St Bertrand's ivory crozier, or with the dusty stuffed crocodile that hangs over the font, began to torment him.

'Won't you go home?' he said at last; 'I'm quite well able to finish my notes alone; you can lock me in if you like. I shall want at least two hours more here, and it must be cold for you, isn't it?'

'Good Heavens!' said the little man, whom the suggestion seemed to throw into a state of unaccountable terror, 'such a thing cannot be thought of for a moment. Leave monsieur alone in the church? No, no; two hours, three hours, all will be the same to me. I have breakfasted, I am not at all cold, with many thanks to monsieur.'

'Very well, my little man,' quoth Dennistoun to himself.. 'you have been warned, and must take the consequences.'

Before the expiration of two hours, the stalls, the enormous dilapidated organ, the choir-screen of Bishop Jean de Mauléon, the remnants of glass and tapestry, and the objects in the treasure-chamber, had been well and truly examined; the sacristan still keeping at Dennistoun's heels, and every now and then whipping round as if he had been stung, when one or other of the strange noises that trouble a large empty building fell on his ear. Curious noises they were sometimes.

'Once,' Dennistoun said to me, 'I could have sworn I heard a thin metallic voice laughing high up in the tower. I darted an inquiring glance at my sacristan. He was white to the lips. "It is he -- that is -- it is no one; the door is locked," was all he said, and we looked at each other for a full minute.'

Another little incident puzzled Dennistoun a good deal. He was examining a large dark picture that hangs behind the altar, one of a series illustrating the miracles of St Bertrand. The composition of the picture is well-nigh indecipherable, but there is a Latin legend below, which runs thus:

Qualiter S. Bertrandus liberavit hominem quem diabolus diu volebat strangulare. [How St Bertrand delivered a man whom the Devil long sought to strangle.]

Dennistoun was turning to the sacristan with a smile and a jocular remark of some sort on his lips, but he was confounded to see the old man on his knees, gazing at the picture with the eye of a suppliant in agony, his hands clasped, and a rain of tears on his cheeks. Dennistoun naturally pretended to have noticed nothing, but the question would not away from him, 'Why should a daub of this kind affect anyone so strongly?' He seemed to himself to be getting some sort of clue to the reason of the strange look that had been puzzling him all the day: the man must be a monomaniac; but what was his monomania?

It was nearly five o'clock; the short day was drawing in, and the church began to fill with shadows, while the curious noises -- the muffled footfalls and distant talking voices that had been perceptible all day -- seemed, no doubt because of the fading light and the consequently quickened sense of hearing, to become more frequent and insistent.

The sacristan began for the first time to show signs of hurry and impatience. He heaved a sigh of relief when camera and notebook were finally packed up and stowed away, and hurriedly beckoned Dennistoun to the western door of the church, under the tower. It was time to ring the Angelus. A few pulls at the reluctant rope, and the great bell Bertrande, high in the tower, began to speak, and swung her voice up among the pines and down to the valleys, loud with mountain-streams, calling the dwellers on those lonely hills to remember and repeat the salutation of the angel to her whom he called Blessed among women. With that a profound quiet seemed to fall for the first time that day upon the little town, and Dennistoun and the sacristan went out of the church.

0n the doorstep they fell into conversation.

'Monsieur seemed to interest himself in the old choir-books in the sacristy.'

'Undoubtedly. I was going to ask you if there were a library in the town.'

'No, monsieur; perhaps there used to be one belonging to the Chapter, but it is now such a small place-' Here came a strange pause of irresolution, as it seemed; then, with a sort of plunge, he went on: 'But if monsieur is amateur des vieux livres, I have at home something that might interest him. It is not a hundred yards.'

At once all Dennistoun's cherished dreams of finding priceless manuscripts in untrodden corners of France flashed up, to die down again the next moment. It was probably a stupid missal of Plantin's printing, about 1580. Where was the likelihood that a place so near Toulouse would not have been ransacked long ago by collectors? However, it would be foolish not to go; he would reproach himself for ever after if he refused. So they set off. On the way the curious irresolution and sudden determination of the sacristan recurred to Dennistoun, and he wondered in a shamefaced way whether he was being decoyed into some purlieu to be made away with as a supposed rich Englishman. He contrived, therefore, to begin talking to his guide, and to drag in, in a rather clumsy fashion, the fact that he expected two friends to join him early the next morning. To his surprise, the announcement seemed to relieve the sacristan at once of some anxiety that oppressed him.

'That is well,' he said quite brightly -- 'that is very well. Monsieur will travel in company with his friends; they will be always near him. It is a good thing to travel thus in company -- sometimes.'

The last word appeared to be added as an afterthought, and to bring with it a relapse into gloom for the poor little man.

They were soon at the house, which was one rather larger than its neighbours, stone-built, with a shield carved over the door, the shield of Alberic de Mauléon, a collateral descendant, Dennistoun tells me, of Bishop John de Mauléon. This Alberic was a Canon of Comminges from 1680 to 1701. The upper windows of the mansion were boarded up, and the whole place bore, as does the rest of Comminges, the aspect of decaying age.

Arrived on his doorstep, the sacristan paused a moment.

'Perhaps,' he said, 'perhaps, after all, monsieur has not the time?'

'Not at all -- lots of time -- nothing to do till tomorrow. Let us see what it is you have got.'

The door was opened at this point, and a face looked out, a face younger than the sacristan's, but bearing something of the same distressing look: only here it seemed to be the mark, not so much of fear for personal safety as of acute anxiety on behalf of another. Plainly, the owner of the face was the sacristan's daughter; and, but for the expression I have described, she was a handsome girl enough. She brightened up considerably on seeing her father accompanied by an able-bodied stranger. A few remarks passed between father and daughter, of which Dennistoun only caught these words, said by the sacristan, 'He was laughing in the church,' words which were answered only by a look of terror from the girl.

But in another minute they were in the sitting-room of the house, a small, high chamber with a stone floor, full of moving shadows cast by a wood-fire that flickered on a great hearth. Something of the character of an oratory was imparted to it by a tall crucifix, which reached almost to the ceiling on one side; the figure was painted of the natural colours, the cross was black. Under this stood a chest of some age and solidity, and when a lamp had been brought, and chairs set, the sacristan went to this chest, and produced therefrom, with growing excitement and nervousness, as Dennistoun thought, a large book, wrapped in a white cloth, on which cloth a cross was embroidered in red thread. Even before the wrapping had been removed, Dennistoun began to be interested by the size and shape of the volume. 'Too large for a missal,' he thought, 'and not the shape an antiphoner; perhaps it may be something good, after all.' The next moment the book was open, and Dennistoun felt that he had at last lit upon something better than good. Before him lay a large folio, bound, perhaps, late in the late seventeenth century, with the arms of Canon Alberic de Mauléon stamped in gold on the sides. There may have been a hundred and fifty leaves of paper in the book, and on almost every one of them was fastened a leaf from an illuminated manuscript. Such a collection Dennistoun had hardly dreamed of in his wildest moments. Here were ten leaves from a copy of Genesis, illustrated with pictures, which could not be later than AD 700. Further on was a complete set of pictures from a Psalter, of English execution, of the very finest kind that the thirteenth century could produce; and, and, perhaps best of all, there were twenty leaves of uncial writing in Latin, which, as a few words seen here and there told him at once, must belong to some very early unknown patristic treatise. Could it possibly be a fragment of the copy of Papias 'On the Words of Our Lord', which was known to existed as late as the twelfth century at Nimes?(1)* In any case, his mind was made up; that book must return to Cambridge with him, even if he had to draw the whole of his balance from the bank and stay at St Bertrand till the money came. He glanced up at the sacristan to see if his face yielded any hint that the book was for sale. The sacristan was pale, and his lips were working.

'If monsieur will turn on to the end,' he said.

So monsieur turned on, meeting new treasures at every rise of a leaf; and at the end of the book he came upon two sheets of paper, of much more recent date than anything he had yet seen, which puzzled him considerably. They must be contemporary, he decided, with the unprincipled Canon Alberic, who had doubtless plundered the Chapter library of St Bertrand to form this priceless scrap-book. On the first of the paper sheets was a plan, carefully drawn and instantly recognizable by a person who knew the ground, of the south aisle and cloisters of St Bertrand's. There were curious signs looking like planetary symbols, and a few Hebrew words, in the corners; and in the north-west angle of the cloister was a cross drawn in gold paint. Below the plan were some lines of writing in Latin, which ran thus:

Responsa 12mi Dec. 1694. Interrogatum est: Inveniamne? Responsum est: invenenies. Fiamne dives? Fies. Vivamne invidendus? Vives. Moriarne in lecto meo? Ita. [Answers of the 12th of December, 1694. It was asked: Shall I find it? Answer: Thou shalt. Shall I become rich? Thou wilt. Shall I live an object of envy? Thou wilt. Shall I die in my bed? Thou wilt.]

'A good specimen of the treasure-hunter's record -- quite reminds one of Mr Minor-Canon Quatremain in Old St Paul's,' was Dennistoun's comment, and he turned the leaf.

What he then saw impressed him, as he has often told me, more than he could have conceived any drawing or picture capable of impressing him. And, though the drawing he saw is no longer in existence, there is a photograph of it (which I possess) which fully bears out that statement. The picture in question was a sepia drawing at the end of the seventeenth century, representing, one would say at first sight, a Biblical scene; for the architecture (the picture represented an interior) and the figures had that semi-classical flavour about them which the artists of two hundred years ago thought appropriate to illustrations of the Bible. On the right was a King on his throne, the throne elevated on twelve steps, a canopy overhead, lions on either side -- evidently King Solomon. He was bending forward with outstretched sceptre, in attitude of command; his face expressed horror and disgust, yet there was in it also the mark of imperious will and confident power. The left half of the picture was the strangest, however. The interest plainly centred there. On the pavement before the throne were grouped four soldiers, surrounding a crouching figure which must be described in a moment. A fifth soldier lay dead on the pavement, his neck distorted, and his eyeballs starting from his head. The four surrounding guards were looking at the King. In their faces the sentiment of horror was intensified; they seemed, in fact, only restrained from flight by their implicit trust in their master. All this terror was plainly excited by the being that crouched in their midst. I entirely despair of conveying by any words the impression which this figure makes upon anyone who looks at it. I recollect once showing the photograph of the drawing to a lecturer on morphology -- a person of, I was going to say, abnormally sane and unimaginative habits of mind. He absolutely refused to be alone for the rest of that evening, and he told me afterwards that for many nights he had not dared to put out his light before going to sleep. However, the main traits of the figure I can at least indicate. At first you saw only a mass of coarse, matted black hair; presently it was seen that this covered a body of fearful thinness, almost a skeleton, but with the muscles standing out like wires. The hands were of a dusky pallor, covered, like the body, with long, coarse hairs, and hideously taloned. The eyes, touched in with a burning yellow, had intensely black pupils, and were fixed upon the throned King with a look of beast-like hate. Imagine one of the awful bird-catching spiders of South America translated into human form, and endowed with intelligence just less than human, and you will have some faint conception of the terror inspired by this appalling effigy. One remark is universally made by those to whom I have shown the picture: 'It was drawn from the life.'

As soon as the first shock of his irresistible fright had subsided, Dennistoun stole a look at his hosts. The sacristan's hands were pressed upon his eyes; his daughter, looking up at the cross on the wall, was telling her beads feverishly.

At last the question was asked, 'Is this book for sale?'

There was the same hesitation, the same plunge of determination that he had noticed before, and then came the welcome answer, 'If monsieur pleases.'

'How much do you ask for it?

'I will take two hundred and fifty francs.'

This was confounding. Even a collector's conscience is sometimes stirred, and Dennistoun's conscience was tenderer than a collector's.

'My good man!' he said again and again, 'your book is worth far more than two hundred and fifty francs, I assure you -- far more.'

But the answer did not vary: 'I will take two hundred and fifty francs, not more.'

There was really no possibility of refusing such a chance. The money was paid, the receipt signed, a glass of wine drunk over the transaction, and then the sacristan seemed to become a new man. He stood upright, he ceased to throw those suspicious glances behind him, he actually laughed or tried to laugh. Dennistoun rose to go.

'I shall have the honour of accompanying monsieur to his hotel?' said the sacristan.

'Oh no, thanks! it isn't a hundred yards. I know the way perfectly, and there is a moon.'

The offer was pressed three or four times, and refused as often.

'Then, monsieur will summon me if -- if he finds occasion; he will keep the middle of the road, the sides are so rough.'

'Certainly, certainly,' said Dennistoun, who was impatient to examine his prize by himself; and he stepped out into the passage with his book under his arm.

Here he was met by the daughter; she, it appeared, was anxious to do a business on her own account; perhaps, like Gehazi, to 'take somewhat' from the foreigner whom her father had spared.

'A silver crucifix and chain for the neck; monsieur would perhaps be good enough to accept it?'

Well, really, Dennistoun hadn't much use for these things. What mademoiselle want for it?

'Nothing -- nothing in the world. Monsieur is more than welcome to it.'

The tone in which this and much more was said was unmistakably genuine, so that Dennistoun was reduced to profuse thanks, and submitted to have the chain put round his neck. It really seemed as if he had rendered the father and daughter some service which they hardly knew how to repay. As he set off with his book they stood at the door looking after him, and they were still looking when he waved them a last good night from the steps of the Chapeau Rouge.

Dinner was over, and Dennistoun was in his bedroom, shut up alone with his acquisition. The landlady had manifested a particular interest in him since he had told her that he had paid a visit to the sacristan and bought an old book from him. He thought, too, that he had heard a hurried dialogue between her and the said sacristan in the passage outside the salle à manger; some words to the effect that 'Pierre and Bertrand would be sleeping in the house' had closed the conversation.

All this time a growing feeling of discomfort had been creeping over him -- nervous reaction, perhaps, after the delight of his discovery. Whatever it was, it resulted in a conviction that there was someone behind him, and that he was far more comfortable with his back to the wall. All this, of course, weighed light in the balance as against the obvious value of the collection he had acquired. And now, as I said, he was alone in his bedroom, taking stock of Canon Alberic's treasures, in which every moment revealed something more charming.

'Bless Canon Alberic!' said Dennistoun, who had an inveterate habit of talking to himself. 'I wonder where he is now? Dear me! I wish that landlady would learn to laugh in a more cheering manner; it makes one feel as if there was someone dead in the house. Half a pipe more, did you say? I think perhaps you are right. I wonder what that crucifix is that the young woman insisted on giving me? Last century, I suppose. Yes, probably. It is rather a nuisance of a thing to have round one's neck -- just too heavy. Most likely her father has been wearing it for years. I think I might give it a clean up before I put it away.'

He had taken the crucifix off, and laid it on the table, when his attention, was caught by an object lying on the red cloth just by his left elbow. Two or three ideas of what it might be flitted through his brain with their own incalculable quickness.

'A penwiper? No, no such thing in the house. A rat? No, too black. A large spider?, I trust to goodness not -- no. Good God! a hand like the hand in that picture!'

In another infinitesimal flash he had taken it in. Pale, dusky skin, covering nothing but bones and tendons of appalling strength; coarse black hairs, longer than ever grew on a human hand; nails rising from the ends of the fingers and curving sharply down and forward, grey, horny and wrinkled.

He flew out of his chair with deadly, inconceivable terror clutching at his heart. The shape, whose left hand rested on the table, was rising to a standing posture behind his seat, its right hand crooked above his scalp. There was black and tattered drapery about it; the coarse hair covered it as in the drawing. The lower jaw was thin -- what can I call it? -- shallow, like a beast's; teeth showed behind the black lips; there was no nose; the eyes, of a fiery yellow, against which the pupils showed black and intense, and the exulting hate and thirst to destroy life which shone there, were the most horrifying features in the whole vision. There was intelligence of a kind in them -- intelligence beyond that of a beast, below that of a man.

The feelings which this horror stirred in Dennistoun were the intensest physical fear and the most profound mental loathing. What did he do? What could he do? He has never been quite certain what words he said, but he knows that he spoke, that he grasped blindly at the silver crucifix, that he was conscious of a movement towards him on the part of the demon, and that he screamed with the voice of an animal in hideous pain.

Pierre and Bertrand, the two sturdy little serving-men, who rushed in, saw nothing, but felt themselves thrust aside by something that passed out between them, and found Dennistoun in a swoon. They sat up with him that night, and his two friends were at St Bertrand by nine o'clock next morning. He himself, though still shaken and nervous, was almost himself by that time, and his story found credence with them, though not until they had seen the drawing and talked with the sacristan.

Almost at dawn the little man had come to the inn on some pretence, and had listened with the deepest interest to the story retailed by the landlady. He showed no surprise.

'It is he -- it is he! I have seen him myself,' was his only comment; and to questionings but one reply was vouchsafed: 'Deux fois je 1'ai vu; mille fois je 1'ai senti.' He would tell them nothing of the provenance of the book, nor any details of his experiences. 'I shall soon sleep, and my rest will be sweet. Why should you trouble me?' he said.(2)

We shall never know what he or Canon Alberic de Mauléon suffered. At the back of that fateful drawing were some lines of writing which may supposed to throw light on the situation:

Contradictio Salomonis cum demonio noctumo.

Albericus de Mauleone delineavit.

V. Deus in adiutorium. Ps. Qui habitat.

Sancte Bertrande, demoniorum effugator, intercede pro me miserrimo.

Primum uidi nocte 12mi Dec. 1694: uidebo mox

ultimum. Peccaui et passus sum, plura adhuc

passurus. Dec. 29, 1701.(3)

I have never quite understood what was Dennistoun's view of the events I have narrated. He quoted to me once a text from Ecclesiasticus:'Some spirits there be that are created for vengeance, and in their fury lay on sore strokes.' On another occasion he said: 'Isaiah was a very sensible man; doesn't he say something about night monsters living in the ruins of Babylon? These things are rather beyond us at present.'

Another confidence of his impressed me rather, and I sympathized with it. We had been, last year, to Comminges, to see Canon Alberic's tomb. It is a great marble erection with an effigy of the Canon in a large wig and soutane, and an elaborate eulogy of his learning below. I saw Denniston talking for some time with the Vicar of St Bertrand's, and as we drove away he said to me: 'I hope it isn't wrong: you know I am a Presbyterian -- but I -- I believe there will be "saying of Mass and singing of dirges" for Alberic de Mauléon's rest.' Then he added, with a touch of the Northern British in his tone, 'I had no notion they came so dear.'

The book is in the Wentworth Collection at Cambridge. The drawing was photographed and then burnt by Dennistoun on the day when he left Comminges on the occasion of his first visit.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

1. We now know that these leaves did contain a considerable fragment of that work, if not of that actual copy of it.

2. He died that summer; his daughter married, and settled at St Papoul. She never understood the circumstances of her father's 'obsession'.

3. i.e., The dispute of Solomon with a demon of the night. Drawn by Alberic de Mauléon. Versicle. O Lord, make haste to help me. Psalm. Whoso dwelleth (xci).

Saint Bertrand, who puttest devils to flight, pray for me most unhappy. I saw it first on the night of Dec. 12, 1694: soon I shall see it for the last time. I have sinned and suffered, and have more to suffer yet. Dec. 29, 1701.

The 'Gallia Christiana' gives the date of the Canon's death as December 31, 1701, 'in bed, of a sudden seizure.' Details of this kind are not common in the great work of the Sammarthani.

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If You Knew Me When-- Or Now. I Confess. And a short story unseen by most of humankind

2011-11-18T16:59:00.001-08:00

All these posts have to have some "dog" stuff in them. This one will have even less than usual.
Here's a picture of my dog, Lulu looking longingly out the window wanting to run off and play.
This reminds me of the speech Dorthy gives near the end of the movie "The Wizard of Oz." The balloon has flown away without her, and she worries that she may never see Kansas again. She says something about how if she ever goes looking for her heart's desire, she shouldn't look any farther than her own back door. Do you hear that Lulu?

I never really got it either.

I am a weird sort of guy. I suppose I always have been. The other night, while watching "Bridesmaids" I found the tears running down my face when the rotund sister of the groom was trying to get the main character to fight against her depression. These tears happen to me when I watch movies about friends or movie-type parents or wives and husbands.
I'm still concerned what people think of me. I still care what people from high school think of me. Sometimes I can't see the forest for the trees.

So here's my confession. I'm all right. In fact I'm quite well. I have a wife who loves me, who is beautiful, and who is more wonderful than I deserve. My kids are great, educated, and happily married. My grandkids are fabulous, smart, and beautiful. My granddaughter Anika has travelled with us to Italy, Paris, London, and Ireland--not to mention Hawaii. My one-year-old granddaughter spent Thanksgiving on the westside of Oahu last year. I've been lucky enough to travel, our bills get paid, and while I have a few more aches and pains than some folks, I suffer a lot less than others. I live in this wonderful area, where there's lots of trees and deer and lizards and flowers. Coyotes in the hills. Open space. Horses.

As a kid, I often felt that no one really stood up for me. Okay, Mom wasn't a cookies and milk type and I rarely saw my dad. Nonetheless, I did have some people in my corner. Both sets of my grandparents doted on me, and my maternal grandparents took me in.

I was luckier than that though. In my high school years, I ran away like once a year. Jackie Landis' parents took me in one time, and even braved the wrath of my mother. They did it for no other reason that I was friends with their son and daughter. Thank you. That was really cool.

And my Aunt Mary and Uncle Tony took me in for a little while when I was as confused as I could be, and without another place to go. Thank you also. Aunt Mary, you are the best aunt ever. I thought it then, and I think it now.

So what's this confession all about? Is it because I still like old loved-and-lost songs? I think that's a part of it. Another part is because I have recently come across old friends from the old days again. It first happened after our 20 year high school reunion. Then in June of this year--or was it July--there was another reunion of our high school class. After the first one, somehow Jackie Landis and I found each others' address. This time I heard from Shelley Bridgman. I also heard from Ron Walashek again. The only other person I know from those days is John Belik. Eons ago he made me a surfboard, and I hooked up with him probably seven years ago in Maui for a few hours.

I always go all weird when it comes to high school friends. In a way, it was the best of times for me--and the worst. I know, I know, but I'm not going to explain it. Which brings us back to that 20 year high school reunion.

Late one night, from that reunion, Ron Walashek called me on the phone. He woke me out of a sound sleep. It was cool and strange. We got together once after that. Well, you know how that stuff goes. Last time I talked with him was after the '89 quake up here.

Ron was probably my best friend in high school. He was the only guy that got me anyway. So again, he called--and then I wrote this story, which got published in this now-defunct magazine out of Chicago. I put it here because--well maybe it's good. It all started with that phone call.

Thanks to all the people who liked me then, and still remember me. I miss you all, but I'm doing well.

Asleep

One night she called. Tim, asleep again, answered on the second ring. He hadn't spoken to Deidre for twenty years.

"Imagine us living in the same place all these years and not bumping into each other," she said.

"It's a big city," he said.

"I didn't get up the nerve to call until tonight. I was out with some friends and I drank too much wine so I called. Why weren't you at the reunion?"

"I didn't have the money." He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "I'm unemployed."

"If there was one person I wanted to see there it was you," she said.

He didn't know what to say so he said nothing.

