Pretty, lots of pretty

Gray southwest sky... watercolor...4x6"...$60.00

First, I've fallen behind (imagine! me???) in posting Bill's 'shameless sales pitches'. So here are his last two weeks' offerings.

Forlorn..watercolor...6x9”...$100 SOLD

Fresh Produce...watercolor...4x7"...$70 SOLD, too!!

West Kentucky Landscape... watercolor...5x9"...$100

As always, you can email Bill if you are interested in any of the paintings, or if you want to be put on his Shameless Mailing List.

This morning when I walked the dogs it was so pretty out. I was rather weepy and I'm not at all sure why. The sheer beauty of the day could have made me happy weepy - the sky like the one in the painting above, only without a single cloud. The temperature so perfect that I was able to take Mama Pajama, Easy, and Fat Charlie (the 12 year olds) around two blocks instead of one.

Maybe because Mama Pajama, diagnosed with chronic pancreatitis last month, has had three good days in a row! She's enjoying her buckwheat pancakes and last night she wolfed down her boiled turkey cutlets, pancakes, and broccoli. She does whippet spins when she goes out at night and smiles and wags and oh my heart!

Maybe it was the part of the walk with Sam, Lindy Loo, and Swede William down town. The only block in Paducah with out trees, the back of a bank parking lot on one side and a row of empty old warehouses, the empty old Catholic school, and the health food store on the other. That one block where I can relax - no squirrels to be found.

Until this morning. Out from between two cars in the parking lot bolts a Stoooopid City Squirrel, not ten feet in front of us. My leashes are five feet long; you can do the math. WeeeeeHaaaaaaaa! He could have stayed where he was. He could have gone north, south, or east, but noooooooo, he heads west, right in our path and darts across the road, the whippets in hot pursuit. Who needs coffee after an adrenalin rush like that?

(Well, I do. I'm on cup # 3.) So I can't explain my fragility. The fact that it's November? The beauty of a blog friend's brand new perfect granddaughter? My conversations with my brave sister? Overwhelming gratitude I feel for reconnecting with a treasured old friend? Realizing my great good fortune at the people who are willing to put up with my nonsense?

The fact that I have to clean the house from stem to stern? (Heh, heh, heh.)

Who knows. But weepy or not, it's a great day to be alive. And Mama Pajama is having a dream of chasing a stinkin' squirrel, barking, running and wagging away in her sleep. Go Mama! She can still fly in her dreams.

hug your hounds

Something Snapped!

I swear. I even heard the *Ta-WANG*!

For seven years and two months I have been training my dogs to ignore stupid city squirrels. I moved to this graceful southern city with a pack of dogs who had bagged a minimum of a squirrel or two per week in their country digs. Killed 'em dead and ate their heads first. We moved here and there were more squirrels than ever, but no chance for off-lead murders. Oh lordy our walks were loud. Dangerous. Awful.

The country squirrels had been bad enough. (On several occasions, the dogs encountered Suicide Bomber Squirrels. Having chased a squirrel up a tree, six whippets and a big black lab would surround said tree, screaming, leaping, slinging spit, gnashing teeth. I would watch in abject horror as the stupid squirrel, instead of sitting in the tree counting his many fortunes, would run back down that tree into the Jumping Jaws of Death. Hello??? Darwin calling!)

But these city squirrels. They spend hours on the telephone wires over the yard blowing raspberries at the dogs. They even bomb the dogs with walnut shells. On our walks they sit just beyond the lengths of the leashes, flicking their turpitudinous tails in contempt. Smacking their lips around their abominable buck teeth. Oh, they are vile, vile.

And after seven years, having employed every trick in the book and more, I had finally trained the dogs to look to me for a treat when they saw a squirrel, instead of caterwauling to raise the dead, or biting each other as the next best thing. Our walks were peaceful at last.

All bets were off when Easy arrived. At eleven and a half, an expert squirrel dispatcher in his own right, he spends his walks scouting the heavens for the brutes. He barks his fool head off when he sees one - every twenty feet or so - and wonders what the hell is the matter with his silent buddies, Mama Pajama and Fat Charlie. The barking irritates the cancer growing in his throat and he gags and wretches.

Oh, I hate those rodent bastards.