Deidre filled the silence. She said she was widowed "Imagine, at thirty-six," and overworked trying to care for her husband's business and lonely sometimes. She talked about high school, a time inTim's life he would just as soon forget. At the end of the call, she insisted they meet for lunch Wednesday. "My treat," she said. "It'll give me a chance to pay you back."

"You don't need to pay me back," he said.

But she insisted.

On Wednesday morning when the alarm rang, Tim reset it and went back to sleep. The alarm rang again and he reset it. It rang again and he stayed in bed checking the clock every minute or so. He thought, I'll lay here just one more minute, but he dozed and didn't rise for ten more minutes. When he finally got out of bed he had to rush around to get ready. He showered, and dressed in his navy-blue blazer with the frayed pocket where he always kept his big ring of keys and his power-tie with the grease stain on it. They were the only decent clothes he had left. He wore them to job interviews, dinners, weddings, funerals, and any other occasion that might arise.

He chased and caught a streetcar two minutes after he left his Sunset district studio. Somehow, Tim arrived downtown on time. He sat in the lobby of the hotel where he was to meet Deidre, yawning.

She arrived twenty minutes late. When she walked in, he recognized her right away. She hadn't changed much. Something about the luminescence of the pearls and the cashmere next to her smotth, unlined skin made her look younger than he hoped she'd look. Tim wondered if she'd had plastic surgery. He thought, if he were rich and handsome he'd want to be seen with a woman like her. But being seen with her now would only make him feel inadequate. His legs felt like jelly. He panicked as he looked around for an exit--but too late--she'd spotted him.

"Tim?" she said as she approached.

"Deidre?" he said, trying for nonchalance.

"Good to see you," she said. "You still look the same."

"And you still look like a kid," he said.

"If only it were true." She took him by the arm. On the way to the elevator to the restaurant she jabbered all the while about traffic and business calls. "I really know nothing about business," she said.

At the entrance to the restaurant, the maitre d' addressed her as Mrs. St. Clair. "If Mrs. St. Clair and the gentleman will follow me," he said.

Tim hoped they wouldn't be seated under the massive chandelier. Wouldn't want to be under that thing when the next big quake hit. The maitre d' seated them at a table overlooking the garden-court.

The menus came. While Tim tried to decide what to order, she talked about problems involving "a property in Monterey."

He hoped she wouldn't forget her promise to buy the lunch. Of course, he'd feign an offer to buy, that was only fair.

"I'll have the chicken," she said when the waiter came for their order.

"The chicken breast with the brandy and artichokes?" the waiter asked.

"No, no." She yanked open the menu and jabbed at it with her finger. "This," she said.

"The baked?" the waiter asked.

"Whatever."

Tim ordered a steak.

"What kind of wine should we have?" Deidre said, passing him the wine list.

"None for me," Tim said.

"Why not?" She squinted at him as if this were some sort of trickery.

"I'm a recovering alcoholic."

"Oh." There was a moment's silence. "I didn't know. Do you mind if I have wine? Would it bother you?"

"Not at all," Tim lied.

She opened the list and pointed.

After the waiter left she said, "So, after all these years here we are."

"Here we are," Tim said.

She talked.

Tim only half-listened. He could feel the sweat soaking the back of his shirt. It seemed difficult to concentrate on what she was saying.

When the wine came, Deidre made a toast. "To old friends," she said.

"Skoal," Tim said and raised his glass of water with lemon. After he drank he picked up the bottle of wine and read the label.

During lunch, Deidre did most of the talking. She picked at her chicken. Every time the waiter passed he refilled her wine glass. The more she drank the less she talked about business and the more she talked about high school. Tim chewed his steak and nodded at the appropriate times. The food was good, even if he didn't know who was paying for it.

While Tim picked apart a pear tart, Deidre asked, "Remember that night at Buddy Burgers? You really saved my skin."

"I didn't save your skin, but I remember."

At the fast food joint where Tim worked, Robert Rossi, Deidre's boyfriend had punched Deidre in the face. Tim rushed out from behind the counter swinging the metal bar they used to close off the rear entrance at night, and chased Robert out of the place. It was his only act of heroism. Then Tim gave the other workers, Carlos and Bill Peters, the rest of the night off. He closed up the restaurant one hour early, and drove Deidre home. He lost his job for the act of chivalry. On top of that, Robert Rossi had made the last few weeks of Tim's senior year hell.

"What a night," Deidre said while the waiter poured the last of the merlot into her glass.

That night, in the car, she's leaned against the passenger's side door in her off-the-shoulder, forest green formal. He could smell her perfume mixed with the odor of beer. Even with the mascara running down her face and a thick, cut lip, he still thought she was beautiful. For a moment, Tim thought about pulling over and trying to comfort her. Imagine what she would've told her friends if he'd tried to kiss her or something.

"You lost you job," she said as she set the empty wine glass on the table.

"It was a lousy job anyway." Since then there were more lost jobs, a bankruptcy and a divorce.

"And here we are," she said.

"Here we are," he repeated.

She reached across the table and took his hand. "Twenty years," she said.

Deidre paid for the lunch with her American Express. Until the waiter brought the receipt, Tim continued to protest, if weakly.

"I won't hear of it," she said.

Tim stood.

Deidre stood and staggered. "Whoops," she said. "I'm afraid I've had too much to drink."

"How are you getting home?" he asked.

"Will you drive me?" she said and leaned against him. "My car is here in the garage."

When the valet brought Deidre's Cadillac, he handed Tim the keys. A shiver coursed through Tim. He felt like he held her whole life in his hands.

She lived in Pacific Heights in an apartment building. When they arrived, she pointed the automatic garage door opener at the garage door. She held the device as if she hadn't done the same thing a thousand times and aimed with one eye closed.

Tim parked.

She said, "Here we are. You'll come up, of course."

"I guess."

As they walked to the elevator, she took his arm. "I moved out of the house on Franklin shortly after Fred died. That was his house--his family's. He had adult children from a previous marriage and when they started looking at me funny, I got out. I still kept our house in Carmel, though. Maybe you can see it sometime."

Her apartment took up the entire sixth floor. Tim unlocked the front door. They entered and Deidre kicked off her shoes.

"Can I get you something?" she asked.

"I'm stuffed," he said.

"Well, I'm going to have another glass of wine. Go sit." She pointed toward the living room. She left for what he imagined was the kitchen.

Tim slipped Deidre's keys into his pocket with the others.

The apartment smelled of furniture wax. The living room was all blond wood, antiques, paintings, and sculptures. It looked more like an art gallery than a residence. There was an uncluttered, almost unnatural order to the place. He sat on the sofa.

Deidre walked into the living room. One hand held the glass she was drinking from and the other carried a bottle of wine. Deidre put the bottle on the coffee table. She sat next to him.

"Sure I can't get you anything?" she asked.

"Positive."

She sipped her wine then set her glass down. When she pulled her feet up on the sofa, it brought her closer to him. "So, tell me about yourself," she said.

He could feel her breath on his cheek. "Not much to tell," he said, "I'm trying to get my life together."

"Do you need work?"

"I'm okay," Tim said. "I've got some possibilities."

"Because if you need a job, Fred's business always needs good people. Are you interested?"

"Maybe I should go." He stood, but she grabbed his hand . "Sit," she said. "I'm not trying to insult you. I just want to help."

Tim sat.

She didn't let go of his hand. "I don't think you understand how you saved me that night. I was always expected to be so perfect."

Tim stared at the floor. Deidre leaned into him, kissed him on the cheek and hugged him. He didn't hug back but she held on anyway for a minute. When she broke the hug she said, "Don't you like me?"

He felt shaky suddenly. He didn't know if this was a come-on or not, so he said of course he liked her--why wouldn't he?

"You're not gay or anything?" she asked. "I mean it's all right if you are, but I'm just wondering if I'm wasting my time..."

"No," he said. He wasn't sure if he wanted to be the subject of a what-would've-happened-if-you-would've-kissed-me experiment. Deidre must have sensed his confusion because she returned to small talk and drinking her wine.

Before Tim left that day, Deidre made him promise to come back to the apartment Sunday night for dinner. She told him to think about the job. St. Clair Properties really could use someone and if he wanted, they would discuss it then. He promised he would think it over. At the door, she kissed him, on the lips this time.

Tim walked down Van Ness, headed for a locksmith near Broadway. After he had copies of all of Deidre's keys made, he walked back to her apartment. She rang him in. He returned her keys and apologized for his absentmindedness.

She grinned. "Come in for awhile," she said.

"I have to get home."

"Don't forget Sunday," she said, then kissed him.

Tim took a bus back home and went to bed.

Thursday, Tim called Deidre and got her answering machine. He took a bus then walked to her apartment building. No one was in the lobby. He rang her apartment. When he got no answer, he let himself in with the key. After he rode the elevator to her floor, Tim entered the apartment.

It felt like this every time he went back. There was a thrill to it--a shiver. His heart always seemed to skip when he first entered. He always felt light-headed. His skin felt cool and hot at the same time. It had felt the same when he went back to Buddy Burgers and to what used to be his house after the divorce and in the early morning hours when he sneaked into all the offices where he'd worked using the keys he always copied.

Tim walked into Deidre's bedrooom. He looked in her closet hoping to find the same forest-green formal she wore that night in high school when he drove her home. Instead, he found the cashmere sweater and skirt she'd worn on Wednesday. Tim rubbed it against his cheek. It felt soft and smelled of her perfume. Her clothes smelled like he remembered. That was a part of her appeal even back in high school, the scent of her as she passed in the hall. Even then he would breathe in her almost ethereal tropical flower scent and sigh sometimes as she passed.

He went through her drawers, took a pair of her panties and rubbed them between his fingers. He imagined the garment close to her skin. The waistband would leave a reddish mark around her waist. Maybe someday he would get to see that mark and kiss it until the redness disappeared to pinkness and the pinkness to pale white. That night back in high school--he'd wanted to kiss the hurt away. That was all, just kiss the hurt away.

Tim replaced the panties, straightened the drawer, then closed it. He got onto the bed. The bedspread felt cool on his back. He looked at his watch and decided to stay only ten more minutes. Tim closed his eyes. The whole room smelled of her. It felt of her. He could imagine being with her. The sensation of Deidre made him dizzy and drained his strength. He could stay on the bed forever. Anxious, again he checked his watch. Nine more minutes. He sighed as he curled up and reclosed his eyes. Time was passing very slowly, he thought. Sometimes, at the best of times, each minute seemed very long indeed. He inhaled her scent from the bedspread and closed his eyes. Before he fell to sleep, he imagined he could feel Deidre's lips brushing his cheek.###

I Should Be Learning-- Stay tuned for more here

2011-11-16T09:47:00.001-08:00

There's more on this subject to come. I am at Adult School. It's sort of daycare for adults and I learn stuff that keeps me out of trouble and makes me have to wake up usually at a decent hour. Actually I quite enjoy it. Love the Power Point application, and Word. I am not so keen on Excel and Access.

The point is I am supposed to be making myself employable. So instead, I sit here working on my blog.

The original purpose of this space was to produce pictures like this. Something kind of fun. Never figured it wouldn't take off, but it didn't. So then I started to pontificate. Shame on me. But I won't stop now. I'm used to it.

Ah, I notice I have another fan. Hip-hip-hooray! We're up to 11. That's not enough I know because I have a few detractors who have brought it up. Nonetheless, we're not bailing.

Soon I hope to start work on another blog. I thinking of calling it "Positive Space."

If I know about one subject, it is about melancholy (depression.) I swear I have battled it since I was in fifth grade. I'm hoping to create a space where people who are-- we'll stick with "melancholy" can put in their two cents in an effort to help others. If there's something I have learned it is that people who are in trouble need a project of some sort in order to feel there is some accomplishment in their life. I am not trying to be saintly nor condescending, but if people just realize that they can help others with the same problems, well, it's a start, isn't it?

It all started with this "Success Poem" which I read in a typing test in my daycare. Check it out.

To laugh often and much;

To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children;

To earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends;

To appreciate beauty, to find the best in others;

To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition;

To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived.

This is to have succeeded.

--- inaccurately attributed to

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Poor Ralph Waldo Emerson didn't actually write this. Actually lucky for him he gets credit for it. Actually I wrote "Catcher in the Rye." Inaccurately attribute that one to me.

I have more on this topic--not the "Catcher in the Rye" thing but on this blog and the blog I want to start soon.

Let me know what you think. As always, Lulu my dog, all my family dogs, and I wish you well. Have a nice Thanksgiving everyone.

Warning: These Dogs Are Manipulating You!

2011-09-29T15:21:00.000-07:00

I'm always amazed at how prevalent dogs are in advertising. Puppies are used to draw one kind of response; Boston Terriers another; Great Danes are often laying about the furniture, but aren't they just too cute about it.

Our pets are used as a sort of emotional shorthand. I don't necessarily mind this manipulation, but certainly I'm beginning to wonder if the public is capable of processing real emotions in this age of symbols.

You can bet advertisers are not often going to show a family of whelping puppies and the sagging teats of the mother dog. Reality ruins the symbolism.

I'm pretty sure the sides in the pit bull debate can be drawn up pretty easily. Let's see: I'll bet 98% of Hells Angels think pit bulls are pretty cool. Cat owners hate them. That guy down the street who lets his dog run the neighborhood, he likes pit bulls too-- at least he thinks there shouldn't be any sort of a ban on them. Dogs are often a symbol of rebellion or freedom for some folks.

What's it all mean?

Take Ren and Stimpy. The sheer brilliance of those characters wasn't just the shaking Ren and the Stimpy with the filthy cat box. Actually those characters were fleshed out quite well. Ren was portrayed as a nihilistic intellectual, while Stimpy was more dog than cat. Just imagine if Stimpy had been drawn and acted like an aloof feline that we often see. The show never would have made it to air. But make Stimpy kind of a dope, give him the voice of Larry from The Three Stooges and suddenly the show was a can't miss for all the repressed adolescents in America.

But the manipulation of your feelings isn't as sophisticated as the above-mentioned cat and dog cartoon. We are victims of the idea that everything can be represented quickly and easily by a word, a sound byte, a catchphrase, or a photo or video clip. Are we loosing the ability to think?

Your detergent can make your clothes whiter than white, but heaven forbid that the same detergent has "white power."

I might think Sarah Palin is a bit of an idiot for her reliance weaving homespun rhetoric into the conversation instead of discussing the issues. Nonetheless, many people would fault President Obama for his rhetorical intellectualism. Neither politician seems to have an answer to the malaise that has overtaken this country. However you see it, these people are symbols. It's easy to agree or disagree with a symbol. It's not so easy to discern the shades of gray in their characters or their political stances.

I can't use the N-word, but I can't use niggardly either. By the way, the words are from two totally different origins-- of course you knew that.

Gay Marriage.
Universal Health Care.
Immigration Reform.
Affirmative Action.
The Cat Lady

Yippee! I've got an opinion on all of them. But the words themselves shouldn't dictate the discussion. Even putting a "No" in front of some of the words doesn't necessarily define the debate.

No Gay Marriage
No Universal Health Care might explain one's feelings, but No Immigration Reform might mean that things should remain the same or that the reforms should be more restrictive.

I suppose a crusade to think more before we react is needed. Oh my! Did I say "crusade?" Sorry, so sorry.

cru·sade

verb /kro͞oˈsād/
crusaded, past participle; crusaded, past tense; crusades, 3rd person singular present; crusading, present participle

Lead or take part in an energetic and organized campaign concerning a social, political, or religious issue

- he crusaded against gambling in the 1950s

How does The Cat Lady fit in with the other words? Come on, how evocative are those three words?

It's all just so easy to manipulate people. Just think about it.

Pit Bulls Do Kill

2011-08-25T14:26:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, a pregnant woman in Pacifica, California was mauled and killed by her male pit bull.

I have great esteem for persons who adopt animals from shelters. I'm not sure if the dog that killed this woman was from a shelter. It doesn't really matter. The woman's trust was misplaced. I'm sure this poor woman and her husband had endless stories about how loving and tame this dog acted-- before this tragedy.

I know, that no matter what, people will come out of the woodwork, praising their pit bull/pit bull mix animals for their loyalty and calm demeanor. "This is another attack on the breed," they'll say. "You know how many pit bulls there are that are great, friendly dogs? It's not the dog's fault, it's the owner."

Let's stop. It is the breed. Pit bulls are the most likely breed of animal to be involved in fatal dog attacks on humans. I can offer four cases of lethal pit bull attacks in the SF Bay Area alone. A thirteen year old boy was attacked in his basement in San Francisco by a pit bull and died. Two toddlers that I know of have been killed in the Bay Area by pit bulls. And finally, there is the case of the pregnant woman most recently. I won't count the little East Bay kid maimed and disfigured by a pit bull-- he didn't die but only suffered horribly.

I know people will despise me for questioning their right to own these animals that are the equivalents of loaded guns. It's the American way, and I've already been the subject of hate posts when I questioned the egos of people who own large, dangerous breeds.

Honestly, I think most people who feel they are capable of owning pit bulls without trouble (attacks on other dogs; attacks on humans; pits running loose in the neighborhood after escaping either from their owners or their yards) aren't capable. Isn't part of the mystique of owning a bad ass dog the fact that the dog is a bad ass? You ever see a t-shirt with a cocker spaniel snarling and looking like a tank ready to attack? These shirts are owned by pit bull owners.

I have a pit bull living across the street from me. He runs loose sometimes. Now I have to worry about my own dog in her own yard.

There are some towns and counties that insist that all pit bulls be spayed or neutered. I agree with that. Only reputable, licensed breeders should be allowed to own pit bulls for breeding. I think other laws could be enacted that might stem some of the problems. Pit bulls that attack humans should be destroyed. Period. Pit bulls that kill other dogs should be destroyed. Period. Any dog that has fought and been rescued should be spayed or neutered. Any pit from a shelter should be spayed or neutered. A two strike law for any pit bull that attacks other animals, dogs, cats, etc. should be enacted. Perhaps a three strike law for pits that run loose should also be on the books.

Here's the thing. I think pit bulls as a breed have been raised for their agressiveness. This is dangerous. Dog fighters and misguided owners have bred these dogs not for their tameness, but for their fearsomeness. These traits might be a good thing when these dogs fought larger creatures in the old days, but not now. It's a crap shoot today. If a pit reverts to its primal instincts, someone is going to get hurt. That's not right or fair to other dog owners or dogs.

I saw a segment on a television show about a breeder of foxes in Eastern Europe. This breeder started treating some of his foxes like pets. Within one generation, these foxes started looking and acting more like domestic dogs. Imagine. One generation. Pit bulls bred for friendliness and calmness could be changed as a breed fairly quickly.

We need to stop being naive and protect ourselves and our dogs. Pit bulls need to change. We don't need these dogs to be killers anymore.

This Blog Is Sticking to Its Guns-- With Apologies to Philip Levine

2011-07-24T21:36:00.000-07:00

It's wonderful how I blog
I've got ivory-tower scruples
I will not kow-tow to the lure
of readers who read my every tweek

To the market, I will not bow
I'll not mention Lady Gaga
Sir Elton John
or type with my pudgy fingers

Of X-Men or X-Girls
Of Britney or Living Forever and Ever
Maintaining your beauty
or babies with IQs like Einstein

Oh, I dream of readers

Of steady eyes fastened to the screens

for fear they might miss

The latest greatest story about our Kate

You might think I'll cave

And drum upon the keys the tale

of Casey Anthony

and the Prince of Greece

discovering the fountain of money

or world famous freaks

to hook a reader by his teeth

I write about a dog. Yes. This blog.

With sincere apologies to Philip Levine

Check out his poem

Animals are Passing From Our Lives.

Enjoy the Fourth-- Leave Your Pets Inside

2011-07-02T10:37:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday U.S.A.

We love the Fourth of July. Our pets-- not so much. Remember, most pets get pretty skittish about fireworks. My dog freaks even at the explosions from the display five miles away. A few firecrackers can make life miserable for your pets.

There's more than a few sick humans out there who might hurt your cat or dog with fireworks. Don't let your animal be a victim. Keep them inside as much as possible. If your neighborhood is anything like mine, the explosions start a day or two before the holiday, and last a day or two after.

I just heard a news story last night about a "celebration" a year or so ago at Dolores Park in San Francisco. Someone decided to start tossing M-80s (is that what they're called?) into the crowd. It cost a girl one finger, the use of a couple of others, and countless surgeries. Let's be safe this Fourth. Protect your animals, protect yourself.

Remember, most places bottle rockets, firecrackers, M-80's, etc. are illegal. When you cut your kid loose with a string of firecrackers at the very least it's against the law. It may be dangerous, and it certainly sets a bad example.

Have a safe holiday.

Pablo Picasso the artist-- and Rover the Dog

2011-06-15T21:30:00.000-07:00

I remember the names of all my dogs and their personalities. My memory of my old classmates from high school is a little hazy though. So there is a class reunion going on for my high school next month, and a classmate of mine, Shelley friended me on Facebook.

Shelley and I were never an item. She's definitely a dish, even now-- but something always seemed to interfere with spending time with her back then. Once I went to see her in my old Corvair. The cops gave me a ticket because my engine was smoking so bad. I had to drive the car home and get it off the road. Another time I saw her I was on the verge of quitting college, leaving home, and moving from San Diego to San Francisco. It all worked out. I've got a great family and a good life.

Last year I lost my job at the US Postal Service. I hated the Postal Service and my job. I had no respect for the management and they had no respect for me. Because of an on-the-job injury, I couldn't carry mail, so they booted me out of the office job they'd created for me. Employing me might have led to the insolvency of the USPS. Heaven forbid.

Being let go from a crappy job might be worse than losing a good one. When I lost my numb skull job, I wondered just how pathetic I had become. Depression set in. I slept, played Farmville, and sat in my hot tub and smoked cigars. I didn't do much even though I had a lot of time. I just marked time, and at near 60, my swagger disappeared. (I've always been way too needy I suppose.)

Consequently, I have begun to examine just what I have accomplished in my life. I admit to all the excesses of youth and more than my share of selfishness. But have I left anything of value?

I'm going to try to tie this all together now. My constant readers, all three of you, are aware of the leaps I take in these blogs. I'm asking you to accept another leap.

My wife and I went to see a Picasso exhibit at the De Young Museum in San Francisco last Sunday. I am not a fan of Picasso. I wasn't keen on him before the exhibit, and am even less impressed now. I like art. I love impressionist art. I love Renaissance art. I find Picasso's art mean-spirited and usually ugly. I know his reputation. I know his imprint upon modern art. He just angers me.

So, Picasso from Heaven can look down and feel fulfilled because he created I suppose.

I don't know what I've left to speak for myself. Some short stories, articles, some good feelings and love. I never cured cancer or volunteered at a soup kitchen.

I like Nabokov, who wrote the novel "Lolita." It is a brilliant novel, as are his other works. But despite all his brilliance, he will be known mostly as the guy who wrote about the love of an older man for a pre-teen girl. Does he get a pass to Heaven?

Is Larry Flynt accomplished because of his fight for journalistic freedom?

When he was alive, did J.D. Salinger feel accomplished, or did he wonder if the Great American Novel and a couple of handfuls of short stories really were all he could have done with his talent?

The tennis player, Bjorn Borg made his biggest splash in life by the age of 21. It's been all downhill for him since then.

I don't have the answers to the questions I might be asking. I wish I did.

I remember my dogs. They came through for me and others.

I remember Shelley from high school. And Jackie Landis and Ron Walashek and Karen Riggs and John Belik. Something special about them made an imprint on my feeble memory.

Some of these people remember me. I hope they judge me favorably. I guess that's the best one can wish for.

Bullying Dog Style-- Google's Ad Campaign

2011-05-23T15:33:00.000-07:00

I don't bully-- I sleep and watch tv.

So, Google has an ad campaign on television now that is about bullying-- especially the bullying of gay persons. In my effort to at least mention dogs in each of these posts, I'd like to tell you about my dog, (now deceased) Maurice.

Early on, when we moved to the house where we live now, the dog next door came under the fence and chewed up Maurice. He had open wounds, needed stitches, and was altogether in a bad way. Maurice was a lab mix, on the small side-- not a fighter at all, even though he was a trifle grumpy at times.

After the mauling, while Maurice made a full recovery, but he could not be around loose dogs without taking grief. Some fear component in him made itself apparent to the dogs around, and running loose on a beach for example, led to him being bitten. I felt bad for him. He never had problems around dogs before, and here he was, suddenly a target.

I'd been the target of bullying now and again. It's pretty awful. I suppose a time or two as a teen, I'd even bullied some myself. I remember fighting some guy at the mall just because he was there. He cut my eyelid with his fingernail during the fight. I bleed like a stuck pig. Served me right. The next year at school I apologized to this guy for my being such an ass. That apology was probably as enlightened as I ever was as a teenager.

Bullying is a rotten, demeaning, miserable thing. You'd be surprised at my politics, so don't pigeon-hole me quite yet. I have a problem with gay politics, as much as I have a problem with Rush Limbaugh. Everyone gets bullied in high school. Every group has to endure bullying. That doesn't make it right. It doesn't make it easier for gay people, or any other group. It doesn't build toughness. It doesn't build character. It leads to heartbreak, depression, and even suicide.

Some people just don't want to fight. They don't want to defend themselves, or their characters just because they are perceived as different. Again, bullying does not build character.

There's a show on MTV2 called "Bully Beatdown." People who are the subject of bullying send an appeal to the show in an effort to stop their suffering. Always the bullies are totally deluded. They've broken the arms of the victims, thrown them down stairs, caused damages to eyes, skulls, and all limbs. Often they feel they are teaching their victims a lesson by toughening-up the always smaller, less aggressive, and usually unsuspecting victims.

A guy named Mayhem hosts the show. He was a mixed martial arts fighter who had won over thirty matches. He is a bad ass, and he had been bullied himself as a kid. Mayhem brings in one of his fighters to challenge the bully in the "cage." The deluded bully always thinks he's going to beat up the mixed martial arts professional, and if he can, he can win up to $10,000. I've seen some pretty bad ass bullies on that show. Even when they manage to win any of the money in the two rounds of fighting, they usually pay a heavy price in damage to their bodies. And always, the beating they take leads to an apology to the people they have bullied. Funny what changes a couple of serious kicks to the liver and minor concussions can bring about.

Unfortunately, when the bully gets his ass kicked on the show, it is again-- bullying. On one show, Mayhem, who is usually just a host, actually fights the bully himself. I've never seen anyone get their ass kicked that bad. The bully ends up losing the whole ten grand and gets beat senseless on top of it.

Look, even if you are a Bible thumper who detests the sin of gay sex, gay people don't deserve the scorn people heap upon them. Even if you think your victims are characterless, offensive, and miserable blots upon the universe, please, don't bully them. Hate the sin, not the sinner. Jesus only attacked the money changers at the Temple, not the prostitutes.

Being bullied has so many consequences other than a split lip. Do unto others etc. Walk a mile in another's shoes. Just stop. You don't have to be a teen to be a bully, but you can stop the cycle no matter what age you are. Don't judge. Don't cast the first stone.

Think those sarcastic comments to your nephew about his hair or dress is going unnoticed. They're not. Give the kid a break, he's going through enough just trying to fit in.

Kudos to Google.

Are Dogs the Perfect Humans

2011-04-05T14:58:00.000-07:00

It's been nearly two months since I posted here. My mother, who was hospitalized in late January, is... well, alive and kicking. She had serious surgery that nearly killed her. Now she is in a care facility that luckily has two dogs. She misses her own dog, but at least she has friends.

This picture is of a dog that rode the Funicula on the Isle of Capri. The story of this fellow was the subject of one of my first blogs here.

So, I get the Dog/God thing. So are dogs more renaissance creatures than humans?

Certainly they're not cynical. They are always hopeful. Maybe, just maybe you'll drop that cube of butter or that rack of spareribs off the barbecue. They're always surprised when you come home. Well, maybe they're always happy to see you anyway. They forgive. They don't start wars or invade countries. While they may engage in dominant behavior, come on, it all makes some kind of doggy sense to set up a social network that is understandable.

There's a show on television about how dogs changed the world. They were mankind's early warning systems. Thug the Caveman couldn't sneak up on your tribe if you had a dog around. They kept the camp clean. They were man's best friend since before recorded history.

I feel a little goofy writing this today. I've been writing on a novel which is long form, and I know this is disjointed perhaps, but I need to get back on the horse. So here I am.

What if dogs really played poker?
Ah, that reminds me of a joke my wife's father told me.
I'm sure I've used it here before. I don't hear a lot of new jokes anymore.

So my dog plays poker but he's not very good at it.
Why?
Because every time he gets a good hand, he wags his tail.

I know this anyway. If dogs played poker, after they won all your chips, I'm pretty sure they'd return them. Especially if they could fetch them.

How's Penny and Leaving Las Vegas

2011-02-10T12:38:00.000-08:00

My mother wants to know how her dog Penny is doing. At this moment the doctors are feeding her oxygen. She's had ten inches of her colon removed, has suffered a post-surgical stroke, and her resting heart rate sometimes reaches over 200 beats per minute. She is holed up a mere three miles from the Las Vegas strip. When last I saw here, she had countless tubes inserted into her veins. She's definitely being tortured for her own good I suppose. Such medical care is undignified at best. A one-way trip to the pound for our pets is a better deal.

"We know you are suffering," we tell our pets. "We know you don't understand, and your chances for recovery are nil." We cry, maybe we even purchase an urn with "Fido" on it. A moment of fear-- a quick injection, and we weep.

Think it's better to fight the good fight? Medical care provides us miracles? Trust me on this. Better to go out like James Dean or Elvis on the toilet than the torture involved with being near 80 and recovering from years of self-induced bodily abuse and surgical miracles.

Think you can beat the odds of a torturous death by being the absolute ruler of more than half-a-billion souls? Stalin died without medical care because his underlings were afraid to act when he'd suffered a stroke. They didn't want to be murdered for doing the wrong thing.

Et tu, Brute?

Think your faith will save you from an ignoble end, whether that faith is religious or otherwise? Maybe being crucified upside down or burned at the stake rings a bell. Trotsky was dispatched with an axe.

Is it more humane to put us off onto an iceberg to make peace with our God and fall asleep? Should we all opt for a trip to the pound to be made into Soylent Green?

I'm trying to understand all this. My mother was always the prettiest mom around when I was a kid. I didn't know anything was odd about my upbringing. I thought every kid's mom taught them to play blackjack in first grade. I thought every mom drove a Corvette or a pink T-Bird. Wouldn't every mom who got mad at her husband throw a rock through his car window?

Penny is all right by the way. My sister has her. My sister too, despite being a woman of great ability, aptitude, and patience is kind of lost about our mom's illness.

We don't feel we're getting an idea of the odds of recovery. Oh, yeah-- this is Vegas. What's the odds of her making it? Is it like rolling a ten before crapping out? Like double-zero on the roulette wheel? What's a better bet-- is it that you'll come off the slots ahead after a wild Vegas weekend or that my mom's gonna make it? Maybe the slogan of "What goes on in Vegas, stays in Vegas" isn't such a cool thing. I don't want to go in Vegas. Don't die in Vegas. Leave it.

Being human is a burden-- as is being humane.

I don't know the morale of this story. I don't know if there is one. I'm wandering about kind of lost right now. I know, for good or bad, that my mother was this unbelievable life force. She could as often be unreasonable and petty as kind. She regretted nothing I think, and yet spent some considerable time trying to make up for what she put her children through. She's borderline type-2 diabetic, missing a considerable portion of her colon, lost mobility even before the stroke, can't swallow, and is going to fed with a tube. Yet I truly believe if you had told her all this 50 years ago, it wouldn't have changed her a bit. She'd have been travelling with her big gulp glass full of vodka and downing nary a vegetable no matter what. I expect she thought she'd die riding a motorcycle.

Penny is all right mom, and she misses you.

Dog Shirts-- No Phone-- Instant Gratification

2010-12-16T11:55:00.000-08:00

I haven't written this blog for nearly a month. In that time I've been to Hawaii, spent a week without home phone service, and put a shirt on my dog. To show how clever I am, I will tie this all together in a neat little knot by the end.

Almost no one gets good cell phone reception at my house. So a week ago today my home phone went dead. I was virtually stuck without a phone. AT&T, who we called immediately upon learning that we had no phone, told us we would have our service back by Saturday. On Saturday, we were told that Tuesday we would get service. On Tuesday, when the phone didn't work, we were assured that the problem was in our lines and not their problem. I had to go outside and open up the box and check it out. Finally, on Wednesday, a great technician came out before 8:30 in the morning, and worked past 5:00 p.m. fixing AT&T's lines that were messed up.

I have no expectation that anyone at AT&T short of the tech who came by really gives a damn that they gave me the run-around. Still, I will probably waste my time writing a nasty note.

While I was in Hawaii my daughter Kirsten,stayed in California with her husband, Anika my granddaughter, and her dog, my dog, and my other daughter's dog. During that time she bought my female dog, Lulu, a shirt.
The shirt says "Got Treats?" It's pretty cute but I never thought my dog would allow us to put a shirt on her. Well I guess she's cold. She comes right over to me and allows me to put the shirt on without embarassment. Now that is instant gratification. Making your dog look silly or cute is fun. Instantly.

We live in a society that doesn't want to wait. That's what makes dealing with phone companies, computer techs on the phone, and lines at Disneyland such a drag. The corporate world could care less about your time. Call a computer tech when your p.c. doesn't fire and ask for some help.

"Dou-ba cleek on yer star boton."
"What?"
"Yer star buton."
"I'm sorry, I don't understand you."
"Star buton, star boton."
Five minutes later you get "Start button" out of that.
It's not the tech's fault. He speaks better English than you probably. But you can't get his accent. Think Dell or HP or anyone cares?
Not likely.

That's what makes Hawaii a really cool place to visit. Especially when it's freezing even in California. There's an immediate hit of warmth and exoticism in the place. Sit still an hour and there's a vine growing over you. The ocean is always warm. It's a now thing. You don't have to travel to the museum, or the four star restaurant. Arrive at the airport and you are there.

Dogs too, give an immediate joy to life. They'll chase their tail. They'll wear a hat if you make them. They'll sit around all day with a feather stuck on their nose.

We like life without complications. Moreso now than ever because the world has gotten so damn complicated. When you wait a week for a guy to come over and fix your phone, you don't want to wait ten minutes for your computer to load.

We like slogans. "Where's the beef?"
"Are you ready for some football?"
"Wha's up?"

We want our politicians to fix the messes now. Two years to repair our economy? Too long. I'm gonna vote next time for a politician who knows what I want-- someone who says "You betcha."

We don't even value our words anymore. Just the sound of a word is enough to cause a storm of protest. If the first three letters suggest another offensive word-even if the meaning is totally different, you can't use the original word. I won't go into it for fear of putting off the audience, but think about it.

Give me a dog in a funny hat and a trip to Hawaii. That's really simple and I get it.

Limping Lulu

2010-11-17T11:21:00.000-08:00

My Lulu is limping. She is favoring her left hind leg. We took her to the vet and the vet says there is no real danger or anything that needs to be addressed immediately, and Lulu seems not to even know she's supposed to limp when there's something exciting going on. Still, she's eight and one-half. She's getting older.

Lynn, my fantastic wife said she never even thought of Lulu as an older dog. Lulu is still playful, loves walks (she doesn't limp during those) and patrols our large yard like a champ, even when she sometimes has to do it on three legs.

Eight years ago I had to put our Scottish Terrier down because he couldn't work his hind legs. He was in great pain and couldn't do much but moan and poop on himself.

Putting your animal to sleep is an awful thing. It seems such a betrayal of their trust. I've done it twice and watched it once. With our dog Pearl we couldn't even stand to be present and I truly regret this.

While at the vet's the other day, there was a dog who was going to be put to sleep in the waiting room. He couldn't work his hind legs in any way other than to keep himself in a permanent squat, yet he still showed curiousity and spunk. His owner used a walker, and the irony of the situation was sad.

Dogs bring such joy, but unfortunately, they don't outlive their owners. It's a shame they don't just check out when we do.

I'm hoping with rest and care that this limping will resolve itself. It's been on and off for awhile now. I hope it doesn't develop into something worse. Our responsibilities as pet owners can sometimes be sad. Putting a dog to sleep is something you never forget.

Now, my dog Maurice dropped dead trying to run away. He was sick we knew, but comfortable and well-loved. He loved to explore, and so he sauntered off down our driveway seemingly headed for a jaunt around the neighborhood. When I called him back, he dropped dead. God bless his weak little heart. Hope I go the same way.

Nice To Meet You Baby.

2010-11-10T10:47:00.000-08:00

My new granddaughter Holland is surrounded by a group of dogs. There's Moo, who we consider her brother; Lulu, her aunt; and Xena, her cousin. I know it sounds silly, but there you go.

Each dog had its own particular method of first meeting the baby. Moo decided to lick Holly's head at first. Lulu ran about the room acting like she had lots to do and worry about because a baby had arrived; and Xena, with a tail that could knock you off your feet, held her tail in check and licked baby's feet upon first meeting the baby.

I think it's fabulous how understanding dogs are of small children. Of course, I am not overlooking the rare occasions when dogs attack kids. It happens. Even a Scottish Terrier I owned nipped my granddaughter Anika when she was small. That dog was a handful, but to be fair, Anika tried to pull a blanket out from under the dog and I think he got scared.

I recently heard about a dog that "kidnapped" a baby to take to the woods to care for it. Luckily the child did not die but problems did occur due to the dog's mothering instinct.

Don't worry. I don't think dogs should be left alone with children. I do think they are a great addition to the life of our kids though.

Unfortunately, in this day and time, I don't think kids really get the relationships we older folks had with our animals. Playing outside is becoming something you have to tell kids to do today. God knows, if I had video games, the internet, and 120 channels on the tube, I never would've gone out either.

We had three channels when I was a kid. On Saturday mornings, there was a smoking cowboy with a pencil thin mustache on tv who ran old cowboy flicks all morning long. My grandmother had to kick me out of the house cause I'd watch cowboys named Johnny Mack and Buck ride all over the same So Cal backlot for hours on end. (Funny, the transmitter for that station was located in Tijuana and the backlot probably housed the Manson family in the 1970's.)

We had two dogs at my grandparents' house in La Mesa. First came Mack, a standard-sized collie that would follow me about the yard. Then came Beau, a standard-sized poddle. It wasn't so much that I played with them, but they followed me about my grandparents' huge yard. They owned about 2/3 of an acre and I roamed it as if it were the size of Hearst's place in San Simeon. There were Eucalyptus trees to climb, a pepper tree that hid an area for a fortress, and a six-foot wall my grandfather built that made a great fort. I used to man the walls, holding off Indians (sorry, Native Americans), redcoats, and other nasties with a Eucalyptus branch shaped like a musket. Some years later I went back to my grandparents, found that branch and you know what? It didn't really resemble a musket at all.

Ah, the loss of innocence.

Welcome Holly. Welcome to a world where dogs lick your toes, where tree limbs look like magic wands, and where all boys want to be cowboys and all girls want to be ballerinas. You're a lucky little girl. I hope you have wonderful imaginings. Remember, a dog can be a guest at your tea party.

The Dog Is More Spiritually Evolved I'm Sure.

2010-11-04T12:07:00.000-07:00

You know, I have my regrets. If only I could apologize for everything I've screwed up in near 60 years. It's an ego thing I'm sure. I am so freaking needy.
Dogs have no regrets. And most of the time they have no ego.
This makes them more "Zen" than I am I'm sure.

I'm not a member of AA. I'm not an alcoholic, but I do know that one of the 12 steps is to apologize to those you have wounded.

I'm sorry.

Why is my dog so cool and I'm so lame?

How can that be? I have free will. I have an intelligence that is greater than the poochy mind of my animal. Yet she wanders about the yard, free of guilt. Free of regret. Free.

No she can't open the gate and leave. She can't take off and wander the open space down the street. But she has no mortgage. She has no fear that someday she will run into someone she once knew and that person will say, "you know, you were a real jerk to me."

There is a door that one can walk through at St. Peter's in the Vatican. It is open like once every 100 years or so. Maybe once a millennium.

If you walk through this door supposedly all your sins are forgiven. Now I have seen the door, but I missed my chance to pass through it in 2000. What a shame.

Had my dog been born, and in Rome, she could have passed the door without sin. She could cast the first stone. She doesn't though. Not only is she without sin-- she is without the concept. She forgives. Devine!

Dogs are such better people than we are.

How Is a Pea-Brain Supposed to Remember All These Passwords

2010-10-26T12:23:00.000-07:00

I'm hopeless. How can I remember every freaking password I come up with? Come on. I've been locked out of my own blog for awhile now. I couldn't remember my password. I couldn't remember my G-mail password. I have a new granddaughter, a dog who needs a bath, and not a scrap of real energy

Sometimes I get on the floor at night if I'm too hyped to relax so I don't wreck my wife's sleep by being too jumpy in bed. Sometimes the dog lies next to me. Often not. She loves her dog bed. I have often thought of joining her there.

Lulu, my dog, met the baby for the first time ten days or so ago. I'm always so amazed at an animal's understanding of the needs of infants. Lulu went crazy with concern when she first met Holly. She was a bundle of nerves, moving about, looking in on the baby every few seconds. When my daughter went to feed Holly in the spare bedroom, Lulu checked in on her, and later, after she left, she spent some time in that bedroom looking concerned.

In a world gone mad, where we often forget about compassion, dogs have it right. Perhaps instead of humans for president, we should choose a dog. Maybe they should have the beds and we should have the floors.

NEW PUPPY HAS ARRIVED!

2010-10-05T09:46:00.000-07:00

Lulu is a new aunt to Holland Joanna Fowler. Grandparents are thrilled.

Lulu's Dog Chronicles-- Walk Today-- When Will the New Puppy Arrive?

2010-09-23T10:38:00.000-07:00

Nephew Moo came to visit today. I baby-sit him on Thursdays, and this young adult doesn't even have to sit on walks! I suppose I should thank him because Alpha and Lauren took me for a walk. Jeez, I haven't been out for a walk forever. We saw a little yappy poodle and a husky and a freaking squirrel. Wish Alpha would've let me loose to maul the squirrel but no... I have to near choke myself to get any leash at all. You'd think Alpha would get it but he doesn't. I never once saw him chase a squirrel the lazy s.o.b.

Lauren is gonna have puppies any day now. Can't wait. I'm ready. I guess it is my long-hidden maternal instinct coming out.

Alpha is showing some slight bit of spunk during the evenings now. He plays pull with me with the rope that looks like possum guts. Or big bone pull and throw. Last night, while I was trying to relax he tried to lure me with big bone tied to the rope. He called it "dog-fishing." How stupid does he think I am? I wouldn't bite on his little game, and I ignored him. Maybe I'll try "pull the remote control" with him sometime-- bet he stirs for that little game.

Well, I got to go play auntie with Moo. He often hangs out in the garage while I'm patrolling the yard. I try to teach him but he really is just a bit reticent to hunt for lizards or dig holes looking for gophers. What is it he thinks we're supposed to do around here? I mean the world doesn't stop turning cause he is visiting. Play I will. Wrestle with him is good, but when we're out we have to keep the yard clear of invaders. Come on, 18 hours of sleep a day is enough. Some days I only get 16 hours and I'm okay.

Mrs. says she's off this weekend. I expect another walk just might be in the offing. Alpha may just stay upright for an hour or two.

100 Posts! New Author. Lulu is now writing this blog

2010-09-20T13:17:00.000-07:00

Look, I took over this blog from Alpha. He's not keeping it up. So, in addition to chasing those damn squirrels, lizards, gophers, and an occasional rat, I'm forced to write this blog. No easy task with paws, let me tell you. No walk again today. If Alpha gets any more lazy Mrs. (the real Alpha) will have to leave him kibble next to the bed. I barely have time to bark at the garbage man, and he's inside doing nothing. In case you don't know anything about me, Alpha and Mrs. and Lauren bailed me outa jail eight years ago. That's 56 years ago for my math-challenged canine companions. I was pretty skittish then, but I'm the ruler of my yard now. I've taken down possums, gophers, rats, lizards, and even a bird. Well, I found a bird anyway. He was coughing up blood so I put him out of his misery.

And I'm smart. You know, when Alpha and Mrs. won't let me outside at night (they worry about me and skunks and even the odd mountain lion we hear rumors about) I crap in their bathroom. Yeah, just like they do. Now, that's freaking brilliant! Roll over my haunches. Let's see Lassie figure that one out. Anyway, I'm just trying to give you a little info about me as a person. I'm smart, brave, and I can ad lib a real ruckus if some intruder comes to the door trying to sign up the humans to save the earth. Works really well, Alpha or Mrs. holding me back and the brownies leaving a trail of cookies at the sight of me. Yeah! Stay tuned folks. This blog is gonna be great now that I took over.

Carly Still Needs a Home-- Adopt

2010-09-18T15:51:00.000-07:00

The Humane Society Silicon Valley is still trying to find a forever home for Carly. I'm at a loss to see how this hasn't happened yet. Adopt an animal in need. That's it! Carly is a female at little less than 3-years-old. HSSV has a video of this great pal. Check it out.
http://adopt.hssv.org/animal/animalDetails.asp?animalid=32256&result=16&statusID=3

Dog Meringue Dancing Champ-- AMAZING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2010-09-13T10:09:00.000-07:00

The more I see of dogs, the more I love them. My daughter Kirsten turned me onto this and I was kind of ho-hum-- sure, dancing dog. What a neat video! Please, this is so cool.

A "Dogged" Defense-- My First "Deleted" Post-- Bad Reviews

2010-09-03T23:30:00.000-07:00

I can't sleep.

A couple of days ago I wrote a blog which in passing mentioned Bear-Bear, the dog in Maryland shot by an off-duty police officer at a dog park. I have posted two other blogs about Bear-Bear. I am appalled by the event and have made an effort to make the story known to my few readers because I thought it was important.

This last piece I wrote that mentioned Bear-Bear I have deleted. It was poorly written and did not coherently make my point. I apologize to the readers of the piece for my poor writing. I dash off most of these stories in a few minutes, and they are often stream-of-consciousness stuff and usually only lightly edited. I didn't make my point clear, and feelings are raw about the shooting of an innocent dog by a trigger-happy police officer.