Yesterday I was finishing my last walk. I had met up with sweet Deb. Deb is peace personified. A beautiful, gentle soul. Sammy, Lindy Loo, and Swede William were quite thrilled when she joined us. We got to the last block. William started his oh-I-see-one dance. The dogs turned to me for their treat. The squirrel looked at us with disdain.

It was the same squirrel that had tortured Easy every day last week. I would know those beady black squinty eyes anywhere.

"Uh oh," said Deb. "Shew, Mr. Squirrel."

That's when I snapped. I saw every Bad Thing that has happened in the last ten months in the mockery of that rodent's pointy face. A sense of purpose enveloped me. I was Possessed. Maybe the spirits of Maria, Giacomino and Spice took control of my right hand. I watched that hand reach down and slip Sammy's lead over his head. I watched as Sammy - now a whippet bullet - shot across the twenty yards of grass dead aiming for the little sucker.

"Oh," said Deb.

"Git him!" said whatever possessed my mouth. (Normally, I'm almost a vegetarian.)

I watched the squirrel sit there. You know the old cartoons on Saturday mornings when a character's eyes would pop out on springs: boing oing oing? That's what Mr. Squirrel's eyes did. As Sammy's jaws started to crunch him into eternity, his little bucktooth mouth said, clear as day, "Oh Thit!!! Thith ith not good!" and he beat feet up the damn tree.

Sammy skidded in the mud - a perfect base-stealing slide on his butt - and leaped up the tree trunk, just like the good old days.

Lindy Loo and William cursed their misfortune and their servant, at the top of their lungs. Sammy thought that, deprived of his squirrel, he should perhaps come back and bite the brats.

"No, Sam," I said.

"Can I help?" offered dear Deb.

The murderous demon left me, and I said, "Sam come." He did. He is such a good dog.

This morning Sam, William, Lindy Loo, and I encountered a black cat and a squirrel within ten feet of each other and us.

They went wild. And I laughed like the fool that I am. What's seven years?


hug your hounds

Stupid and a Half!

I'm a jumpy sort of person. Just born that way.

I avoid scary movies, dark alleys, sudden loud noises. The Fourth of July is not my favorite time of the year.

Fireworks are legal in these parts so my city has been exploding for two weeks. BANG! POP! TZZZZING! POW! With every cherry bomb I jump. Then I'm grateful that there are currently no thunder-phobic dogs here. Oh dear, then I miss the two recently departed thunder phobes. It's that breath taking moment of empty arms.

At last, the seemingly endless supply of explosives has been exhausted. The neighborhood noises have returned to the norm: softer booms and bangs of home construction; the high whine of the tuck-pointer's saw; the train a block over.

We walked extra early this morning. It's getting hot again. The geriatric crew, Fat Charlie, Mama Pajama, Easy, and I were enjoying the barely dawn quiet. We greeted a few other early morning walkers, folks in uniforms, carrying lunches, headed to the bus station to catch a ride to work.

It was peaceful.

And then, out of nowhere, THWACK! Something made a loud CRACK on the sidewalk just five feet in front of the dogs' noses. We all jumped and I let out a little shriek!

"AAAAH!"

I've been walking whippets since 1992, so any sort of shock causes my hands to reflexively tighten my grip on the leashes. That's a good thing because the cause of the THWACK was the King of the Stupid City Squirrels who had fallen out of a tree right above our heads.

Think of it. You're a big fat Stupid City Squirrel. You're sitting in your tree thinking of ways to torment dogs and their humans. Oh, look, here come three dogs with mouths like alligators. Wouldn't you hang on to your branch a little tighter? Nooooo, you do a Stupid City Squirrel nanny-nanny-boo-boo dance, blowing raspberries, and fall out of your tree into the pack of dogs!

I've been extra jumpy today.

Lord knows what will fall out of the sky at us next.

hug your hounds

Fat Charlie Went a-Walking!

(treasured photo by Laurie Erickson)

One of my favorite stories is Fat Charlie Went a-Running! , (thanks to Whippet World for the online hosting). The story tells of Fat Charlie's return to run in a race after a long injury lay off.

The top photo is of my dear, late friend Carolyn giving Fat Charlie a cool sponge bath and a kiss after that very race.

May I tell you just a bit about this dog? He is twelve now. His is a mush, my softest whippet. When he was born he was a big fat white marshmallow. If another dog in the house has done something Against The Rules, sweet Fat Charlie looks mortified.

But.