I would also like to make it clear that I am not "anti" dog park or against dogs running free in appropriate areas. It is true that I don't take my Lulu to dog parks. She is skittish. We believe she suffered mistreatment before we adopted her, and she is very protective of my family. I wouldn't put her in a position where she might hurt another dog or be attacked herself because of her anti-social "vibe." She plays in my large back yard with my children's dogs when they visit.

Now I am going to make a jump here, so stay with me. I have had my work reviewed before. In print, by editors, and even by my mother-in-law. Bad reviews hurt. In one case, a review of a short story of mine was quite glowing though they did have a quibble or two. I remember the quibbles. Always. I do not write only for the money alone, but because I like it and quite frankly, because I like good reviews.

I posted a link to my last, now-deleted blog entitled "Don't Live Vicariously Through Your Dog" to the Justice for Bear-Bear FB page. Several people who read the piece didn't understand it and skewered not only the piece, but me. It hurt. Not only that, but they insulted my dog. That's worse! Now, if the people had not been so personal, I would not be writing this. But some people were quite nasty. Like I said, feelings are raw about the Bear-Bear story, and I wrote badly. I take the blame for that.

Some folks see me as a self-aggrandizing hack. Probably guilty, I admit. I have cashed a lot of checks for my hack work. I have published hundreds of articles in magazines, newspapers, and online. I have written ad copy. A dozen of my short stories are in print. I suppose I fooled a lot of folks in my time. For those who were so outraged about my "Vicariously" blog, I will never convince them I am anything more than a hack. My suggestion: Don't read my blog. Those same people have been kind enough to point out my lack of readership. Again, they needn't have wasted their time. I am well-aware that I don't have a large audience.

When I started this blog I decided to try to post different and interesting stories about dogs. Now sometimes it is stretching to say that my blog is about dogs at all. One of my reviewers said my blog was, what was it, self-absorbed or something. Well, it's my damn blog and I'll write what I want to. I decided early on that I was not going to rely on cute puppy pictures to gain an audience. That's the way it's going to be. I write about myself, my dog, my feelings, Mel Gibson, Sarah Palin, werewolves, etc. etc. My blog-- my subject. Would I like to have 15,000 readers? You bet. But I won't cave to get them. Don't like the blog, don't waste your time on it. It's that easy.

My FaceBook page that connects to this blog lists animal adoption agencies. I have over 60 in my database so far. Occasionally a reader will post a dog for adoption onto their FB page because of my reminders. Thanks. That is my mission. To help dogs in need.

Now, we will jump again. I was trying to make a point in my "Vicariously" piece about responsible dog ownership. Let me try to do it more plainly.

There are untold numbers of dog bites in the United States each year. Service people like meter readers and postal carriers are sitting ducks for an out of control animal. Dog bites cause pain, lost days from work, and often the offending pet is euthanized.

In the last ten years or so, out of control dogs have caused three deaths in the San Francisco Bay Area. Two of those victims were children. Another, more famous victim, was a well-liked coach of lacrosse in Marin County.

One young boy in the East Bay lost his face to an uncontrolled pit bull.

People who like to be "tough" because they own agressive dogs are turning in those dogs in record numbers. Check your local shelter. Countless pit bull mix dogs are waiting for good homes. Those are the dogs that are able to be placed. Other dogs are destroyed because they are too agressive to go home with anyone.

People who thought Paris Hilton's Chihuahua was just too, too cute and, oh boy, it fits in my purse, are turning in Chihuahua mix dogs in record numbers. Again, check your shelters. Wanting to be tough or fashionable is no reason to own a pet.

Quick jump again. In every case that I know of personally where a dog has bitten someone, the owners were dismayed that the bite victim harassed their dog by placing an apendage into the dog's mouth. Americans are indignent when asked to control their animals. Again, an agressive dog is apt to take an one-way trip to the shelter to be destroyed.

In the case of the two children who were killed by pit bulls, both sets of animals were apparently kept inside most of the day. You don't even want to know what the owners of the dogs who killed the lacrosse coach had going on with their pets. I'll just say that they mistreated those animals in a way most folks can not even imagine.

Several dogs about a month or so ago in Golden Gate Park attacked several passers-by including a 70-year-old woman. One of the dogs was shot while police were trying to subdue it. Authorities believe the dogs belonged to the homeless who camp in the park. No one claimed those dogs and I assume they have been destroyed.

We owe both our dogs and our community a safe environment. Dogs that live in parks, in dark garages, or in tiny cages are being mistreated. Loose dogs are being put in a bad situation. Don't think so? Talk to the people at Baja S.A.F.E. about dogs running "free" and loose in Baja without food, water, or a vet's care. Talk to my sister who told me just today that dogs in Jamaica, where she lives, are poisoned if someone's goat goes missing. Check out the squashed dogs on the freeways because someone let their dog run free or ride in the back of a pick up unsecured. It ain't pretty.

I hope I have explained my point better this time. If not, you are free not to read this or any of my blogs. Nonetheless, I will continue to plod along, writing badly, expressing my opinion badly, and sending these blogs into the great ether of "unreadness." But not next week.

For my readers, I am taking a week off to coincide with my wife's vacation. We're going to relax, do a few projects around the house, and prepare for our second grandchild, a girl, who is due to make an appearance late this month or in early October. I thank you for your attention.

Cop Shoots Dog at Dog Park Revisited.

2010-08-30T07:54:00.000-07:00

Since I learned of this story several days ago, I've thought a lot about it. I talked with my wife about it. Certainly I am all for law enforcement officers defending themselves, but there is something really disturbing here. Let me see if I can hash it out on The Dog Chronicles in a manner that makes some sense.

First, when anyone goes to a dog park there is an assumed risk involved. While one may argue that dogs in dog parks should always be under control, that's certainly not always the case-- in fact, that sort of the point of taking your dog there.

So there may be a tussle or two between animals. While such doggish behavior should be foreseen, it can't always be expected. In other words, who knows when it might happen. Unlike the Dog Whisperer, we can't always read the signals our dogs put out. So we're back to the assumed risk.

If your dog gets into it with another dog at the dog park, it is a civil matter unless the dog owners are fully aware of their animals' aggressive natures. In other words, if your dog has harmed other animals at the dog park before, or at any other time, then you shouldn't have your dog in the park. That doesn't seem to be the case here. Bear-Bear was well-behaved at this park in the past, and I would imagine the press or the cop's lawyers would have been all over the story of an out-of-control Bear-Bear.

Now, the cop in this story is apparently pleading self-defense, but that just doesn't wash. In this situation, he is a private citizen, even if he is a full-time police officer who carries a gun off-duty to protect the public and himself. A dog bite is a civil matter. This is not the story of a dog run amok at the dog park, biting children and other dogs. It is a story of rough play, and at most a civil matter, even if this officer were to be bit in the fight or rough play. A dog bite while breaking up a tussle is usually not a life-threatening situation. It is a risk always, but not a matter of life and death.

Let's take this a step further. Suppose this same cop attends a major league baseball game, armed as usual as is his right and duty as an officer of the law. Now suppose he arrives early, and during warm ups one of the ball players tosses a ball up into the stands. Let's say this cop gets hit with the baseball. Let's even say he gets hit with a foul ball during the course of the game. Can this cop pull out his gun and shoot the player who threw the baseball or who hit him with a foul ball? Of course not. Now, the player who tossed the ball into the stands may face civil liability for throwing a ball into the stands, and certainly the player at bat did not mean to hit this cop with the baseball. The cop assumed the risk when he attended the game that he might be hit by a foul ball. He is not allowed to shoot the batter or even the player who threw the ball into the stands in order to either protect the public or himself. I think it's much the same at the dog park.

Who draws a gun and kills an animal at a dog park? A child could have been shot, or another adult, or another dog. And who says you can protect your dog with deadly force? The attack of Bear-Bear, if you choose to deem it an attack can't be considered a deliberate or deadly matter. Would this same officer, off-duty, be allowed to shoot the owner of Bear-Bear if the owner punched him?

Nothing makes sense about all this.

Deadly force used by anyone when there is very little chance of a lethal injury occurring is an extreme over-reaction.

There was no crime that day, only a potential civil injury. This was no organized dog fight. It was not deliberate. And no one was threatening the cop. Why the gun?

This cop was trigger happy. If he is willing to pull a gun in a dog park, he might over-react in the line of duty and then a human will get shot. There's just no justification for his actions. He should face at least a long suspension and a lawsuit.

"There are a lot of risks associated with dog parks: your dog may get into a fight, pick up a disease from another dog or eat something he shouldn't. But one thing no one expects to happen at the dog park is for their dog to get shot.

Monday evening, Rachel Rettaliata's brother took her 3-year-old rescued Siberian Husky, Bear-Bear, to the Quail Run Community Dog Park in Severn, Maryland. Bear-Bear was well-known and loved around the park. A federal police officer (who has not been identified due to internet threats against him) showed up with his German Shepherd on a leash and the two dogs started playing. Apparently the play turned rough and the officer asked Bear-Bear's guardian to call him off. But before he could get to Bear-Bear, the officer pulled out a gun and shot the dog. Bear-Bear died a few hours later."

The shooting death of a Siberian Husky in a dog park Monday by a an off-duty federal cop is sparking all sorts of outrage.

In addition to calls and letters to public officials, someone has started a Facebook protest page. Here is the link to the page.

http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.justiceforbearbear.com%2F&h=9b2002

What Is Going On? Who Gets to Carry a Gun These Days? Check Out Justice for Bear-Bear FB page.

2010-08-27T08:29:00.000-07:00

There are a lot of risks associated with dog parks: your dog may get into a fight, pick up a disease from another dog or eat something he shouldn't. But one thing no one expects to happen at the dog park is for their dog to get shot.

http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.justiceforbearbear.com%2F&h=9b2002

Monday evening, Rachel Rettaliata's brother took her 3-year-old rescued Siberian Husky, Bear-Bear, to the Quail Run Community Dog Park in Severn, Maryland. Bear-Bear was well-known and loved around the park. A federal police officer (who has not been identified due to internet threats against him) showed up with his German Shepherd on a leash and the two dogs started playing. Apparently the play turned rough and the officer asked Bear-Bear's guardian to call him off. But before he could get to Bear-Bear, the officer pulled out a gun and shot the dog. Bear-Bear died a few hours later.

The shooting death of a Siberian Husky in a dog park Monday by a an off-duty federal cop is sparking all sorts of outrage.

In addition to calls and letters to public officials, someone has started a Facebook protest page. Here is the link to the page.

The page was created by Rachel, a Baltimore resident and recent college grad.

Here's what she told me about her reasons for starting the Justice for Bear-Bear page:

It's "[a]n overall frustration with the lack of reaction and control over police power, as well as the overwhelming under-reaction to the mistreatment of the defenseless public -- especially defenseless, harmless animals! It has finally driven me to the breaking point. It's obvious to me that the only reason this man is not being I feel that if authorities aren't going to act on this, then it's the duty of the public to get justice for ourselves. "

Thanks to the original story writers for their info.

Coyote Singing-- New Short-short Fiction. I Swear It Is Fiction.

2010-08-24T10:19:00.000-07:00

I haven't long to write this. I don't know when I will lose the power to think in words. Already I cannot talk. I tried, but cannot.

They say I am depressed. A year ago I lost my job. I feel deeper and deeper into an abyss of nothing. I would not rise from my bed. My appetite, always hearty, left me. My wife worried for my safety while she was away at work.

The psychiatrist gave me pills. I am to take two each day. Or is it three? Or five? Whatever the number, I am diligent in this pursuit.

It was after the pills started that my wife failed to speak to me. Not that she didn't try. Oh, she did. But the sounds that came from her after this were the sounds of bagpipes dropped. She squeaked and whined. I understood nothing. I nodded in response to the movements of her mouth.

The television people spoke the same. Bagpipes, nothing but the sound of bagpipes. I could not read their lips.

I live near an open space area. There are miles and miles of trails there. After the pills began, I felt quite restless. I took a hike in the park. I sat on the side of a trail. It is in this spot that I saw the coyotes.

Two of them, one old and ragged-looking, and one young, jumped not twenty yards from me after grasshoppers. It looked like a dance. I heard the music. They jumped after grasshoppers and the pipes, not bagpipes, but some sort of Irish piping, not unpleasant, sounded as I watched them. They danced for what seemed like hours before they noticed me. But when they did the singing began.

The coyotes stopped dancing and stood and looked at me. The older one sang, "I eat bugs, and the bugs eat me. At the end of our days we shall all be free."

She sang these words over and over and it is the only words spoken-- sung to me this day, that I understood.

"I eat bugs, and the bugs eat me. At the end of our days we shall all be free." Over and over and over again.

That day I wandered home just before my wife returned from work. I hurried into bed and feigned sleep. Later in the evening she tried to feed me something. I could tell because she held a plate of food in her hands. But I wanted no food. I only wanted her sounds-- those sounds to stop. I sat up, nodded and smiled and then fell back into the pillow. She left me alone until she came to bed much, much later.

I never slept though. Barely could I stand to lie there, with the crickets calling me outside. I awaited her alarm in the morning. The alarm I heard clearly. I feigned sleep until my wife went for her shower. When I heard the water falling, I arose and threw on some clothing and my hiking shoes. I wrote her a note.

"I couldn't sleep. Went to the park for a hike. Have a nice day."

I worked quite hard to manage this note. The words came to me with great difficulty.

In the moonlight before the dawn, I was off to the park. I hiked back to the spot where I saw the coyotes. Then I sat. A few minutes later the angel came. At first I thought it was just a runner with a miner's lamp on his head, but then I saw that it was an angel. The man/angel ran toward me on the path where I sat. He glanced in my direction as he passed. I tried to rise and speak to this angel before he'd gone to far, but I could not. I heard the song of his footfalls as he ran away from me. I saw the halo fade away in the darkness.

I tried to scream at him to stop, but could not speak words. The sound that came to my voice was the sound of unutterable anguish I fear.

"Wait!" I wanted to scream. "Wait, what have you to tell me? What is it I should do now?"

But the words did not come. Just the sound-- the screech perhaps, or maybe I just imagined I made sound.

Oh, the ability to make myself understood in any manner will leave me soon. I will not be able to write or speak or sing in any manner.

I returned home, in great confusion I found the way. Took my pills. Is it one or two or four I am to take? I read the bottle but can't understand what it says. The words seem to go around in circles and I can't find my glasses. Surely my regular glasses will not stop the spinning anyway. Surely I need the special glasses that stop spinning.

My dog came up to me then. "Follow me," she said. "Follow me, hurry."

I followed her. She led me to her dog house.

"The angel will meet you here," my dog said.

I crawled inside. It is such a tight fit I fear I will be unable to leave this spot ever again, but the angel is coming. The angel will take me away.

My dog lies outside her house and we await the angel. There is music in the air. The bees and birds sing. The breeze sings through the leaves of the trees. It is all harps and Irish pipes and the smell of lavender.

We await the angel and the singing of coyotes.

THE END

Photo courtesy of Flickr and Red-Star.

How Much Is That Innocence Worth Now? How Much Is That Doggie In The Window - Patti Page

2010-08-21T07:20:00.000-07:00

Corny? Yes. But this was a really popular song when I was a kid. And I loved it. I guess I was four or five, and when this came on the car radio I was thrilled. Okay, I was maybe a bit light in the loafers at four or five.

What's interesting about this, other than being funny and out-dated, is how innocent we were, or a least how innocent we imagined we were. It is like being on a different planet to see it now.

Hope you enjoy this video and share it with your friends.

This Old Dog Can't Learn New Tricks-- My One Day Return to College

2010-08-19T10:40:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'm an old dog. In order to spend some time wisely, I enrolled in a college course over the summer, and yesterday was the first day of class-- and yesterday was the last day of class.

I tried. I took a regular daytime class in Macro-economics. (All the courses I really wanted were closed.) I have taken evening courses from time to time. It's a different vibe, especially in French and Italian class. I've taken night courses in creative writing. But this return to real college started badly and ended worse.

First parking was a nightmare. Okay, no problem, I got a space in the dirt lot and meandered up the hill. I should have known just from the look of the students I passed on the way to my building of matriculation that there was a problem. Everyone at this community college looked like babies. I am 59. I have a granddaughter of 14.

Well, I find the classroom. There is one other geezer in there. Maybe my age. The rest are these children. The professor comes in. He's okay. Cool enough. The class seems interesting, if not scintillating. Then the rules begin. No more than five unexcused absences. No food in class. Book cost $165. Computer access costs another $80. Not that there weren't ways around the cost. He was cool about that and gave alternatives-- but still. No more than two late arrivals. No audible yawning. Yes, you heard me right. No sleeping. That's a real bummer. It is my hobby these days.

We are going to break into groups. Discuss economics. Well, I immediately flashed back to dissecting an egg at old Hoover High School in San Diego. I remember getting into a group where one of the guys scrambled the egg for fun. What a moron! I tried to imagine hanging with a bunch of kiddies. I have absolutely no interest in 18-year-old girls, so that's no fun.

I have visions of smart-ass kids like I was. Kids who can't stop wisecracking. (God, Jackie L.-- I'm so happy you didn't have any classes with me at Hoover cause you wouldn't be talking to me now.) Since I am not working right now, I have begun to dread actually making new acquaintances. I want to huddle up under the covers and be left alone instead of having to actually work at being remotely charming. I fail miserably at charming in person.

On top of the no audible yawning clause in the class rules, I already have homework due over the weekend. How do these kids do it? It's not like I mind the reading, or the homework. But the homework has to be posted onto this internet site. I can't find it. I mean I can find the site, but not the homework. My computer literacy stops at the end of my nose. If I'm not interested in something, then I am not willing to learn a new computer mindset. I know how to look up Mel Gibson and Sarah Palin for my blogs. I know how to download photos. I can use a spreadsheet a little. Use a word processing program. But I don't want to search for homework online on a site I am eventually going to have to pay $80 to use. Already I see a flunking grade appearing on my transcript. There goes my transfer to Yale!

Well, you can teach some old dogs new tricks. Maybe I learned one just today. I dropped my class online. Welcome back $104 in class fees. Welcome back reading what I want to read. I am audibly yawning right now and eating cereal loudly. I am avoiding any human communication that does not involve a keyboard. My dog would like a walk, but I might just encounter a lizard out there in the real world and the threat of interaction scares me silly. Forget it. I still have the last volume of Churchill's "History of the English Speaking Peoples" awaiting me. The only time crunch I have is in my Grapenuts.

Photo Flickr and ocx2ky.

The Return of the Black Dog-- A New Short Story.

2010-08-12T12:43:00.000-07:00

Georgie Mathis leaned back against the Macy's building. It wasn't hot-- nothing like hot but he was sweating and weak. He spread out his legs and nearly kicked over his can.
"Help a brother out," he said to a passing black man.
Nothing. The man never even acknowledged him.
Georgie hadn't even the energy to curse.
His dog sat next to him. Black dog. Nice dog. Nicest dog Georgie ever saw. Didn't steal his food like the pigeons or the passing mutts.
Black dog, Georgie called him Porgie, he didn't know why, Porgie never stared at him when he ate. Didn't beg food and act hungry. With Porgie, Georgie came first. Georgie ate, then the dog. It seemed like the only reason Porgie ate when his master fed him was to please his master. A little food. A little water. Porgie was good to go.
But not Georgie. He couldn't even budge today. Wasn't for the old white lady with the sandwich and the five, Georgie likely would've starved.
He let his hand rest on the dog. Dog couldn't weigh more than 15 pounds, but his hand sunk into the fur and he stroked. "Best dog I ever had," he said. "Only dog I ever had."
Georgie closed his eyes and pulled in the warmth. Nothing like hot today, and not cold, but the sweat rolled down his face and Georgie shivered. San Francisco weather, cold and hot at the same time.
He spoke to the dog. "Wish you could hook me up, Porgie. I could use a little something you know. Lord knows, I can't even get up off my butt."

The man closed his eyes. He remembered the days in the projects. He remembered the mean-ass dogs all over and the mean-ass people. He tried to see his grandmother's face. If his grandma wouldn't have died so long ago, Georgie would've been okay. He hummed aloud to the church music he heard inside his head. Grandma took him to church. Lotta good it did him, or her. Old woman passed when she was 50, and he was just 13. No more church. That was it for him. His mama living anywhere she found a man. His dad who knew where.

Wait, Georgie stopped humming. He knew where the old man had been. He met him first time in the joint. When Georgie did five for drugs, he met the old man. Father hooked him up in the joint.
"You my boy," he said. "I'll take care of you."
Later the old man beat him up over a debt.
"I'll take care of you," the old man said.
Georgie came out of the joint worse than ever.

The dog stirred.
His master came around. "You're the softest thing," he said. "You're like the only one who sees me."
The dog stared into his master's eyes. "Man, it's like you read my mind," Georgie said.
The legs kept passing him by. He listened for the sound of coins dropping.
Nothing.

He'd owned the dog for a couple of weeks. The dog adopted him. Came up to him right at the very spot he sat, right up against the back of the Macy's building and sat down.
Georgie tried to shoo the dog off. Even tried once or twice to kick the mutt. But Porgie dodged the blows, not so much for himself, but seemingly so his new owner wouldn't feel bad about hurting him.
So George put up with him. Then he saw that people paid just a little more attention to him when the dog was there. The extra money in his can more than made up for the dog food. Porgie didn't eat much. It seemed as if he could've lived on air for all he asked.
The black dog crawled onto his master's lap.
"I'm so cold," Georgie said. "You be my blanket, dog."

The man felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up. It was Blowfly, the dealer. Everyone hated Blowfly.
"Hey there Georgie, long time. Where you been?" Blowfly said.
The dealer's nose was running. That's why the name.
"You need something Georgie boy?"
The old man thought of the five in his pocket. "I don't have much," he said. "I been off the stuff for a couple of weeks. But I'm suffering. What can you do for five?"
Blowfly scowled, then grinned. "Man, we old friends, you know. I fix you up with something. Let's see the color of your money."
Georgie dug into his pocket. Nothing. He dug into the other. Still nothing. He looked into the can, and around him. He shooed the dog off his lap, got up on his aching knees and searched the ground. Nothing. The five was gone.
"I had it," he said. "I think I got some holes in my pockets. I know it's here somewhere."
But the money couldn't be found.
Blowfly scowled again and wiped his nose with his shirt.
"How 'bout I pay you tomorrow?" Georgie asked.
"How 'bout you get hit by a car today then I don't see you again. This ain't the charity ward my man. I can't go around giving it away. I got expenses. Overhead."
Georgie grabbed the man's hand. He'd always hated to touch Blowfly or anything Blowfly touched, but he felt desperate. "I been a good customer in my time," he said.
"Let go of me!" Blowfly snatched his hand away and made as if he were going to club Georgie. "You're a shaky bag of bones. Look at you and that damn dog. Neither one of you worth a damn."
Then Blowfly smiled again. "Tell you what," he said, "You give me your dog and I'll fix you up."
Georgie closed his eyes and thought. Nobody ever loved him like that dog. Nobody.
"Come on," said Blowfly. "I ain't gonna hurt him."
"You're gonna feed him to a pit, aren't you."
Blowfly would make some points by handing over the dog to some gangster so the gangster could watch his pit tear Porgie apart.
"Nah, would I do that? I'd give it to my girlfriend."
Blowfly had no girlfriend Georgie bet.
"You'd feed him to a pit. I know it. Feed him to a pit for fun."

The dog nosed into Georgie. It didn't seem like a plea for mercy, he thought. It seemed like the dog would accept whatever was most important to Georgie. What he needed, the dog would give, even in sacrifice. The dog nosed him so he would make up his mind. So he wouldn't suffer over the decision.
"I'll find my five and take care of business later."
Blowfly smiled. "Whatever you say, Georgie. But the offer stands. I take the dog and fix you up."

Georgie sighed and waved the dealer off. He watched him stroll down the block, turn and go out of sight.
He pulled the dog close to him. Man, nothing ever felt as nice as his dog, except maybe a pipe. But the black dog warmed him almost as well.
Porgie rose, and the five dollar bill was on the ground where he'd sat.
Georgie felt a surge of anger and wanted to throw the dog into the traffic. But it quickly subsided and he laughed. Then collapsed on the ground, unconscious.

He awoke, shivering.

It was almost dark, apparently no one had thought him anything but drunk. He'd been there hours. Porgie lay across his stomach. Georgie's hand dropped onto the dog, and stroked.
The lights flashed. The black dog was the one fixed point in Georgie's life for those moments.
"Can you sit up?" someone asked.
"Wha..."
He felt the dog pulled away from him. They pulled Georgie onto the stretcher.
"My dog!" Georgie said.
Porgie licked his hand. The old man let his hand rest onto the dog's neck. "What's going on, dog?" he said. "What are they doing to me?"
The last thing he felt was the warmth of the black dog. His hand sunk into the fur, into the warmth. The world about him swirled. The lights. The warmth. The sounds off in a distance now. And the lights in his head dimming. His hand clutched at Porgie.Then Georgie passed. His hand dropped, and the dog took off, avoiding any attempts to hold him.

The black dog ran down the street. He ran through the Tenderloin, avoiding traffic. Ran without stopping. Dodged the cars that never seemed to notice him. He ran and then turned on Van Ness. He kept running. Maybe two miles. Then he turned on Jackson. Past a couple of the foreign embassies. Then the black dog slipped through the metal bars of a gate and under a shrub in the well-kept yard. The black dog closed his eyes and waited.

In the morning the black dog heard a door open and close.
Voices. Female voices.
He stretched then shook off the dew off his fur.
The dog ran to the old woman with the cane and her Filipina helper.
He shook his tail so his whole back end swayed. The dog smiled.
"What's this?" The old white lady with the cane said.
"Stay away," said the Filipina, standing between the dog and the old woman. She threatened a kick.
The old lady smiled. "No, no. It's okay Consuelo. The dog isn't a threat."
Consuelo eyed the dog without easing back.
"Mrs. Connell, you don't know anything about this dog," she said. "Let's go inside and I'll call the pound."
Mrs. Connell waved her caretaker off. "This dog is just lost and hungry," she said. "I can tell."
Mrs. Connell never actually had a dog in her life. She grew up in San Francisco, born into a large family who lived modestly and without dogs.
When she married young, her husband hated dogs, so she never owned one ever. But something about this animal gave her confidence. It's friendliness seemed obvious to her.
The dog made its way around Consuelo and licked the old woman's hand.
"You are so sweet," said the old woman.
"Look out the dog doesn't knock you down," the younger Consuelo said.
"No, no. This dog understands. It is very well-behaved. It doesn't seem to have a collar."
"A runaway. Probably infested with bugs."
"No. It has been cared for. It seems healthy."
"Until your house is filled with fleas. I should call the pound."
The dog looked up at the old woman. It seemed to her as if the dog had an uncanny sort of knowledge of her. As if the dog knew more about her than most people.

The old woman, Mrs. Maria Connell had been beautiful once. She'd been an only child of a fine Spanish family-- devoutly Catholic. She married at 19. A man 20 years older than her. An Irishman-- very rich-- very ruthless. She quickly became pregnant. Her husband at first berated her, then he began to slap her.
Mrs. Connell took it. Even to the day of the birth, she took it. After the birth, she took the slapping. Even as it got more violent, she allowed it.

She prayed. When praying didn't stop the beatings, she went to see her priest. Mr. Connell hit her and hit her almost daily.
He hit her when the baby cried.
He hit her when she cried.
He hit her even though she prayed, and even though she visited the priest. Maria went to mass on Wednesdays and lit a candle, not for herself, but for her husband. She went to mass on Sundays and lit a candle. Sometimes she lit a candle for all of them, herself, her husband, and William, the baby.

When William began to toddle about the house, Mr. Connell screamed at the child and slapped him for knocking over a vase.

Maria came dashing out from the kitchen with a six-inch kitchen knife. She plowed into her husband and knocked him to the ground. With the knife at her husband's throat, she told him, "You need to leave here and never come back. I will kill you if you do. Do you understand? I will kill you. If you ever hurt my son again I will gouge out your eyes and leave you in the street to die. Now go."
Mr. Connell left. He never entered the house again. And, like a good Catholic, he remained married to Maria.
After ten years, he died, leaving his wife and son with his fortune.
Though Mr. Connell never hit his son again, he did find fault with every thing the boy attempted. William Connell grew up disappointed and unsure of himself.

The dog lapped at the water Mrs. Connell set out in a bowl for him. She watched. This black dog seemed very well-behaved. She knew nothing about dogs, but could tell this one had arrived at her home for some reason. No dog had picked her before.
She wondered, would William have come out better if he'd had a dog. He always seemed afraid of them.
Ah, William, she sighed. Her only child and a troubled soul. Divorced since last year. A suicide attempt at college. A failed business. Loans and gifts from his mother never seemed to make a difference. He never could get over the hump.
Mrs. Connell seldom saw him now. If he called, he seemed preoccupied.
Could it be that he needed a dog as a child?
Mrs. Connell smiled as the dog ate some fish leftovers from a few days ago.
Consuelo hovered at the kitchen door, distrustful.
"I will call the pound now Mrs. Connell. You can't have a dog under your feet. What if he knocks you over?"
The dog finished the fish and looked up at Mrs. Connell.
"I like this dog," she said. "He'll be careful of me."
The dog wagged his tail.

At night, Mrs. Connell sat in her living room with the dog at her feet. She sat there humming. Ave Maria. Why that song, she wondered. Yet it would not leave her head.
The dog slept.
Consuelo was in Mrs. Connell's bedroom, preparing to leave for the night.
Mrs. Connell hummed and thought. She should call William. He never seemed to be home when she called, but she should call him.
She leaned over, grabbed the phone, then dialed.
It rang three times before he answered.
"Hello Mother," he said.
"William," she said and paused. "William, you know I haven't seen you in two months?"
"Has it been that long?"
"Yes, dear. And you know, I miss you terribly."
For 30 seconds, he did not respond.
"Is something wrong? Are you okay?"
"Of course. But I miss you. You have always been such a good son."
"What's going on?" He sounded frantic.
"Nothing, William. Nothing. Come home son. You need to come home."
Mrs. Connell hung up the phone and hummed the song.

"I will put the animal out now," she said.
"Where?" Asked Mrs. Connell.
"Where it's come from," said Consuelo.
"No, you won't put it out. I want him to stay."
Consuelo tried to lock the black dog out of the bedroom when she put Mrs. Connell in her bed. Mrs. Connell would have none of it.
The dog lay on the floor next to the bed.
The Filipina shook her head. "I don't like this dog."
The old woman waved her away.
After her helper left, Mrs. Connell let her hand fall over the bedside. The black dog licked her hand. "You are so sweet," she said. "What shall we call you? Sweetie? I like that, do you?"
The dog put it's paws on the bed and nuzzled the old woman. "So sweet," she said again.
Her eyes began to close. The dog lay on the floor again.
Some music played on the radio that Consuelo left on for Mrs. Connell every night before she left. Schubert's Unfinished Symphony played softly. Mrs. Connell drifted in and out of sleep, awaking now and again as the piece played. Once she sighed. Always the dog seemed in just the right place to touch its fur if the hand fell over the bed. Perhaps she imagined it. Perhaps the dog really was there to comfort her almost like a nurse, even in a manner that a lover might. She'd never had a real lover.

William came to the house in San Francisco the next morning. He came even before the mist had cleared. Mrs. Connell knew he'd never been an early riser, even as a child on Christmas morning. His face looked even redder than the last time she'd seen him-- his hair looked thinner. He fought to catch his breath after only a one block walk from his parking spot.

"Don't let me forget to move my car," he said to Consuelo.

His mother pretended she hadn't noticed his unhealthy demeanor. The black dog went immediately to William.

"Who is this?" he asked.

"Sweetie," she said, sitting at the dining room table.

William pretended to disapprove of the animal even though he immediately rubbed its head. "Just what you need," he said.

The dog licked his hand.

Consuelo poured him coffee. She shook her head for his benefit at the mention of the dog. "I told her she doesn't need any dog."

He shrugged. His hand sunk into the animal's fur. It comforted him. He'd never owned a dog. William closed his eyes. His heart jumped a beat. He gasped for breath.

"William?" his mother said. "Are you all right?"

Such softness. Such warmth. He missed the comfort of other creatures in his solitary existence.

"William?"

He tried to refocus on his mother. He lifted his hand with great effort to indicate he was okay, though he wasn't.

"I'm-- all-- right," he said. "I'm all right."

The black dog sat next to him then leaned against his leg.

"I'd forgotten," William said more to himself than to the women. His thoughts went to his wife. What had he accomplished? What would they say about him after he'd left his life behind? Would they say he'd given comfort to others?

Reflexively his hand fell onto the dog's head. Surely he was supposed to outlive his mother, but he knew he would not. And he'd never felt anything so soft. Never ever in his life.

The End

Episode 2-- Sgt. Prestleton of the Yukon and Prince the Wonder Dog-- Prince Ponders

2010-08-10T10:00:00.000-07:00

Bacon bacon

Sergeant Prestleton and Prince the wonder dog sat around the campfire one night eating beans. A frost covered the pine needles. The campfire crackled.

"I think we should return to White Horse Prince. What do you think boy?"

Prince looked up from his plate of beans. What did he think? As a wonder dog, Prince could think, but if he were not. What if he were not a wonder dog? Would his language of barks and yaps constitute thought. Without language, could he think? He stared off into the distance.

Damn Prestleton and his damn leading questions. How could one ponder the imponderable? The sergeant's horse whinnied. Could the horse think?

Prince preferred action. A good bite out of the hind end of an outlaw suited him better than philosophy. A fight with a bear, now there was a good time. He'd saved the sergeant's bacon so many times. Ah, bacon... Ah Bacon? Did Bacon really write those plays?

And so he decided. Prince knew bacon. He knew bacon when he smelled it and he liked bacon. Liking constituted thought in his mind. Real thought, not a mere Pavlovian response to a pellet. He decided he'd like bacon even if there'd never been a Bacon. Language was what one spoke, even if it were mere guttural noises.

Sergeant Prestleton sat back against his boulder and let out a satisfied sigh. Even Prestleton could think, Prince decided. Even that simple-minded, naive Canadian could think.

Prince put his head down and took another bite of his beans. He thought, "I like bacon, but I sure as hell hate these beans."

Thanks to Ellen Joe and Flickr for bacon.

Sergeant Prestleson and His Dog Prince-- Prince Speaks English Poorly-- A Very Short Work of Fiction

2010-08-06T10:32:00.000-07:00

Sergeant Prestleson of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and his wonder dog Prince sat around the campfire one night in the wilds of the Yukon. A cold fog clung to the tops of the pines. Sergeant Prestleton ate the remains of a can of beans. His dog Prince also had beans in his bowl. They had been on the trail of the outlaw Frenchie Maurice Noir for six days. Frenchie had robbed an old miner and his granddaughter Kelly of their life savings. Prestleton meant to get it back.

The howl of wolves pierced the still night.

"I'm glad I have you nearby boy," said Prestleton to his wonder dog Prince. "I can count on you to protect me."

Prince looked up from his beans. Prince said, "Protect you from what?"

The sergeant started. "You spoke!" he said.

"What do you expect?" Prince said. "I'm a wonder dog."

"I just never knew," said Prestleton.

"Yeah, well, get back to the point. What do you expect me to protect you from?"

"That's not speaking English well," said the man. "One shouldn't end a sentence with a preposition."

A snarl curled on the dog's lips. "I'm a wonder dog," he said. "Not an English professor. Nonetheless, I suppose you think I will save you from the jaws of my brethren, the wolves."

"Well of course," said the sergeant. "You are my dog. My bosom companion. Mon ami. Pal. Buddy."

"Despite my wonder status," said Prince, "I am still a dog. A canine, but one step removed from the wild. I may join the wolves and have you for dinner. After all, beans are not very dignified fare for a wonder dog."

Prestleton frowned at this. A tear formed in the corner of his left eye. "But you have been my friend for years. My compadre. My mate. My..."

"Cut the crap!" said Prince. "How is it that you see predatory humans all the time-- that you view their inability to rise above the savage, and yet a dog, wonder or no, is expected to ignore his beastly instincts and save you, naive young fool that you are."

The man stared at his dog with disbelief. "But your acts of bravery... Your kindness... How do you explain these things if you are not my friend? My partner?"

"So now I am your partner, huh?" said the dog.

"For all these years," said Prestleton.

The dog stared at the man for nearly a minute. Then a smile came onto his muzzle. "I'm just messing with you Sarge," the dog said. "Would I let you be eaten by a pack of wolves?"

The Mountie sunk back onto the boulder at his back. "You really got me," he said. "You really, really got me. I thought you were serious."

"Don't be silly," said Prince. "You're my buddy. Besides, wolves are a bunch of Philistines."

"That's my boy," said the sergeant. "But all this time you could talk. Why didn't you let me know sooner? Think of the conversations we could've had on lonely nights such as these."

"Who can talk?" said the dog, and he went back to his beans and never spoke another word.

My Life in Dog Years-- I'm Not Such an Old Dog, But Not Quite a Young Man.

2010-08-04T09:10:00.000-07:00

I am roughly the same age as my dog Lulu. That is, in dog years, she is roughly the same age as me. This is not so bad. At eight, Lulu is quite active. She's smart and intuitive. A good dog all around, especially when you consider her overwhelming fear of humans (more men than women) when we first got her from the shelter.

Now this may not be the best segue going, but I'm extremely lazy lately. A recent burst of melancholy and ennui has been replaced with another bout of sloth. There are reasons for this.

I don't sleep well. I am a living science experiment. I've had two major back surgeries. One of my spinal disks has been replaced with a titanium one. I was the first person in San Francisco to have this procedure done. For awhile, I was a popular subject with the doctors around the area. My neighbor, a nurse at Stanford, had overheard a conversation about me even though I'd had the procedure done elsewhere. Though I have been poked, prodded, jacked up (literally they kind of jack up your spinal column for a replacement procedure,) injected, had my disk fried, my nerves cut, bone in my spine removed, etc., etc. I still suffer a lot of pain. I have a numb foot. Sometimes I can't keep my balance. I nearly walked into a ditch the other day due to lack of feeling. And every once in a while, my doc who sees me every six weeks for my back, throws me another curve I have to deal with.

A couple of years ago, because of weight gain, I decided to stop taking a nerve medication that wasn't helping much. I thought I would die. Withdrawal is a terrible thing. My doctor is a great guy, but he doesn't know everything. He didn't know that I needed to cut back on the drug very gradually. I thought I was going crazy. I felt like I'd swallowed a million Mexican jumping beans. I couldn't cope. I wanted to crawl out of my skin. I was so tired I couldn't sleep. I know, sounds weird. Oh, I slept in snatches, five minutes here, ten minutes there, but for a few weeks it was awful.

Now my doctor has, I believe inadvertently, switched my medication again. It's a little easier this time. I simply am not getting the pain med I'd been taking before. I think the doc just made a mistake. Again, I'm often too tired to sleep well. My legs kick. I move to the floor at night so I don't wake my wife.

What's this got to do with dogs? I'll tell you. I have a lot of time to think in those hours I spend awaiting sleep. I think how old I am. I think how my dog, with luck may live another eight years. I think I have maybe another twenty years give or take a few. I think how lucky I am. I think how wonderful my family is. I think how miserable I am. I feel young. I feel ancient. I wonder how people work into their seventies or eighties. I don't know.

You know, The Who, in the song "My Generation" said "I hope I die before I get old." Growing up in the sixties, I think a lot of us thought that way. I don't now. But damn, no one told me this ageing thing was gonna be hard.

You know what else I think while I lie awake at night? I think that I wish I could age as gracefully as my dog.

Dog Toy Circles. Are they UFO's. Send me your stories.

2010-08-02T10:04:00.000-07:00

Okay, nothing earth-shaking today, but my dog Lulu sometimes arranges her toys in geometric shapes. She is especially fond of squares and rectangles. Weird? She's got a ton of toys. The deal is in my house that when she gets a new toy, we're supposed to throw one old one out. But I never have the heart to do that. The only toys that get the heave-ho, are the destroyed stuffies. I mean they have to be totally destroyed, not just unstuffed. My dog is a real toy-hound. I suppose she gets a ton of toys because she reacts so actively and happily to each new one. Of course, she is not content until she strangles the squeaker out of anything squeaky.

Does your dog form dog-toy circles? If so, let me know. Actually, any weird behavior is appreciated in this forum. I have told this story before, but the neatest thing I ever saw a dog do was to ride the Funicula on the Isle of Capri. The dog, without a master or any help, jumped in to the Funicula, without a ticket of course, and rode to the top of the isle. Strange.

My daughter and son-in-law, also in Italy had a dog follow them all about the town. It adopted them in its way, but it wouldn't go into churches. I expect it got kicked out vigorously a time too many.

Chihuahua Death Matches in North Korea! Toy Breeds Being Fought All All Over the Globe! Video.

2010-07-29T09:39:00.000-07:00

Chihuahua dog fighting has become a popular sport in North Korea. These vicious battles, often to the death, are just one example of the sport of toy breed fighting, an activity that is becoming more popular throughout the world. Often these dogs fight to the death. Even if the dogs are not killed, they are often left maimed.

Dogs that don't survive in the Korean matches are butchered and made into a popular soup with chilies. (See recipe below.)

Before and after photo of a combatant dog.

North Korea isn't the only country where this horrible blood sport is taking place. Toy poodles are being fought in Honduras, and Cockapoos are the victims of this horrible practice in Lichtenstein.

I urge caution to viewers of this secret video of a North Korean dog fight. It may be too disturbing for young children. The dog is being led to the fight, then the fight begins. Unfortunately, because the video was shot secretly, it is not exactly clear what is taking place, but the videographer assures us that this is a fight between two Chihuahua mix dogs that led to the death of one of the dogs.

Honduran fighting poodle.

Korean Chihuahua Soup.

Boil Chihuahua parts in four liters of water.

Add one head of garlic, peeled and diced.

Stir in 20 small hot chilies.

Simmer for two hours.

Add half cabbage and cook another ten minutes.

Serves an army.

Photos courtesy of Flickr. Thanks Tappit, Celladoor, and Chrisinside. Video by a North Korean PETA member.

Why So Stubborn? Pit Bull Kills Two Year-Old. Why Are You So Smart?

2010-07-26T10:48:00.000-07:00

Why are Americans so stubborn about their dogs? It seems as if many Americans, men and women believe that their dogs have more rights than their neighbors. "Dogs should run wild," some people say. "I don't believe in leash laws."
As an ex-mail carrier, I've heard a million excuses why Fluffy and Brutus should be loose and endangering me. People are willing to endure a lot so they don't have to rein in their pets.
One customer of mine didn't receive mail delivery for years. He had a pit bull he refused to control. The pit bull patrolled the neighborhood, unfettered. It was frightening. Unfortunately, instead of controlling his animal, the neighbors finally had had enough and dog-napped the animal and threw it onto a busy freeway. All the guy needed to do was control his dog. Instead, the neighbors and the dog suffered. Ah, it's a free country.

I have been challenged to fight about a dog. I have been threatened. One old man told me he would have my job if I pepper-sprayed his dog who was threatening me. Another man told me his Doberman, who had me cornered, didn't bite. Boy, whoever sold him that protection dog really took him for a ride.
A fellow mail carrier I know heard that a dog didn't bite, even though the dog had just bit him four times! My wife, another mail carrier, was told the dog that had drawn considerable blood after biting her, didn't bite.

I've never seen a loose dog in Paris or London. Even in Italy, where loose dogs are more common, I have never felt threatened by a dog. Not here.

In San Francisco, Oakland, the suburbs, loose dogs are all over the place. Pit bulls run wild in some areas. I know, they don't bite. Tell that to the little girl who just lost her life to a pack of family pit bulls.

Americans need to grow up. Controlling your dog need not be a pissing contest. You know what, it's a damn shame people have to be maimed or killed by dogs before we start to get it. The grandfather whose dogs just killed his granddaughter is facing years in jail. Dogs really don't mind a leash.
*****

A couple of weeks ago, pit bull-mix dogs attacked several adults in Golden Gate Park. Last week, a group of pit bulls mauled a two year-old child to death and in a separate incident, a child was bitten in the face by a pit bull with the owner present. He had invited the child to "pet the dog."

Can we stop with the amateur pit bull rescues already? That was the situation with the grandfather who lost his granddaughter to his pit bulls. He couldn't stand to get rid of the dogs. Cesar Millan he wasn't, and neither are you.

I'm sorry, pit bulls are bred for aggressiveness. They can snap. So can a poodle, but most poodles aren't likely to maul a child to death. Yet pit bull owners continue to protest that the dogs can be rehabilitated through love and understanding. Fine. Take a chance with your child thank you. Not with my grandchildren. And don't expect me to pay for your kid's injuries if he gets mauled by your dogs. Hard-hearted? You bet I am. Don't forget, I was a mail carrier. I have been stalked by pit bulls. This is not hyperbole-- I was stalked by a pit bull. After the owner cursed me out for being a "coward," and after I stood and rationally discussed my situation with him, and after he promised me the dog would never be out again, within a week the dog was running loose. This was a irresponsible owner. There are lots of them.

But the pit bulls who mauled the two year-old to death in the Bay Area had his dogs in the garage. When the child in San Francisco got mauled to death what, ten years ago, the dogs were in his basement. Are you equipped to keep your dogs away from the public? Promise? Are you prepared to face prison for keeping dangerous animals if they happen to maim or kill someone?

I like Scottish terriers. They're feisty. My Scottish terrier bit my toddler granddaughter. Luckily she wasn't hurt, but it doesn't mean I think Scottish terriers are appropriate around young kids. It is in their nature to be snappish, aloof, and stubborn. Pit bull breeding is even more of a crap shoot.

Do you know the parents of the pit bull you are prepared to adopt? Are you expecting that you can reason with your dogs? I can't reason with my adult children sometimes. What makes you so smart?

Don't tell me you have a big lot and your dogs are fenced in. Dogs get out of yards.