Leave a thawing London broil or an entire loaf of ciabatta bread on the counter? Fat Charlie appreciates that I left such a fabulous treat just for him. He rewards me mightily for this good behavior, with dancing kisses and happy wags.






He rarely asks for anything, and when he does, he does by staring handsomely at me. About three times each morning he hops down from his spot on the couch. I look up from my typing or sewing and see a Fat Charlie with the exact expression you see in the red-bordered photo. It is up to me to determine what he needs. Usually he only wants a scratch, a kiss, and a return to the couch with his blankets re-arranged. Sometimes a drink. Occasionally a trip outside for a sunbath in the papasan chair.

Fat Charlie is a very good dog.

He was getting slower and slower on our morning walks. And then he stopped going altogether.

At walk time he would get in his crate, looking at me. "I don't want to go," he said.

This dog who would stay in our big yard at the farm for hours, lying in the sun, scanning for squirrels and fun, loving life. I would call him inside and he would look at me and wag just the very end of his tail. "Must I?" he'd ask. "May I stay out here a little longer?"

This dog who would turn inside out when he heard the word 'walk'. Who could spell w.a.l.k. and o.u.t.

Now he didn't even want to go.

I blamed the city. Sidewalks are hard on arthritic feet. Stupid City Squirrels: all evil temptation and no fun. Horrid cats everywhere. And it has been so hot.

Again, this morning at walk time, he put himself in his crate and got his biscuit. When I got to the kitchen door with Mama Pajama and Easy, I did what I've done every day since he stopped going - I tried once more.

"Fat Charlie, want to go for a walk?"

Well, he changed his mind. He came flying out of the dog room (I never shut the door on his crate) with a big grin. And we went for a walk. Lots of time dawdling, lots of sniffing, lots of soaking up the sun in this glorious unusually cool morning weather.

I think I started calling Giacomino Very Old Dog when he was twelve.

I can't imagine calling Fat Charlie Very Old Dog. He's just my big, fat, marshmallow puppy.




(how lucky am I: Laurie Erickson photo)

hug your hounds

Another Sunday

What's this?

This strange sensation on my face, my arms, my legs?

Oh. Aaaaaah. It's a cool breeze. It's a break. It's heaven.

I do prefer heat to cold. I hate winter, so I do not whine about hot weather. Here lately? Those bawdy, naughty weather gods have been messin' with us.

A solid week - or has it been two - of heat indices around a hundred and ten. (A hunderd n teyin in the local lingo. It sounds hotter, doesn't it?) We've been getting up at 5:00 so that walks are done by 7:30. Even then, we come back with tongues dragging, sweat that won't stop even after a cold shower. A tepid shower; it's been so hot that the water in the pipes doesn't resemble cold. The radio admonishes, "Take extra care with your elderly and your pets." (Yur eeldurlay n yur peeyits. It becomes a beautifully cadenced song, not just a sentence.)

I opened the breezeway door this morning, expecting the saunic blast. (I made saunic up: pertaining or relating to a sauna. I like it.) Even the dogs stopped their mad dash mid zoom to their morning potty. They noticed the difference. And then they got silly.

Sunday mornings project the magic that is this southern river town. We pass another dog walker and wave. "Mornin'". I turn to avoid the goddam feral cat up the street, but Sammy saw him. Sam gets a blueberry treat for being quiet. Sshhhh, Sam. Look at me. Good boy.

The city is a sleeping child. The quiet beauty. There is not an engine running. We see one person a block away looking under his car. It's too early for summer church. Even the River is alone. Not a single boat interrupts him on his way. Everywhere downtown are flowering beds, planned and planted by the city horticulturist. She was laid off because of the economic hard times, and I feel guilty admiring her handiwork. The petunias don't worry about it. They share their spicy fragrance with us.

It's only eighty. I planned our route so we walk into the breeze on the way home. Swede William tenses every considerable muscle in his perfect body. For a moment, it's better than the marble statues in Florence - he is living art - and then I see the Stupid City Squirrel. It runs toward us, the one with half a tail. Maybe he seeks symmetry. To have his stupid head bitten off to match the stupid stump on his butt. No dog barks. They dance, but they are quiet.

Blueberry treats all around.

Maybe my sweet dogs are enjoying the peace of the place, too. I'll take them to the Kennel Club for a run today. They can bark and buck and fly and bask and chase and dodge and be dogs.