Everyone knows I love dogs. My sister has a pit bull mix. Cool dog but I didn't entirely trust it. Thankfully the dog is more Labrador than pit bull and they have no children and a very high brick wall.

We shouldn't expect animals to go against their nature. A wolf is a wolf. They are dangerous house pets. This is fact. A loaded gun is dangerous. Wolf mix dogs are high on the list of dogs that are dangerous to people. This is fact. Pit bulls and wolf mix dogs can, and do cause serious injuries.

Go to your local pet shelter's website and look at the dogs for adoption. How many adult pit bulls and pit bull mixes are there? When folks are turning in their Chihuahuas in record numbers because they don't want to care for them, can you imagine the difficulties involved in caring for a pit bull?

God bless you for thinking you can make a difference by adopting a pit bull. I don't think you can. There's too many of them, and frankly, you don't know where they've been. If you are scrupulous in your care, and your yard is absolutely secure, you still have to worry if the neighbor's cat happens into your yard.

It is narcissistic to imagine you can change something that you can't. Please don't gamble with my welfare or the welfare of my grandchildren. You may be a saint. Again, I say God bless you. Imagine how many idiots are not like you and they have pit bulls. They have them for protection, or because they want to be big shots. Meanwhile the shelters are crammed with these dogs. When one gets loose all our asses are on the line. Enough already.

Okay, the breed can't be banned but let's be honest about how dangerous they are. If one gets loose all our asses are on the line. Enough already. Let's give up a lost cause.

Accuracy in Media-- Dog Wants Species Change to Cat-- Call Me Politically Incorrect.

2010-07-24T10:09:00.000-07:00

I opened my big mouth. In a conversation last night, after coming home from dinner with my wife, daughter, and son-in-law, I brought up the subject of accuracy in media. Actually, I expect I sounded homophobic. I am not.

Living in the San Francisco Bay Area, we are subject to a lot of "different" ideas. Words are charged. Say "Marriage" and one might need to defend an opinion about gay marriage. The prevailing opinion in this area is that gay marriage is a moral right. Forget that. It's not the discussion. I object to the words used to describe certain people.

In an article about a year ago, I read that a somewhat famous male actor had arrived in San Francisco with his "husband" to give a lecture. I find this a dicey use of language. It is the tail wagging the dog in my opinion. First off, are these people actually married in any state? If not, then husband is a term that is inaccurate. If a heterosexual couple live together without benefit of marriage, in California they are not legally husband and wife. That's the law. I don't think anyone would object to avoiding the words "husband" or "wife" in this context. Secondly, in the relationship of the homosexual actor and his "mate," I'm not sure who is the husband. What if one of the two wants to be called the "wife?" Are we subject to acknowledging this? It is so confusing. If they are actually married, the actor and his mate, then really, I acknowledge that they should be accorded the terms generally given to married couples. But husband? I don't know. I'm wondering how accurate this is. Are they husband and husband? Okay, perhaps, I suppose as confusing as it is, and it is somewhat confusing, that it's a accurate portrayal of their relationship.

But, in broadcast media, and newspapers in the Bay Area someone is termed a "she" if they want to live as a woman. I strongly object to the arbitrariness of this. In a recent TV news story, an individual who was transgender, not physically, but emotionally, was called a she though she was born a he. Now, if this person lived as a woman all the time, and was known as a woman to all but a select few, I have no desire that this person should be "outed" for the benefit of our prurient interests. In this case though, this she/he or he/she was acting as an advocate for transgender persons. In other words, precisely because this person was a he acting like a she, we are expected to call him a she. Confusing? I think it is.

What if this person wanted to be an dog. Do we accord them the benefit of being called a "bitch?" I'm not trying to be funny. Really. But I don't think one can just choose what to call their sex based upon their desires. I don't deny that there are gender confusion issues in humankind. I feel compassion for persons who want to live as a sex they are not. I'm not trying to say I feel sorry for them or that they are abnormal. Jeez, see the problem? When an advocate for transgender issues, who was born a male, and who would like to be a woman (without benefit of a procedure which would accomplish that) I still see that person as a male. Sorry. I don't think an individual gets to make that call. And the media is just adding to the confusion deciding who is what because of the subject's desires.

Perhaps this has nothing to do with it, but certain individuals in the world have problems accepting that their arms and legs actually belong to them. These individuals have been known to remove healthy limbs because they just don't feel right. This is tragic. No surgeon will remove their limbs, so they resort to self-help. Are we to call one of these pre-surgical persons an amputee because they wish they were?

I know, a lot of you probably think I should stick to writing about dogs. So here goes.

Missy, a pre-surgical dog-to-cat trans-species wants to be called a cat. The dog, I mean the cat, I mean the cat/dog, once known as Rover lives as a cat in a converted dog house that has been turned into a cat house. Help!

Thanks for the photo Flickr and NumeralSix.

Animal Adoption Stamps-- Why Dogs Hate the Mailman. Why I hate the Post Office.

2010-07-22T10:30:00.000-07:00

The U.S. Postal Service doesn't get much right, but the Animal Rescue Adoption stamps are great. Anything that gets the message out about pet adoption is a good thing.

Okay, why am I so critical of the Postal Service?

I have been employed by them for 33 1/2 years. I am still employed by them, though they will not let me work. I have an artificial disk in my back. They broke me. Now they have told me to go out and get another job. I have an industrial injury. Can't sit too long, can't stand too long. Goodbye, it's been fun.

There is no other government organization less equipped for the 20th century than the Postal Service. Yes, I meant 20th century. Certainly they are not even close to being a 21st century organization. Management is lost. Service is going downhill. I hate what they have become and in general, I don't brag about how I spent my career.

Which brings us to why dogs hate the mailman.

Here's my theory. Actually someone else first mentioned it, but I'm taking credit for the refinement of it. Your mailman comes to your house each day. Your dog barks, acts up, and generally makes a nuisance of himself. The mailman goes away. Your dog thinks he's done a good job. He barked. The threat was removed.

The next day the same thing happens. It's positive reinforcement. Bark-- postman leaves. Job well done. Also how dare that idiot mailman come around after I ran him off the first time. It's a never-ending cycle.

But please. Give your mailman a break. Don't let your dog out on him or her. He has but a split-second to decide if your dog really means him harm or not. It's a panic when that dog comes charging out the door or from the backyard. Then you come out and say, "My dog doesn't bite."

A customer actually told that to my wife after the dog had bit the end of her finger and she was bleeding. If the dog eats, he can bite. Even if your dog doesn't bite supposedly, imagine being in the same situation.

I was laying on the ground one day with a Mastiff mix literally in my face. I fell trying to back away from the animal. My left hip has never been right again. Let your postman or woman do the job. There are thousands of on-the-job dog bites yearly within the Postal Service. Protect your mailman. Protect yourself. Protect your dog. The legal system doesn't take kindly to dog bite cases these days.

Baja S.A.F.E. Expansion of site.

2010-07-19T10:53:00.000-07:00

Baja S.A.F.E. is the brainchild of Isabelle Ann Tiberghien. In San Jose de Cabo, Mexico, Isabelle is fighting to save dogs from the ravages of sickness, over-breeding, and often the utter lack of concern for many dogs. She is taking the sick dogs off the streets and trying to educate the populace as to their care. Make no mistake about it, it is a tough job to run a rescue operation in an area that historically does not spay or neuter the pets, and is in the throes of an even deeper recession than the rest of North America.

For three years, Isabelle has been operating Baja SAFE. Dogs there are often ignored and expected to fend for themselves. Perhaps the alternative is worse.

There are puppy mills in operation but the dogs are not vaccinated. Diseases go untreated. Baja SAFE rescues as many dogs as possible, but some are too sick or wounded to save. It's heartbreaking.

But there is hope as long as Isabelle and the other volunteers are around. Many dogs that are rescued are recovering and being adopted out, not only in Baja, but in the States. It's a great project that deserves our support.

Baja SAFE has a Facebook page with many photos and more info. Check them out.

<---Before

After--->

The website http://thedogchronicles.com/ or http://dogsinspace999999.blogspot.com/ is expanding. Slowly but surely I am going to provide more content to reward your attention. Thanks for sticking it out all these months with me. We're growing, albeit, slower than I would like, but we are growing. Your support means a lot.

Tiger Woods and Lady Gaga? Wesley Snipes? Why This Blog? Double Rainbow.

2010-07-17T09:39:00.000-07:00

The news is that I have no news about Lady Gaga and Tiger Woods. No hilarious video of Double Rainbows or even Wesley Snipes. So why this blog? You may ask, why do I continue to torture both you and myself with these self-indulgent rantings. Here was the original idea.

I had a picture of my dog in space. It is framed and well-loved. Lulu, my dog, on the moon. Somehow I deluded myself into thinking that I could base a website upon the idea that people would flock to me just because I would run pictures of dogs in weird or historical situations, all photo-shopped of course.
My mind worked thusly (I read a lot of Winston Churchill and he says things like that):
Ah, people will flock to me because I am so clever. They will not be able to resist sending in photos of their animals, in weird situations, like in space. Then with the millions, no perhaps billions I will earn from this pursuit, I will run for governor of California. I will look like Ben Franklin but talk like Arnold. Cal-e-for-nee-ah.

Well apparently people have better things to do than waste their time photo-shopping their dogs into weird situations. But I don't!
Unfortunately I have joined the ranks of the great unwashed mass of the unemployed. Oh, it's a long story, and I am in a far better situation than many Americans who are not working. I have an income.
I awake, drink coffee and fart around on the computer for awhile. I write my blog. Then I water my garden and putter as my wife calls it outside. I may walk my dog, or not. I read-- a lot. Sometimes, rarely, I write on my novel.
My wife tells me that I have this gift of time and I am wasting it. Guilty.

I know I suffer depression. I am often tired. I nap a lot. What is wrong with me? If only you would all see my brilliance, I would be a worthwhile person. Artistic success allows one tons of eccentricities.

Well, some of you have responded to the call of this blog. I'm working on it. That can be said of me. I am working on it.

I've decided to take a class in the fall, anthropology I think I have decided. I try.

Stay with me all. I am working on it. I try to be a good person. I don't know what will go on my tombstone. Probably nothing very exciting.

"He slept a lot."

"I'd rather be in Petaluma."

"God save the Queen."

Here's what I do know. About Winston Churchill. I have read his massive volumes (4?) on WWII. I am currently reading his history of the English-speaking world. I have read Gilbert's books on both WWII and WWI. I read "Catcher in the Rye" twice and also Tolkein's books twice. I have read all of Doyle's Sherlock Holmes' stories. I have written two bad books.

Ah, here's some good stuff. I wrote hundreds of newspaper and magazine articles. I have written a lot of short stories, published some, and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. That's an award for excellence in fiction published by small presses. No, I was just nominated.

I'm good at Jeopardy but can't pass the online test.

I probably am much more honest than you might think. But less than I should be.

I feel old.

I think I look like Fire Marshall Bill from In Living Color. Kids wear your sunscreen.

I desperately need praise. That is my downfall.

I want to be considered a good person. Perhaps that much I have achieved, the consideration, but I have failed in the execution. I have squandered my chances. There you have it. Why I write. Why dogs bite.

You know, if I were younger I could be like that guy on TV who does the Slapshot chopper commercial. Zucchini, bikini, bandini.

That's what shall go on my tombstone. "He could've been in a slapshot commercial." God help me and be kind.Oh, well, if I am ever at a loss for words, there is always Sarah Palin to rely upon. Thanks Sarah, as long as you are around I will always have something to write about.

My life is complete.

Napoleon Dynamite's Favorite Dog. Michael Jackson. Mel Gibson. Send more.

2010-07-15T10:40:00.000-07:00

The Lemon-lu

In the movie, "Napoleon Dynamite" his favorite animal is a liger. That's a cross of a lion and a tiger of course. Recently I saw a picture of a dog for adoption called a Labrabull. Or was it a Labrapit or a Bulllab?
Of course we have Pekeapoos. Labrapoodles. There's more of course I can't think of right off the bat.

I'm gonna create some new breeds. How bout a chi-poo? A cross between a chihuahua and a poodle. Or a poo-pit? A Greybull. A Labrahound. Why not a Chi-pit or a Bullhuahua? A Labratiff? A Shep-hound? A Shepoo. A Dalmahuahua? Hold you tongue and say that.

Not that this has anything to do with anything else here, but I am sorta surprised that Hyenas are not of the Canine family. If only. Hyenapoos. Chihuaenas. Hyenapits. Labraenas.

Forgive my self-indulgent rantings of yesterday. I admit, I suffer from bouts of depression. Yesterday was bad. This forum allows me to vent and feel sorry for myself. I even imagine someone will read my posts now and again. There I go again. Poor me. Pobracito. Forgive my spelling my Spanish friends. Now this post is bilingual. I am speaking Spanglish.

Which brings me to the Michael Jackson part of my post. I figure Michael Jackson should bring at least one person onto the site. What if we could've crossed Michael Jackson with a Chihuahua? A Michaelhua. How bout crossing Michael Jackson with Mel Gibson? A Michaelgib. That's a racist who hates himself? I don't know. Now I'm really ranting.

Thanks to my fabulous granddaughter Anika McGuire for her picture of my dog Lulu posted here. That's my Lemonlu.

I decided just now that I need a sign off phrase. Like Peace Out. Or It's a Double-Rainbow Day. Crackies. Someone call the guys in the white coats.

ARE DOGS PSYCHIC? The D- word. Does God want us to learn?

2010-07-14T08:40:00.000-07:00

How does my dog know she is going for a walk? We put on our shoes, something we do quite often. We don't say we're going so she can hear, yet she knows. Dogs are quite intuitive.
Same with a bath. My dog hates baths. As soon as we prepare to give her one, she heads the other direction.

Do you have instances of dog ESP? If you do, tell me here.

I apologize to both BAJA SAFE and the Clyde Savage Project for not writing my post about them sooner. I will get to that when I can. This blog takes some modicum of thought. I suffer from bouts of ennui. No, I am not working at the present time. It seems as if I could spend all the time in the world finishing my novel, writing the short story I promised here, curing cancer...

I admit to extreme sloth. Precisely because I am so unproductive, I remain unproductive. Call this a confession. It drives my dear wife crazy. I will not mention the D word. No one wants to hear. Nonetheless my value to myself and others suffers. I am considering taking a class or two, perhaps working toward a degree. Maybe I will finish my novel. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

I try, then I don't.

This is the bane of my condition.

I wish I were a better person. Perhaps if I were to preach to the birds.

Which brings me to my last point. Does God want us to learn? Let us first go on the assumption that there is a God. Yes, I know what this sounds like, but it is sorta my point. Is there a God? Do we really want to know? Oh, I know I am rambling.

Here's the thing. I read a lot. A lot of history. Perhaps I should just read a Bible or the Koran or some other religious text. I question. I doubt. Is just knowing enough? If I could qualify as a scholar, my problems would be solved. An academic. I know everything about something. If I could say that and turn such knowledge into productivity I would be set.

Unfortunately I qualify for a Cliff Claven from Cheers fame degree. A know-it-all who knows nothing about anything anyone cares to hear. Oh, not that it is useless knowledge I have. But to what purpose? I try to qualify for Jeopardy, but can't pass the online test. That's my main skill. I have a wealth of useless knowledge. When I pass perhaps my tombstone will say "He should've been on Jeopardy."

All this hurts.

JESSIE JACKSON RESPONDS TO MEL GIBSON'S RACIAL SLURS

2010-07-12T18:24:00.000-07:00

Jessie Jackson has called Mel Gibson's racial slurs "reprehensible and irresponsible."
"He wouldn't have said these things had his ex-girlfriend been a white person."
When Jackson was told Gibson's ex was a Russian woman from the Ukraine, he responded, "See, I told you so. I heard she had big old fake boobies."

In related news, when told Gibson had referred to Chihuahua dogs as "wetback" dogs, Jackson said, "I thought they were 'Hymie' dogs." After learning that the dogs were native to Mexico, Jackson said Chihuahua sounded a lot like Hanukkah. "I sense a conspiracy," he said.

Gibson has been accused of physical assault on Oksana Grigorieva, the mother of one of his children. According to Grigorieva, Gibson on several occasions been violent with her and even knocked out two of her teeth.

Gibson has responded to the allegation by saying that they were only "baby teeth."

Recently the motion picture megastar has been seen running on the beach in Malibu wearing a kilt and shouting "Freedom!"
When asked if he ever called Chihuahua dogs "wetback" dogs, Gibson said, "Not this f---ing Jewish thing again! That's the way it happened okay. God told me so."
The fallout from Gibson's statements are expected to end his career in motion pictures, though sources say Gibson is working on a remake of the classic DeMille film "Birth of a Nation."

When reporters asked Jessie Jackson if he thought the comments would adversely affect Gibson's career, he said, "They wouldn't have treated him that way if he'd been a white man."
One reporter said that Mel Gibson originally came from Australia.
"See, I told you so," said Jackson.

Photo courtesy of Orrin and Flickr.

MEL GIBSON CURSES OUT HIS EX-DOG!

2010-07-12T00:53:00.000-07:00

A recording of a phone call is making the circuit in which Mel Gibson verbally abuses his dog.

"You have those fake teats and you are going around mating with all the male dogs in town," Gibson reportedly says in a phone call to his ex-pet.

Gibson could not be reached for a comment, and his publicist will not admit or deny that it is Gibson voice on a phone call to the animal.

In the call, a male voice that sounds like Gibson says, "You are just a bitch in heat. The way you chase around the neighborhood, it'll be your own fault if a bunch of pit bulls get ahold of you."

Gibson was recently accused of kicking his dog during an argument. It's also been reported that Gibson once had a career in motion pictures.

Since the news of his animal cruelty surfaced, friends say Gibson is back in Austrailia, running around in a kilt, painting his face, and repeating lines from the film "Sunset Boulevard."

"It's business as usual for Mel," says an unnamed source. "These unfounded rumors don't affect him in the least."

In related news, there is apparently no truth to the rumor that Nicole Kidman wants to renounce her Austrailian citizenship.

Photo by Flickr, courtesy of Orrin.

Two Dogs Attack Passersby in Golden Gate Park

2010-07-09T07:50:00.000-07:00

The other day, in broad daylight, two pit-bull mix dogs attacked several passersby in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco. Police suspect that the dogs belonged to homeless people who live in the park. One of the dogs was shot in an effort to subdue it. No one has come forward to claim the dogs, and it is likely that both will be destroyed.

How is it that we have come to this? I have seen homeless people sleeping in the walkways of Golden Gate Park. It is supposedly illegal to do so, but nonetheless, it happens. It is not a safe environment for humans or dogs to sleep in the park. Drug use is rampant. (By the way, tobacco smoking is illegal in Golden Gate Park. It is assumed that shooting hard drugs is not.)

I am not unsympathetic to the plight of the homeless. My wife suggests that they may keep the dogs in order to protect themselves. San Francisco has this odd attitude toward the problem. There has been homeless encampments, tent cities in view of city hall. The mayor, Gavin Newsome, who is running for Lt. Governor, seems at a loss on how to deal with the problem. To be fair, his predecessors hadn't an answer for the problem either. But living in the park is not a solution.

When I was younger, and I lived in San Francisco, I used to walk or jog across the park at night in order to get home. We had several buses and streetcars that served the area around the park. Late at night one bus ran on one side of the park, and the streetcar ran on my side. If I tired of waiting for the streetcar, I might take the bus, and just walk across the park to my side and home. Now daylight use of Golden Gate Park can be dicey. How is that serving the people of San Francisco or the homeless?

Have we given up?

Some years back, San Francisco bragged about their new public toilets in the style of Paris. There was serious discussion about giving free passes to the homeless to use these toilets. So far so good right? We don't want the homeless defecating and urinating in the streets. But also the City of St. Francis was taking into account the use of those toilet facilities for shooting hard drugs. Another San Francisco debate centered around "drug zones" where shooting up would be tolerated. The rationale was that it would be easier to provide clean needles in such zones. Heaven help us.

Many of you know I am concerned about the adoption of "homeless" pets. I am not without empathy for my fellow humans. But the so-called enlightened attitudes toward homelessness serves no one. Not the homeless, nor their dogs, nor the public. Homeless encampments solve nothing. Sleeping in the park endangers the general public and the homeless. It is much easier for city managers to wash their hands of the homeless by pretending to care with an attitude of excessive toleration. Perhaps the word offends us. Toleration. But the attitude serves no one.

Lindsay Lohan's Dog Jailed. R-T U Painted on Nails.

2010-07-08T08:33:00.000-07:00

After Lindsay Lohan was sentenced to jail yesterday, her dog, Screwthejudge was sentenced to 90 days in the hoosegow for drinking from the toilet and barking incessantly. Lohan's bitch had RUT U painted on her nails.
"It's not fair," said Screwthejudge. "That other bitch doesn't get sent immediately to pound, how come I do? I want to go back to rehab."
Lohan has been the subject of countless stories in the media for her bizarre and self-destructive behavior. Lohan's dog has often been seen intoxicated on toilet water.
The judge who sentenced Screwthejudge to the pound was unavailable for comment. Lindsay Lohan had this to say, "x^%%$***@&!"
Screwthejudge's lawyer, J. Cheever Loophole says he will appeal the sentence.

Photo by Flickr-- Joe Focus.

My Favorite Dog in Literature. Colin.

2010-07-07T08:29:00.000-07:00

"So I resolved to acquire a dog, and bought one from a

prospector, who was stony-broke and would have sold his soul

for a drink. It was an enormous Boer hunting-dog, a mongrel

in whose blood ran mastiff and bulldog and foxhound, and

Heaven knows what beside. In colour it was a kind of brindled

red, and the hair on its back grew against the lie of the rest of

its coat. Some one had told me, or I may have read it, that a

back like this meant that a dog would face anything mortal,

even to a charging lion, and it was this feature which first

caught my fancy. The price I paid was ten shillings and a pair

of boots, which I got at cost price from stock, and the owner

departed with injunctions to me to beware of the brute's

temper. Colin - for so I named him - began his career with

me by taking the seat out of my breeches and frightening Mr

Wardlaw into a tree. "

From John Buchan's Prester John.

While Enzo, from The Art of Racing in the Rain may be the funniest canine anyone has ever written about, it is difficult to give him my nod as my favorite dog to grace the pages of a book. It is a close race for number one with me. Racing in the Rain is the best darn dog book going, but since Enzo can relate his feelings to us, I am going to give Colin from John Buchan's Prester John the nod as my favorite "real" dog in literature.

Prester John is not a dog book, but an adventure story by the author of The 39 Steps. If you haven't read Buchan, you're in for a treat. His books give a wonderful view of the British stiff-upper-lip society around the time of The Great War. No, it is not high literature Buchan writes I suppose. But it is fine example of the adventure genre of the period. The writing is somewhere between Joseph Conrad and H. Rider Haggard. Not quite literature but not pulp either.

Prester John is the story of a young man's journey to Blaawildebeestefontein in the Transvaal in South Africa. I will warn the reader that it contains some racial terms many might consider offensive, language similar to Heart of Darkness. This should not stop anyone from reading Buchan though, any more than one should not read Conrad.