Enjoy your quiet Sunday.

hug your hounds

New Prize and the Tile Winner

The Winner of the Remember To Have Fun Tile is





Ben the Rotti!!! Ben's blog, From Rescue To Love, is one to visit, for sure! Ben, have your Mum email me your address and we'll get the tile on its way.



We have to admit to a second drawing today... the first one went to the spammer comment, so we redrew. I'll go erase the spam comment after I post this.



Now, we are WAY excited to post today's prize.

Maria is a'shoutin and a'roachin in excitement!

You all know how the whippets feel about Stupid City Squirrellies, right? Here are THREE LITTLE STORIES from the first month of the blog, a year ago, if you missed them.



To celebrate how the whippets feel about Stupid City Squirrellies, today's prize is





A Dr. Noys Squirrellie!!! He has a squeaker in a pocket and a bushy evil tail and no stuffing, and he comes with an extra squeaker. SOOOO you can kill the squeaker and you pop an extra one in! And you can take out the squeaker and toss the thing in the washer and dryer so you can kill him over and over and over!!!!



All you have to do to enter the drawing is to leave a comment on the bottom of this post.



Good luck!



Hug your squirrel tormenting hounds

Yeeee-HAW!

Well, it's hot again. Forget the charming Southern expression, "a little warm." It's hot. There is a fortunate cooling breeze in the shade, but the ground is baked brown and hard and the grass has flat out given up and died. Hot.

I don't want to bore my gentle readers to distraction with yet more Stupid City Squirrels (SCS's)and Outdoor Cats the Bane of our Existence stories. This morning our walks were adventures, like the African safaris of the 1920's. I would not have been the tiniest bit surprised if Tarzan himself had swung over Harrison Street and landed on the roof of Kijsa's Art Gallery and pounded his chest with the hand that wasn't holding on to, oh shoot, what was Tarzan's chimp-friend's name? Tarzan, Jane, Boy...

Ha! I googled it. Do you know the answer? Man, poor Tarzan needed some more English lessons: his Chimp buddy's name was Cheeta. Hey Tarz, that's not even close. In fact I think that's like naming your pet steer "Meat Processing Plant"! Don't cheetahs hunt and eat chimpanzees? I'm not going to google that, the photos would be way too disturbing for me.



So back to what I'm not going to bore you with - this morning's walks. There is a tall brick wall that borders the sidewalk on the back half of our block, so as you walk down Eighth Street you can't see around the corner to know if anyone is approaching on Harrison. I was late starting the first walk, because we had a very nice visit with a neighbor first thing this morning. I think it was around seven. I don't know, because I hadn't had enough coffee yet to do the higher brain functions like telling time. He stopped by to invite Bill to go along to the Antique Gas and Steam Engine Show in town. Bill couldn't go, so Allan stayed for a cuppa and visited for a bit. What a treat! And Allan likes the dogs, too. It's funny serving Allan coffee, because Allan and Johanna own the very cool coffee shop, Et Cetera. I went there yesterday and had a delicious cup of Organic Fair Trade Love Buzz (dark roast, full bodied, robust) and a fruit and yogurt and granola parfait. (I am addicted to those daggone fruit and yogurt parfaits.) But when Allan came to visit somewhere in the vicinity of seven this morning I gave him a cup of Folgers (gold lid med-dark). Well, it was still a very nice visit.



Back to that story I'm not going to tell you. As I got to the end of our block with the Two Oldest (whose combined ages equal twenty six years) at that corner you can't see around, a neighbor with his young, male American Bulldog (or Pit Bull) appeared from behind the corner wall, not five yards from the astonished noses of the Two Oldest. I gasped, "OH..." but luckily the visit with Allan afforded me enough coffee to be sufficiently awake to stop myself before the expletive flew out of my mouth. I don't know what the breed of this dog is. He has cropped ears of a Pit Bull, but the size and build of an American Bulldog, and weighs - I'm guessing - about ninety to one hundred and twenty pounds. Maybe more. His owner has done a good job of training him, as he used to be very dog aggressive, and I have watched his owner work hard with him. I don't think he even barked today. Lunged, but didn't bark. Too much, anyway. Maria did once, but I really couldn't blame her, because she hadn't had any coffee, and I really think it was just her "Gasp, oh .... [expletive]" surprise reaction. I know we were all awake then.