Colin is all dog. Mean, nasty and unrepentantly so. Yet he is loyal to a fault. In general I do not find the idea of a vicious dog appealing, yet Colin so fits his environment that his appeal for me is irresistible.

"Wherever I went - on the road, on the meadows of

the plateau, or on the rugged sides of the Berg - it was the

same. I had silent followers, who betrayed themselves now and

then by the crackling of a branch, and eyes were always looking

at me which I could not see. Only when I went down to the

plains did the espionage cease. This thing annoyed Colin

desperately, and his walks abroad were one continuous growl.

Once, in spite of my efforts, he dashed into the thicket, and a

squeal of pain followed. He had got somebody by the leg, and

there was blood on the grass."

From Prester John.

Buchan's books are worth a read.

RUNAWAYS! Have a runaway dog story? Tell it here.

2010-07-05T23:28:00.000-07:00

One July 4th, my dogs ran away because of fear of fireworks. Maurice and Pearl. The name Maurice came from a Steve Miller song "Enter Maurice" (or something like that) and Pearl was named for Janis Joplin. They took off, the two of them, and decided to wander the neighborhood. I found them about a mile away, wandering in a field.

Maurice was a dog who liked to wander. His last conscious act was to amble to the end of the driveway in an effort to stroll the neighborhood, then-- he died. I swear. I love him even more for final act of rebellion.
But Maurice came back without much trouble when you found him, not like a Scottie I had who enjoyed the game of catch me, the little s.o.b.

Actually, I worked the night shift at that time in July my two dogs ran off. I don't know if my wife called me at the office to tell me the dogs had run, or if I knew before I left for work. Anyway, I just happened to ask a supervisor if he'd seen any dogs on his way to work, and he said he had seen two in a field, and I went and picked them up. They were unrepentant.

A local story on the news today told of a police dog who jumped a fence and ran off because of fireworks. I don't guess that dog was from Oakland or he would've been used to the sound of gunshots.

My daughter and her husband's dog is a wanderer. He jumps-- no climbs their fence and goes to the bar about 50 yards away. The bar has my daughter's number, they call, as if Xena the dog were a husband who drank too much and needed to be picked up. This is a true story.

Xena also climbs trees. Go figure.

I used to drive a cab in San Diego as a college student. One night I picked up a passenger in front of a bar. If I remember, someone helped him into the backseat where he collapsed into a near-unconscious heap. I asked him where he wanted to go. He blubbered that he didn't know his address.

I called my dispatcher.

The call went something like this: "I got this guy in my cab who is drunk and doesn't know where he lives."

"Where'd you pick him up 818?" (my cab number)

"At the Dew-Drop Inn."

"That's Joe," the dispatcher said, and he gave me an address.

It's kinda pitiful when a human is reduced to the equivalent of a dog in the art of communication. I guess the drunk should have been wearing tags. Remember this the next time you decide to party 'til you puke.

My current dog, Lulu was a runaway. Her name was Marian then. She took off, was gone a week, and though the shelter found her owners, they decided they didn't want her anymore. Lulu was five-months old at the time, covered in fleas. When my wife, daughter and I went to the shelter looking to adopt a dog, Lulu almost didn't go home with us.

Lulu was scared to death of humans. She wanted nothing to do with me, and barely allowed my wife and daughter a chance to touch her. I don't know how we decided on her. She was skinny, scared, and had obviously been mistreated.

She's a very pretty dog, about 40 pounds or so. It took her a long time to get over her fear of men. She still is a little shy of them, and newcomers altogether. But she's turned out to be a great dog. Very loyal and eager to please us. Now I am her alpha-male. Oh, well, at least someone thinks of me in that way.

One day, when my kids were younger, we had a runaway goats in our front yard, but that's another story.

You got a runaway dog story? Tell it here. Leave it in the comment box so everyone can read it. I love comments.

Super-Size Neuticle. Why Go Small? Designer Dog Balls.

2010-07-02T07:36:00.000-07:00

Heard Neuticles, the testicle replacement for dogs has now gone super-size and designer. It could cause problems I suppose.
Have a Happy Fourth everyone. I hope to have a post-July 4th story for you early next week.

How Else Can I Lick Them? Neuticles. Great Balls of Fire!

2010-06-30T09:37:00.000-07:00

Certainly this piece can be posted without any comment from me. I know I would want them had I gone in to be fixed.

NEUTICLES

from the brochure; reprinted with permission

recommended by Danny Collier

Neutering can be traumatic—for you and your beloved pet.

Since 1995 over 100,000 pet owners Worldwide have selected an alternative to the traditional form of neutering.

Neuticles replicates the pets testicles in size, shape, weight and feel allowing your pet to retain his appearance—even after neutering.

Ask your veternarian about Neuticles—the safe, simple and inexpensive option when neutering your pet—or visit our [website].

Photos from Flickr. Diana.

Vicious Dogs Cut Loose On Crowd Waiting For New I-Phone? We're Always Home But There's No One There.

2010-06-28T10:07:00.000-07:00

There's absolutely no truth, as far as I know, to the rumor that vicious dogs were loosed on a crowd awaiting the new I-Phone 4. The crowds supposedly were unruly in certain places, but the rest I just made up.

What's going on? Cellphones for most people do not draw us closer, but keep us apart. I understand they are useful as a tool for business, emergencies, and to keep your kids safe. But do we need to be plugged in always? And at what cost?

If one chats on a cellphone while walking the dog, well, it's not the end of the world. Though the dog might want some more attention, he'll survive. I saw a lady the other day walking in my neighborhood, chatting on a cellphone while she had a child in the stroller. This is not meant as an indictment of chatting on the cellphone, but our children are more important.It's not that we can't stroll and talk, but where does the chat end?

I live in Northern California, in a somewhat rural area. There's a huge open space park probably 1/3 of a mile from me. There's horses in my neighborhood, a vineyard, and beautiful vistas of the hills and bay. Do we engage our children on such walks? Look at the horse, look at the birds? No, our chats about nothing are more important.

What really have we to talk about at the grocery store? Here's how any grocery store conversation should go.

"Hello, I'm at the grocery store. Do you need anything? A quart of milk, okay. See you soon."

Everyone is on the phone. We are so obsessed with our own self-importance that we ignore those around us.

Our children are busy texting instead of talking to us. Our relations ignore us in favor of their friends. We even have devices so we don't have to use our hands as we walk about, ignoring our surroundings and those real folks we see.

A park bench doesn't lead to a new friend and conversation with that friend, but to an opportunity to blab on our cells.We air our business, or lack thereof while we are supposed to be conversing at a restaurant.

I'm not so lame that I don't know this is a lost cause. I seem to be choosing a lot of lost causes these days. I would write more on this subject, but you know what? I have a call coming in.

I'm still compiling a list of pet adoption agencies on The Dog Chronicles Page on Facebook. I want to make it easy for people to post a dog that needs adopting with just a couple of clicks. To get to the Facebook page, enter http:// before you enter The Dog Chronicles. I will add agencies often until I get them all I hope. If just one of you will post a dog from your local area that needs adopting, maybe one of your friends will follow your lead. That's all I ask.

Photos Courtesy of Flickr. Thanks Andy, Spikeblacklab, Ed Yourdon, Alex Segre, and Stephadamo.

The Maurice Project-- Pet Cemetery-- Put Me Down! OK, It Ain't Funny To Me

2010-06-23T09:03:00.000-07:00

Today, June 25th, 2010 we are launching the "Maurice Project." I'm going to make it as simple as possible to post dogs for adoption on your Facebook page. The Maurice Project seeks to get photos and information about dogs and other animals in need onto pages across the country. If you see a dog in your area that calls out to you, or if you know someone who needs a pet, post it. I'm going to scour the web for sites of shelters that tie into Facebook. A few clicks and some dog will be viewed by everyone you are in contact with on Facebook.

Here's two sites near my hometown and in my current area that make it easy for you to post an animal in need of adoption. Check them out. We can help. It's easy.

http://www.hssv.org/-- This is the Humane Society Silicon Valley. They have a Facebook page.

www://sdhumane.org This is the Humane Society & SPCA San Diego. They also have a Facebook page.

Stay tuned for more.

"Here Lies Fluffy
Hit By A Car
Not So Fluffy Anymore"

That is my contribution to pet epitaphs. I have put down a couple of pets unfortunately. Watched them die. Buried birds in the backyard, or turtles, or hamsters. It ain't fun. But we all got to go. Let's face it. Let's face it with some humor. After all, we're all supposed to be headed to a better place.

W.C. Fields epitaph reads something like "I'd rather be in Philadelphia."

Maybe I wish mine would say something like "Temporarily Away from My Desk." I don't know.

The Onion lists a some fictional pet epitaphs.

"Fetch the Stars, Woofer."

"Flattened Too Soon."

"Put Down With Love."

"The Lease Said 'No Pets.'"

If you're going to bury your pet, I suggest you don't do something creepy like the cat grave above.

My dog Maurice died a good death. He suffered from a bad heart. We knew he didn't have long to go, and in the end he hadn't much gas left in his tank. But when he died, he was in our front yard, heading out, to have a run in the neighborhood. Now our dogs don't run wild unless they escape. That was Maurice's intent-- a rebel to the last. He was heading down the driveway, for one last fling. I saw him and called him back and... well, that was it. He died. Right that moment. At the end of the drive, he collapsed and was dead.

"God Bless His Disobedient Little Heart."

THE END

Photos courtesy of Flickr. Thanks to agilitynut and Swissrunner.

After We Dye the Dog, We'll Shave the Cat. Dog Modification. Wanted-- Your Opinion.

2010-06-21T10:10:00.000-07:00

Okay, so it isn't alarming exactly, this return to dyeing our dogs to suit our tastes, but it is rather demeaning, even for a dog. That our pets are so compliant makes it no better. Some folks have taken the idea to extremes-- like the Chinese.

Are the Chinese the new Californians? Now I am a native of the Golden State. I have heard the joke about California being the land of "Fruits and Nuts." Perhaps the Chinese have taken over the "nut" part. Yes, I know I am hard on the Chinese, but you'd think they'd be too busy harvesting human internal organs to engage in such nonsense. Nonetheless, when they're not making poo-poo jokes about their government on Google, or arresting dissidents for wearing their pajamas in public, they waste their time dyeing dogs.

I have a suggestion. The Chinese, and all other dog dyers ought to modify their own appearances and leave their dogs the hell alone.

There is tattooing.

Get a tattoo.

It's easy and available.

Or let's get more extreme.

The Chinese are surely experts in foot binding. Have another run at that.

There are other extreme forms of body modification. How 'bout the wasp-waist of the past?

There is a lady who looks like a cat. Why doesn't some enterprising soul hit the plastic surgeon's office for a chihuahua remodel. That's it. Good money in that. Heard the Taco Bell dog has passed. Also no dubbing necessary in the commercials. Just a testimonial from the Taco Bell Human.

"Si, I like Taco Bell Gorditos."

Jeez, I am so freakin grouchy. Anyway, you know my opinion.

I'm interested in your's. What do you think? Is dyeing your dog harmless, or a waste of time, money and energy?

Photos courtesy of Lisa G. and Flickr. Also Reuters and a bunch of people who have gone to heaven.

VEGAS DOGS! VIVA ELVIS DOGS! LONG LIVE KA DOGS!

2010-06-18T10:22:00.000-07:00

Ah, Las Vegas. I hadn't been there in years, and frankly, it is not-- or was not a favorite place. I have family there. My mother and my sister, so Las Vegas does not end up being strictly a vacation, but sometimes an obligation. Also, let's face it, it is hot and expensive. Also I spent some years there as a kid, and it does not hold particularly good memories.
But Vegas has changed. Grown up.
First, the doggie part, because I have some obligation to tie this into dogs. First day we went to my sister and brother-in-law's house for a one night stay. They have three large dogs. The largest being Dixie (not after the Dixie Chicks) who is a mastiff-shepard mix. This huge dog ran the other direction immediately upon our entrance. Even my 13 (almost 14-- Happy Birthday Ani in eight days) year-old granddaughter scared Dixie at first. Nonetheless, the behemoth did warm up some to the women in our group by the end of a day. I have not spent a lot of time around big dogs for awhile. At one point, my wife and I shared a home in San Francisco with five dogs, three of them large. So there's the dogs, except for the sight of a pit bull in sunglasses on the strip, a homeless person's chihuahua, and a dog or two cradled by tourists, dogs were not in profusion on this trip.
What was in profusion was good times. We stayed at Aria for three nights. Now Aria and the City Center is Vegas all grown up. Gone are the glitzy lights. There is only one casino in the complex of four hotels/co ops /apparments. Aria and the center is gorgeous. My sister is the head of uniforms for the Aria. She purchased uniforms for 7,000 employees, keeps the uniforms in order and fitted, etc. She has some 30,000 uniforms I believe. If they are not being worn, or cleaned, they are kept in order on a huge conveyor system. Each employee goes to a locker, slips in a badge,and the conveyor brings the uniform to the employee. My sister travelled the world in search of the uniforms and the vendors. She even got wined and dined by top designers. I'm proud of my kid sis. She works hard and has succeeded-- though she did not arrange a private cocktail waitress fitting for my benefit.
The food at Aria is fantastic. We had amazing Jean Phillipe pastries every morning for breakfast. At Sirio, the Italian restaurant inside Aria, we ate a wonderful meal that included five desserts plus-- and even a sparkling dessert wine from Asti.
As for the shows. What a great time. First Viva Elvis at Aria is a Cirque du Soleil show all about well, Elvis. It is disappointing if one goes expecting strictly a Cirque show replete with amazing feats of acrobatics. There is an amazing trampoline section of the show and some other acrobatics, but in truth, it is more fantastic music, incredible dance and costumes, and energy than eye-popping acrobatics that make the show. Just go with an open mind, even if you don't like Elvis, you'll come out happy.
Last night we crossed the street and saw Cirque du Soleil's KA. Do not miss KA. There is a moving, flying, standing stage/boat/mountain/desert island that is the centerpiece of the show. This is more allegorical story than the usual Cirque shows perhaps. But the show is simply astounding. (When I say astounding I want to say it like Bjork would sing it. Ah-stound-ding.) Again, go to Vegas, see KA. It will not disappoint.

Lastly, let me congratulate Las Vegas, and especially the City Center and Aria. They have changed the face of Las Vegas. You know, it's not easy to find service in this world anywhere, even if you pay for it. But everyone at Aria treated us very well. The maids, the servers, the doormen, and front desk folks all treated us like royalty. They are efficient and hard-working. And that is what I noticed about Vegas. Whether it is the staff of Aria, my sister, or the people selling bottled water on the streets, everyone seems hard-working in Las Vegas. Even the noisy, ever present men and women handing out naked girl picture cards promising a naked girl to you in 20 minutes-- work hard. Since I was on vacation, I managed to greet every person I dealt with a thank you or a good morning/day/evening. It worked. I walked away from almost every situation with good wishes for my stay.
My wife, who is even less than I a Las Vegas person, wants to go back to Aria.
My granddaughter loved it.
Viva Las Vegas. May you ever grow and prosper.

Dogs as Art-- What If Dogs Were the Subject of Great Art? Off to Vegas. Content Added June 10.

2010-06-08T19:25:00.000-07:00

What if dogs were the models of the great artists?

Take the Mona Lisa.

Or this painting by Monet.

Or The Sleep of Endymion.

I truly am on the way to Las Vegas next week. No, not to serve out a jail term. That was a joke.

I spent some years in Vegas as a kid. Probably four years altogether. My mother had a friend who used to dye her poodle pink at Christmas. Talk about dog art!

Send in your dog pics up against art classics. Lynn, my wife, says the lady with the umbrella painting doesn't really match the dog (Moo) taking the air. Oh well.

Chinese Astronauts Eat Dogs on Mission-- True!

2010-06-07T11:07:00.000-07:00

From all my extensive research (five minutes on the Internet) reputable newspapers report that Chinese astronauts ate dog meat in space (to maintain their strength.) No, not hot dogs as indicated above, but real Rover dogs, pun intended. Now this just makes me angry, but not for the reason you may think.
You may ask, what does this reporter/blogger/bon mot have against the Chinese and Sarah Palin?
As far as the Chinese go, I think they are clueless as to the ways of the world. Why dog meat? It's just self-indulgent, like asking for your 20 year-old girlfriend to go along on the mission with you because she's hot. Come on... they know this makes people angry-- eating our pets.
Now in the case of Sarah Palin, my wife swears I love her. Maybe I do. There is no end to the stupid things she says and does. She's a delight. I am one of those people who think our politicians should be smarter than the rest of us, not just more driven. I don't cotton to Rush and Sarah, not because they are Republicans, but because they are not George Will. But back to dog meat aboard the good ship Moo Shu.
Here's the rub, and why I am really angry at the Chinese for their choice of flight goodies. Probably one-third of the world's population finds nothing wrong in grilling up Fido. Face it. For some it's a cultural thing, eating dogs. For others, eating flesh of any kind is a novelty. I would think starving people might relish a good leg of poodle with mint jelly. While I appall that attitude, I do understand it.
To a good Hindu, I would expect eating chicken ala king in space pouches is offensive. Also vegetarians are offended often by the Western World's flesh eating proclivities. So now I have to think. And I don't want to think. I don't like to read directions and I don't want to think too hard.
I don't want to consider that eating a cow or a chicken is as offensive to some people as eating a dog is to me. I don't want to think that I might be hypocritical. I got nothing against cows and chickens except cows got snot in profusion and chickens are really stupid. But that's no reason to eat them because I can. I don't want to think that hard. I want my steak-- I want my Kentucky Fried wings. Chinese folks want their terrier.
So I got to think-- ruminate if you will. It makes me question. So then I move on to religion and God/god. Well, I don't want to tick people off. But why so complicated?
I want my hamburgers, I want my dogs not to look appetizing to my neighbors. I don't want to live on carrots. I don't want to consider too much.
I only ask for my family and friends to be happy and healthy, and that's not always the case. I'm tired of angst. I suffered teenage angst-- a mid-life crisis-- now senior depression. Only dementia could be an improvement.
STOP!
Freaking Chinese dog-eaters! Why do they have to start this? Okay, call me xenophobic. Call me any phobic you want. It might boost my readership-- but don't make me think. I am a blabber sort of person. Not a considerer. I write that way. I live that way. I put together jigsaw puzzles in a way that makes more considering sorts crazy.
Give me black and white. No shades of gray. And I don't want to have to think about which "gray/grey" I should be using in this sentence.

VISITING FARMVILLE FARMER MAULED BY DOG!

2010-06-03T10:20:00.001-07:00

A FarmVille farmer visiting a neighbor's farm was seriously mauled by a dog yesterday. Bobbie Joe Pickney came to her neighbor's farm "just to pull some weeds, fertilize some crops, and feed the chickens" when she was brutally attacked by her neighbor's dog Cuddles. Ms. Pickney said she has visited her neighbor's farm, owned by Joe Bob Snickers many times before without incident.
Since FarmVille has no ambulances, doctors, or hospitals, Ms. Pickney was rushed to the post office in a tractor where the Arborists (tree surgeons) operated for three hours in order to close up her wounds.
Joe Bob Snickers has made no statements regarding the attack and has referred all inquiries to his Facebook lawyers. Ms. Pickney is in serious but "stable" condition at her FV post office.

B.C News-- She-Wolf Killed-- Oracles Say Great Civilization Will Not Be Founded

2010-06-01T14:42:00.000-07:00

Date 750 B.C. even though we don't know what B.C. means.

Saraus Palenus, great wolf hunter has killed a she-wolf in the Etruscan area of Italy. The she-wolf had two human pups that unfortunately died. Romulus and Remus, the pupus humanus were discovered later, dead from lack of nourishment.

Oracles have stated that the twins were due to form a great civilization. Such a civilization will not be founded due to the death of the human pups.

When asked for a comment, Saraus Palenus said "Enlightment is not all it is cracked up to be. You betcha."

Saraus Palenus-- Great Wolf Hunter

Chips the War Dog

2010-05-28T09:30:00.000-07:00

It is an early summer morning, 1943 in Sicily. You are walking the perimeter of an U.S. encampment with the sentry dog, Chips. The enemy is nearby. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a machine gun clatters into action. Bullets are whizzing past your head and you don't know where the nest is. Your dog breaks free.
You are lying on your face. Scared. The next bullet may end your life.

There is a commotion somewhere ahead. The machine gun stops, but the gunfire doesn't. You look into the distance. Has it been a few seconds or a minute since the firing began?

Your dog suddenly appears, with an Italian soldier in front of him with his hands up. The Italian looks petrified. A few moments later, the rest of the Italians, four in all come out of the hidden pillbox. They are taken prisoner.

Your dog comes to you. He has wounds about his head. Powder burns where they tried to shoot him. He wags his tail. All in a day's work master.

This is the story of Chips. Hours later, the dog helped capture ten more prisoners. Earlier during his tour of duty, the dog served as sentry for talks between Churchill and FDR. For his valor, Chips received a Distinguished Service Cross, a Purple Heart, and a Silver Star. These medals were later taken back when Chips and the rest of the K-9 corps serving were termed "equipment" rather than soldiers.
Chips died six months after his return to the States from complications from his wounds. He was six-years-old.

WAR DOGS-- Still wanted. Your Dog Jokes.

2010-05-27T08:57:00.000-07:00

There's no joke about war. Dogs have been used in combat in every war since WWI. They've been used to detect mines, as sentries, scouts, messengers, pack and sled dogs. Check out this link for more. http://www.uswardogs.org/id16.html
These dogs have no idea of the politics involved in war. They just did their duties as ordered. Only dogs and horses have shown their worth in battle. Tomorrow I hope to pick out a specific dog or two and give you a little bit of their stories.
As Memorial Day nears, remember, no matter how you feel about war, our soldiers need your support-- even our four-legged soldiers. They made a sacrifice for us.

I'm still looking for dog jokes. Come on guys! Give me a joke or two just so I know someone is reading. IT'S YOUR DUTY!

Winston Churchill-- The British Bulldog. Wanted-- Dog Jokes.

2010-05-26T08:49:00.000-07:00

Okay, I know this is a stretch, but I can't write about Memorial Day without talking about that British Bulldog himself, Winston Churchill. He is a hero of mine. A warrior, statesman, and scholar. I've waded through six volumes of his WWII memoirs. He wrote as well as he governed. I'm now reading the first volume of his History of the English Speaking Peoples. He also wrote about the wars in Sudan at the end of the 19th century. That's enlightening because of its relevance to today's conflict in the Middle East/Northern Africa. It's also interesting because Winston Churchill describes a famous charge in the teeth of the Sudanese enemy without really mentioning his part in that valiant charge.

That's the thing about Churchill. Not only did he lead a nation that stood alone for years against the tyranny of Hitler, but he never flinched no matter what.

He'd stand atop of buildings in London while the Germans bombed. He fought in the trenches in WWI and Sudan. It took the King of England to stop him from being aboard ship on the coast of Normandy on D-Day.

Winston Churchill embraced his resemblance to a bulldog precisely because of the tenacious spirit the animal represented. Being compared to a bulldog in spirit is one thing. Being compared to a bulldog because you actually look like a bulldog is another. Nonetheless, Churchill knew a good thing when he saw it. From 1939 to the end of 1941, Churchill and England stood alone against the monsters of the Axis. They probably saved the world in those two years.

WANTED-- DOG JOKES! War Dogs of the Pacific.

2010-05-25T09:40:00.000-07:00

Yesterday's joke first. This is courtesy of my wife's father.

My dog knows how to play poker but he's not very good at it.
Really? Why?
Because every time he gets a good hand he wags his tail.

Today's joke, then I think I need more material-- don't make me haul out the really lame jokes.

A guy walks into a bar with a chihuahua on a leash. He orders a drink.
The bartender says, "Sorry sir, we don't allow dogs in here."

The man says, "This is a seeing-eye dog."

The bartender says, "You have a chihuahua as a seeing-eye dog."
The man says, "They gave me a chihuahua?!"

Now, because of Memorial Day coming up, I want to address dogs in war. Now, this site is meant only to give people a jumping off point to find out more about a subject. I can't-- no, I don't want to pretend to to be an authority on any subject, dogs or otherwise.
The Military Channel had a special entitled War Dogs of the Pacific awhile back. I checked their schedule, and there are no showings of this program scheduled, but the show just gave another aspect of dogs' service to humans.
During WWII, dogs were sent to the Pacific to fight it out in the trenches and the jungles with U.S. soldiers. These dogs acted as look-outs, cleared caves and tunnels, and allowed these soldiers to rest and avoid some of the more dangerous jobs during combat. The dogs took the hardships and the bullets like the rest of the men. These were regular dogs, often volunteered by their owners back in the States for duty. Sometimes the dogs didn't return. They died in combat, along with their trainers, or could not be returned to their owners because their training made them inappropriate as pets. A lucky few came back and were either returned to the original owners or lived out the rest of their days as the companions of their military trainers.
Without exception, these dogs acted with valor and selflessness in a tough situation. They served on all the islands you have heard of, and probably on a few you haven't. They often survived on meagre rations and in unbelievably difficult terrain. Thanks to our soldiers who have, and who continue to sacrifice for us.
I will post more stories of war dogs this week.

What Dogs Mean to Us-- Wanted-- Dog Jokes.

2010-05-24T09:00:00.000-07:00

The other day, as I was walking past a shop, I saw a sign for a store-- I forget exactly what it said, something like "Closed Monday" or "No Checks"-- and there was a bull-dog's face on the sign. Not a pit bull but a French Bulldog. Now, I had just finished handing out flyers at the Pet Parade, so I was particularly aware of dogs, but I realized that the sign meant many things to many people. Not what the sign said, but what the dog on the sign represented. Some people may have seen the dog and thought it cute. Other's may have harkened back to the Winston Churchill sort of bulldog, vigilant, brave and fair. To a few, the dog's face seemed stern. What I realized is that dogs are used so often in advertising, signs, symbols, etc. because they are not only fun to look at, but because we relate in our own way to them.
PBS ran a show locally last night about the meaning of dogs and cats in our lives. They mean many things to many people. Some folks are rescued by dogs while others are rescuers. The show tried to explain why we love our animals.
The loyalty, friendship, and unconditional love our dogs give us help us to perceive these animals in such a positive way, they are used constantly to gain our approval. Whether it is the talking chihuahua in the Taco Bell ads, the "Trouble Dog" for the insurance company-- is it an insurance company?-- or the random canine thrown into an ad, dogs are not only symbols, but good business.
What other animal performs so many functions, not only as a pet, but as a rescuer, either in reality as in the case of dogs who search out victims of disasters, or as supporters in times of mental stress? What other animal can herd, help the disabled, or act as a sentry?
We look at a dog, and see what we want to see, or need to see. Now I am not the religious sort, but God got it right when he made dogs. Bless them.

Got a dog joke? Here's one that is courtesy of my wife's dad.
"My dog plays poker but he's not very good at it."
"Why not?"
"Because every time he gets a good hand he wags his tail."

Later this week I hope to post some stories about dogs as soldiers, and perhaps, if I finish it, to present a new dog story I'm writing.

Reposting "Dining With Maurice" A short story by Frank Criscenti

2010-05-22T14:09:00.001-07:00

My new readers, if there are any, haven't likely seen this story. For those of you who have, bear with me, I'm trying to get new followers and I think this story is pretty good.

Dining With Maurice.
A short story by Frank Criscenti

It was a terrible time in Wayne's life for his dog to start acting weird.

Wayne had spent a half-hour just that morning, studying his thinning hair. And, after another argument last night, his five-year-old relationship with Janice seemed over for good this time. So when he looked out and saw Maurice, the dog he'd owned for 16 years, chomping down mouthfuls of soil, it seemed somehow the beginning of the end.

Wayne called Janice about the dog. It was a good excuse to talk.

"Yes?" she said, sounding impatient.

"The dog's acting crazy."

"What's he doing?"

"He eats dirt."

"So take him to the vet. He's probably senile."

"You think so?"

It was a good point. Janice always had the easy answers. He sensed the end of their conversation and was anxious to seize this opportunity.

"Do you want to meet for dinner?" he asked.

"No."

"How 'bout a movie tomorrow? There's a French film at the Guild."

"I have plans," she said, and hung up.

Wayne had been seeing a psychiatrist for several months. Janice had suggested it some time ago and he finally relented. The psychiatrist looked like Joanne Woodward.

Every week, Wayne arrived 15 minutes early at the medical center, with Maurice riding in the passenger's seat. They'd park. Before Wayne went in to his appointment he took Maurice for a short walk around the parking lot. They wouldn't walk far since the dog suffered from arthritis. Maurice would hobble about, sniff and snort about the islands of trees and bushes, pissing here and there. Wayne tugged at the leash before Maurice became overly-interested in any morsels of soil. After their walk, he'd put the dog in the car and roll the window down a little for air. Then Wayne went inside to his appointment.

"Call me Ellen..." the doctor would say when Wayne called her "Doctor."

"Ellen..." he would say.

"Wayne..." the doctor would say.

During some sessions that was as close as they got to a breakthrough. They'd exchange pleasantries, then all conversation stopped. All the words unsaid probably meant something, but Wayne couldn't decide what it might be. Whenever he was at a session he kept thinking of the concept of negative space.

When he asked why she didn't ask him questions, she said it wasn't her job. That he would talk when he was ready.

But Wayne never felt ready.

It depressed him. He worried he might have some incurable malaise.

Wayne called Maurice's vet.

"Have you ever heard of a dog eating dirt?" he asked the receptionist.

She said no, but hold and she would ask the vet.

The vet got on. "What does he eat?"

"Dirt."

"What kind of dirt?"

"Just your ordinary garden variety," Wayne said. "He prefers the clods actually."

"Do you feed him?"

"Of course. He gets kibble, a little canned stuff, and a few left-overs."

"This happens sometimes," the vet said. "Make an appointment with my receptionist and bring him in."

He lied to the receptionist and told her he would make an appointment as soon as he checked his schedule.

Wayne decided as long as Maurice remained healthy enough for an old, unhealthy dog, what harm could a couple of mouthfuls of dirt do.

One night Wayne awoke to strange animal moans in the backyard. He threw on his robe and went outside to find Maurice rolling in the dirt, his eyes glassy and full of terror. Once, on a vacation in Northern California, when Wayne was a child, his father hit a deer with the car. He remembered the deer had the same look in its eyes right before the car hit it. Wayne thought it was the end for his buddy. He carried the dog into the house, took him on his lap. All night he sat up, stroking Maurice's grey-flecked muzzle. Come morning, Wayne called in sick to his job at the Department of Motor Vehicles. He made Maurice vegetable beef soup from a can and fed him with a big wooden spoon. That afternoon Maurice wobbled to his feet, though he listed. When the dog wagged his tail it seemed to throw off his balance completely.

Wayne took his pal to the vet. The vet kept Maurice overnight. When Wayne called the vet early the next afternoon, the vet told him the dog had congestive heart failure and all the tests he'd run and all the pills he might give might allow Maurice another six months of life.

Wayne called Janice and told her about Maurice.

"Sometimes I think you loved that dog more than me," Janice said.

"That's not true," he said, though it was.

They argued.

Janice hung up on Wayne.

She always took the easy way out.

Wayne picked up Maurice from the vet in the afternoon after work. The bill came to $606. Maurice wagged his tail so hard when he saw Wayne that he slipped off his feet to the floor. The dog looked up at his master, then licked his paw, seemingly embarassed for his lack of control.

One day, Wayne decided to open up to Ellen and tell her about his arguments with Janice.

He said, "Janice says I'm noncommital and obsessive. She says I'm certainly neurotic and possibly psychotic."

"Who is she to say?" Ellen said. "She's not a professional."

"Do you think I am?"

"What?"

"What she said."

"That pisses me off," Ellen said.

"Ellen."

"What?"

"Am I possibly psychotic?"

"Do you think you are?"

"I don't know," he said. "I mean, I can't tell one way or the other. It's me we're talking about. That's why I come here after all."

"That's right," she said. "You're here to learn about yourself. What some nonprofessional says about you is irrelevant."

"Right," he said.

"Right," she said.

So Wayne talked about himself. He talked about Janice. Everything Wayne revealed about himself and how he felt, Ellen, though seeminly preoccupied, said it was reasonable that he felt the way he did, she understood why he would respond the way he did. It wasn't important what a nonprofessional said about him.

It depressed Wayne.

Then he told Ellen about Maurice eating dirt. Ellen seemed to find the story interesting. She said in humans such a condition was called "parorexia." Professionals knew that, she said, and some people ate fabric, ashes from ashtrays, whole pencils and even worse.

By the time Wayne left the office he had decided even his dog led a more interesting life than he.

One night Wayne ordered take-out Chinese food and brought it home and shared it with Maurice. They ate together at the dinette in the kitchen. The dog ate chow mein, fried shrimps, and beef from the broccoli beef.

A few nights later Wayne ordered two Philly cheese steak sandwiches-- one for him and one for the dog.

Wayne longed to take his pal to Paris. From what Wayne understood, the French had a healthy respect for dogs, allowed their pets to dine with them even in the best restaurants.

Wayne called a travel agent and asked about touring France with a dog. The agent said he'd look into it but called back the next day and told him the laws about bringing animals into France were overly-restrictive.

This news depressed Wayne.

Wayne went to one of the best French restaurants in town and ordered two meals to go. He told the waiter it was for a shut-in. It wasn't really lying to say that, he'd decided.

Wayne sat on a chair near the reception area while the meal was being prepared. Men in suits and ties and women in black dresses with strands of white pearls stared at him as he sat there waiting. To shut out their stares, Wayne closed his eyes and imagined himself and Maurice in France, drinking wine and munching escargot. He wondered if Maurice would eat escargot. Could he get Maurice a little tie to wear over his neck for formal dinners? He thought how they would sit there, in France, in a French restaurant, and the French people would say to the two of them, "Quel chien adorable!"

At home, Maurice devored the filet de boeuf.

Wayne told Ellen abouot dining with his dog. It seemed to perk her interest.

"Maybe you need to go out of the house more," she said.

But there wasn't time. Maurice needed him.

The dog's health became worse. Wayne took him back to the vet but the vet said nothing could be done.

Wayne asked for time off work. He had it coming. He rarely took vacations, only when Janice had insisted he take her someplace.

Besides, this was an emergency.

Wayne stayed home all day and cooked for himself and his pal. He always was a pretty fair cook, if unadventurous.

Maurice lay around most of the day, dozing in the triangle of sunlight on the floor in the dining room. The dog only ventured outside for a few minutes a day to do his business and have a mouthful of dirt. At dinnertime, Wayne had to lift Maurice into his seat at the dinette. The dog ate less and less, even when served steaks, meatloaf, or boneless chicken. He was wasting away.

It depressed Wayne.

Wayne called Janice.

"Maurice doesn't hardly eat at all," he said.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I know you cared for him."

"He's not gone yet," Wayne said.

There was a brief silence.

He thought she might be thinking up a remedy for the dog's poor appetite. Maybe she would give him a recipe. A special steak Janice, or salmon in puff pastry Janice. She always had the easy answers.

"Wayne," she said after a moment.

"Yes?" he said. That was it. All would be well. Janice would come back to him and they would care for Maurice together. He would show off his new skills in the kitchen. They would go to France together-- no, they would move to France with Maurice.

"I've been seeing someone else for some time now," she said. "It's serious."

Well, there it was, Janice just looking out for her own narrow self-interest. "This is more serious," he said. "How unprofessional of you to bring it up." Wayne hung up.

He told Ellen about Maurice.

"Sometimes you have to let an old friend go and move on with your life," she said.

"I don't want to," he said.

"You must."

Before Wayne left that day he stopped at the receptionist's desk and cancelled the rest of his appointments with the doctor.

Maurice fell one day while he was walking on the hardwood floor. He just collapsed. Wayne was alerted to the fall by the scrape of Maurice's nails.

The dog lay in the hallway, legs spread at an odd angle. When Wayne ran up to him , Maurice never bothered to try to get to his feet, but just lay there, staring up at Wayne with a sad, helpless look in his brown dog eyes.

The end was near. Wayne couldn't let his pal know he knew, but then again, he couldn't let him go without some special goodbye.

Wayne decided to make Maurice a special dinner with all his favorites.

He went shopping. He cooked all day. When the meal was prepared, he lifted Maurice into the seat at the dinette, and brought the covered plates to the table. He toasted the dog with a goblet of wine, then uncovered the plates. There was dirt with rice and dirt with meatloaf and dirt with apple tart. Wayne and his pal ate and, for a little while, it seemed as if they hadn't a care in the world.

THE END.

This story first appeared in the Santa Clara Review. Spring 1993.

2 comments:

Brad said...

More like this! I can see why you were able to publish it. Great story, great parallels, and a great dog lover's tale. Marley and Me eat your heart out.

April 26, 2010 10:00 PM

Leah said...

A very touching, heart warming story. A story of an unconditional love that only comes from a dog. Yes, we need more stories from you. If only we could be more caring, less to analyze and judge people in our lives.

April 27, 2010 8:08 PM

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▼ 2010 (54)

► May (13)

Chinese Pet Food Company Admits to Using Cats in I...

Chinese Using Cats in Dog Food? That's Not the Wor...

Are the Chinese Using Cats for Dog Food? Protest! ...

DO DOGS HAVE SOULS? Give Your Opinion.

The Truth About Puppy Mills-- My Soapbox-- Adopt a...

CONTEST! REAL PRIZE! SEND ME A PHOTO OF YOUR DOG!

Chihuahuas! Every Girl Must Have One!

NEW! PIT BULL! THE AMAZING NATURAL MALE ENHANCEMEN...

NEW GAME! DOGVILLA! Be afraid. Be very afraid! Hap...

Does Anyone Still Read? Dog for Adoption. TGIF. Th...

A Poem-- More Boxes-- Our Reason for Being. The Do...

Dog Art-- Chips, Decorated War Dog-- Cigar Box Can...

Dog Art on a Box-- AWARD!-- Thanks-- The Dog Chron...

▼ April (21)

Dining With Maurice-- A Short Story by Me.

A Little Bit of Everything. The Dog Chronicles.

This Dog Needs a Home. Really.

Dog Headed Men-- Remember Those St. Christopher Me...

Looking for Something Like This. The Dog Chronicle...

Make My Day! Need Photos, Your Dog as Cerberus!

Freshly-Cooked Werewolves-- The Dog Chronicles

The Wolf Man-- Or Was He The Wimp Man?

Velvet Rat Tails-- Cigar Dogs-- The Dog Chronicles...

More Buster Brown-- Not Shoes-- The Dog Chronicles...

TAX DAY! OUCH! THIS ONE'S FOR BOOMERS-- The Dog Ch...

People Who Look Like Dogs-- Part III

Part II-- WANTED FAMOUS PEOPLE WHO LOOK LIKE DOGS-...

WANTED-- FAMOUS PEOPLE WHO RESEMBLE DOGS-- The Dog...

HEARING-IMPAIRED CANINES TELL DOG WHISPERER TO SPE...

The Case Against Cats-- By the CCAFF-- Dogs in Spa...

The Case Against Cats-- By the

The Case Against Cats-- By the

Contest-- Who Painted This Dog?-- Dogs in Space

The Truth Finally Comes Out-- Dingos Did Not Eat M...

Sarah Palin Devoured by Wolves-- Dogs in Space

► March (20)

Amazing Dog Rescue-- Dogs in Space

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doggod/goddog Anubis-- Dogs in Space

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You Ain't Nothing But a Hound Dog-- Dogs in Space

You Ain't Nothing But a Hound Dog-- Dogs in Space

Hot dogs in space.

Laika-- First Living Being in Space. Dogs in Space...

Dog Movies-- Dogs in Space

Don't be mean-- Feed Table Scraps-- Dogs in Space

True Story? Vampire Dog! Dogs in Space

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Dog who wouldn't eat waffles-- and vampires Dogs i...

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Dogs in Space!

Chinese Pet Food Company Admits to Using Cats in Its Dog Food Formula-- But Only Dead Cats

2010-05-20T10:59:00.000-07:00

The Chinese pet food manufacturer, Ping E. Lee admits it uses cats in its dog food formula, but only dead cats. Dead and dying animals are used all the time in pet foods, even in the U.S. They are considered unfit for human consumption. But cat meat is not used here. P.E. Lee also admits to using dog meat in its pet food. The company claims it does not use rodents though-- even dead ones.
Critics aren't too sure though.

In related news, three Americans belonging to HCAFET (Hold China Accountable for Ecological Terrorism) are missing near the P.E. Lee Company plant in Foo, a town about 50 miles from Benjii. The Americans, two Chinese immigrants to the U.S., Dan Chang and Melody Eng, and student Manuel Cant haven't been seen in over a week. Friends and relatives in the United States and China fear for their safety. The activists were investigating the Ping E. Lee Company and other firms in China suspected of ecological irresponsibility.
The Chinese government claims no knowledge of the whereabouts of the activists. State Department officials have so far only been able to discover that Cant, Chang and Eng were due in Hong Kong a week ago and never arrived.
Two Chinese dissidents protesting the Ping E. Lee's policies disappeared last year and have yet to resurface. Some unnamed sources within the dissident community in China claim that the Ping E. Lee Co. may have even murdered those missing persons and destroyed their bodies. Rumors claim that the Lee Co. is not above using any and all sources of meat in their pet foods, including human meat.
Both the government and the Lee Co. deny these charges. They claim that Chinese dissidents are constantly going underground to avoid prosecution on various criminal charges, and that often these missing persons surface unharmed later. The Lee Co. and the Chinese government does not give any examples of missing persons who have resurfaced. Chinese officials are usually silent about the fates of dissidents within China, whether the dissidents are Chinese or not.
U.S. State Dept. officials continue to make inquiries about the missing Americans, but note that such inquiries can take weeks or even months before they bear fruit.
In the meantime you can help by reposting these articles and demanding information from the Chinese about the fate of the three Americans. It's time to take a stand.

Chinese Using Cats in Dog Food? That's Not the Worst!

2010-05-19T07:23:00.000-07:00

The story posted here yesterday about the possibility of Chinese pet food manufacturers using cats in their dog food just gets worse. According to a Chinese refugee, Oh Mai, now living in Poland, the pet food companies in his home country include any animal unlucky enough to die or move too slow to escape. Bands of animal "herders" that roam the cities near the plants pick up the unfortunate victims.

"They use cats, dogs, rats, mice, and donkeys. I've even seen a bear parts ground up and put into the food," says Oh Mai. "All these animals are turned in for a few pennies."

An anonymous source in the U.S. Government says it wouldn't surprise him. "Melamine is just the tip of the ice berg," he says. "You don't want to be a source of meat over there. You might get scooped up and added to the mix. Luckily I don't think most of this dog food makes its way to the States. Most is used in Eastern European countries."

Nonetheless, one small store in Chicago, run by a Bulgarian immigrant, was selling dog food made by the Ping E. Lee Company, named yesterday in this blog as one of the users of cat parts in its kibble. There's no telling how many small stores carry this food in the U.S.

In China, the Ping E. Lee pet food name translated into English is, believe it or not, "Little Peppy Puppy Dog Delights." Some delight.
What can you do about this abomination?
Refuse to buy dog foods produced by the P.E. Lee Company. Be sure your dog food is made of wholesome ingredients. Post this story so your friends will know.
Finally, protest this mistreatment of animals.
We need to spread the word.

Are the Chinese Using Cats for Dog Food? Protest! Do Dogs Have Souls Response.

2010-05-18T09:55:00.000-07:00

There are unsubstantiated reports from China that say certain manufacturers there are using cats in their dog food formulas. Jack Landis, of the ACLS (American Cat Lovers Society) states that rumors claim the Ping E. Lee Pet Food Company has started adding cats to it's kibble.
"After the Olympics," says Landis, "the eating of cats has thankfully become less common. But now those same cats are being used for pet food. It's despicable."
In the past, China has been guilty of using melamine in its pet foods. Some of those foods have found their way onto American supermarket shelves. Let's hope this is just a hoax. If not, we should all protest by refusing to use cat-based dog foods.

Leah Ueki Fowler weighs in on whether dogs have souls or not. She says, "Dogs have souls!!! They love, forgive, protect. How could they not have souls?"

DO DOGS HAVE SOULS? Give Your Opinion.

2010-05-17T09:48:00.000-07:00

Do dogs have souls? There is a division of opinion in religious circles. Let me give you a brief and basic scoreboard on the subject. Catholics say yes. Protestants say no. Buddhist and Hindus--yes. Jews say no. Muslims in general consider that everything has a soul, including a rock, though dogs may not go to heaven. There may be shadings of opinion on the subject that I am not addressing.

The question occurs to me as I get older because I wonder if I am worthy of my dog. If she has no soul than she has no sin in a religious sense. Her peeing on the floor, or stealing socks that have fallen out of the dryer do not qualify since she has no bad intent. Lulu, my dog simply does not know any better.

If I believe she has no soul, and I'm not sure I do, but if I do, then she can have no sin. This includes original sin. And even if my dog has a soul, certainly she has never intended evil.

So, back to my question. Do I deserve my dog? Lulu possesses unconditional love. She doesn't judge me. Surely I have sinned more than she has. I possess all the failings of man-- and probably then some. I have caused pain and suffering. I have fought, cursed, lied, and committed sins I will not admit here. I have no church anymore. This is interesting, because when I was in the hospital having a back surgery I asked to see a Catholic priest to reenter the faith. The priest handed me a booklet. That's it. No blessing. No prayer. Perhaps he thought I wouldn't add much to the flock. It makes me worry for my soul-- maybe.

In truth, I have mixed feelings about the whole subject of souls. Are they something that lives after us in anything but memory? I know. I sound like an agnostic, if not worse.

Some Muslims think dogs turn to dust at death and therefore cannot enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Do I turn to dust? Is that it for me? Is what I leave behind in memory all there is?

If this is the case, my dog is way ahead of me in the goodness department. Am I forgiven? I guess I will find out. Surely Lulu is forgiven though. And if she possesses no soul at all, then she has never sinned. If sin implies intent, then she has never sinned. Certainly she is would make a better human than me.

Give me your opinion. Do dogs have souls. I will post your feelings here.