And I don't need to tell you about the ten, count 'em ten, SCS's on Lorrie's front yard. Lorrie has moved to be with family and the abandoned cats she had been caring for moved away as well. So it is Happy Hour with all the acorns you can eat at the oak tree at Lorrie's. The Stupid City Squirrels must get drunk on acorns. My Two Oldest were being so good, with all those SCS's totally dissing them and swishing their furry tails and daring them. The old dogs were leaping (never good) and twisting (worse yet) but they were not barking, and I kept giving them treats. Good quiet dogs! In the mean time I was stamping my feet and yelling "SHEW dammit" to no avail. Finally I got so mad that I let the Two Oldest toddle at the vermin, with me running behind, hollering "HA! TAKE THAT YOU FREAKIN' MONSTER RODENT CREEPHEAD MORNING WRECKERS! HA HA HA HA HA HA!!! SCARED THE POOP OUT OF YOU DIDN'T WE!!! HA HA HA HA HA. Yeeee-HAAAAA!"

The Two Oldest looked at me in wonderment. Unfortunately, so did the startled person who was waiting at the stop sign in her car. Innocently waiting for me, with my two skinny dogs to cross the street. Being polite. And then watching while I take off with my dogs into the grass right there, and start madly screaming, aiming the dogs at all the cute little squirrels, which scatter like marbles in an earthquake, and then the woman in the car hears me screaming and spitting and doing the Howard Dean yee-haw. And sees me do some kind of knee stomping twirly victory dance. And at that point she forgot all about being polite, gunned her car through the intersection, and stared wide-eyed at me as she flew by. She was probably wide awake then too.

And I know you don't want to hear about the four cats that graced the next walk. Or the SCS that ran down the telephone pole to greet the dogs on the last walk. So I won't tell you about it. But I will tell you that other than Maria's one woof at the seismic disturbance that was the magically appearing Pit Bull, no one barked, no one pulled my arms out of their sockets, no one bit each other because they couldn't bite anything else.

Dang! We're making progress. Yeeee-HAAAAAAW!

Walk-o-rama in Squirrel City, but first..

... First, some clarifications.

The novel I'm excerpting (hmmm, Mr. Spellcheck see if that's a word!) is a work in progress, and is not available yet. But, if you just happen to know any big time fancy literary agents by all means do let them know I'm available for representation! Or if you happen to be a close friend of Oprah, or Garrison Keillor... oh shoot, I fainted again. Dear Bill encourages, "You have to think it is possible, for it to come true." I love dear Bill.

This blog is spreading like wildfire, and I have you, dear readers, to thank! Thank you thank you thank you! Apparently you are sharing the address http://patience-please.blogspot.com/ with your friends and your lists and your groups and it is working!

OK, back to the good stuff!

Walk-o-rama in Squirrel City

It is up to me to walk all of the nine dogs this morning. Bill has to go in for some early morning blood tests and he can't have coffee, so he's not going to walk his usual two.

This arrangement does not please Delia, who adopted Bill as her Own Human, and the affront of his early morning departure, coupled with the poor substitution of me as her walking companion is nearly too much. To make it even worse, she has to go on the second walk. Humph! Pee-yew to the Inferior Human.

I've been walking the grownups in pairs, although the last walk includes the two yearlings plus Sam I Am. There was a time, back on the farm, when I walked all eight, plus (Saint) Opie the big old black lab, at once. But that was at the farm, and if they took off and dragged my well-padded butt across some plowed field in pursuit of deer, rabbits, ground hogs, or fox, we might emerge bruised and battered, but at least we would emerge. Here, in the city, if they drag me into the street, and there's a truck coming, well it's not a pretty picture.

And then there's the noise factor. We feel compelled to sound the GREAT VERMIN ALERT at the sighting of any squirrel, evil horrible cat, or hairy dog, and we've been known to be fooled by Blowing Trash. And we can make some noise. I have been training them to be quiet by carrying pockets full of treats. If they see any of the Great Vermin subspecies, and they don't bark, they get a treat. It's worked better than any other method I have tried. The 'head bop' method simply taught them to duck while they screamed. And lordy it was a mess when I forgot I had the poop bag in my hand and I bopped Luciano on the head and the poop bag exploded. That was not a good method. Walking in smaller groups greatly decreases the noise factor, and a pair of dogs doesn't get nearly as riled as a pack of nine.

I did decide to walk in threes this morning. Call me lazy. First three consisted of Giacomino, Maria, and Mama Pajama. The cumulative ages (not counting me) top thirty-six years. Thirteen and a half, twelve and more than a half, and ten and a half. That's a lot of dog years. In people years they would be ninety-three, ninety, and seventy-three. In deference to Mama Pajama, we went around two blocks instead of one. On the last leg, a Stupid City Squirrel decided to jump out on the sidewalk ten feet in front of us. Ouch! (Instinct propels the dogs forward playing havoc with my decrepit shoulders.) Good dogs! They regain their brain function and turn to look for their no barking treats. Ouch! Mama Pajama likes a little blood gravy with hers: chomp. I am nonetheless delighted with their restraint.

Then a big treat. Neighbor Lorrie is out in her yard. Lorrie is one of Mama Pajama's Very Favorite People in the Whole World. Oh she wiggles and wags and grins, and praises me for having found Lorrie, and goes back to wagging her delight at Lorrie. Lorrie makes a great fuss over the little sweetheart, and then Lorrie and I catch up. I have no doubt that I missed the dogs' hints. Lorrie and I were talking away, and I'm quite certain that the dogs were trying to get my attention.

"You-hoooo??? Hello, idiot Human? Anyone home in la la land? Do you hear that? Do you have a single scent gland in your entire olfactory system? Ears, please?"

"Blah, blah, blah." I was talking to my friend in total oblivion.

So, Mama Pajama sounded the full GREAT VERMIN ALERT.

"Wow," said Lorrie, hands over her ears.

Once a month on the first Saturday at noon, since we live in Tornado country and have a nuclear plant next door, they test the Emergency Alert Siren System. (This can be quite disconcerting to people who have moved here from other parts and don't know it is a test.) The sirens can be heard for miles. They don't hold a candle to Mama Pajama's GREAT VERMIN ALERT.

"Oh, man!" cried Lorrie as blood from her ruptured eardrums trickled through her fingers. "She is loud!"

The Stupid City Squirrel hopped along the telephone wires overhead. I wished he would get electrocuted. (I'm sorry, but I really did.) Giacomino and Maria are head butting me for their treats, because they haven't made a sound. I am mortified as it is only 7:30 in the morning, and this is not at all neighborly.

"Later, Lorrie," I say, dragging the dogs the half a block home. Mama Pajama's eyes are shining; it's been a great morning for her, so far.

Next walk was Mama Pajama's brother Fat Charlie, and the much miffed Delia and her brother Luciano. "Well, it is high time," sniffs Delia. "Second group, indeed. Humph and grumble." But then we're out the gate and heading down the sidewalk and all is forgiven. And there are squirrels everywhere. What is it, National Torment Dogs Day in squirreldom? And I don't help matters. When I see a squirrel or cat as we walk along, I let out an involuntary gasp, usually coupled with an expletive. I can't help it. If the dogs haven't already seen the critter, my gasping and expleting sets them in a fit. They know what it means. In fact, you can sit in the TV room, amid somnolent dog bodies, and I can gasp an expletive and the entire pack will explode and run around looking for vermin. Then they realize they are in the TV room and I have played a joke on them and they shoot me "how could you" looks and try to find a better place to lie down than the one they just vacated.

But the three dogs were fantastic, and I managed to sing songs the whole time to distract myself from gasping and we did fine.

(to the tune of Home on the Range)

Oh give me a home where the squirrellies don't roam

And the sidewalks are all free from prey!

Where the cats stay inside

And the loose dogs all hide

And in peace we would walk everyday...

Only two and a half more miles to go. The third group. I stuffed my pockets full of Really Yummy Treats. I sang. First thing the neighbor's cat comes trotting down the sidewalk towards us. Gasp, expletive, BACK TO SINGING IN A SHOUT:

HOME HOME IN PADOOKEE

WHERE THE VERMIN COME AT YOU IN SPADES,

EVERY CAT EVERY SQUIRREL

IN THIS WHOLE FRIGGING WORLD!

I WOULD LOVE TO LAUNCH ONE HAND GRENADE.

The dogs, along with the workers on the roof next door, look a little frightened of me. I'm a little frightened of me. I have no effect on the squirrels or cats, alas. We must have passed twenty of them. I passed out treat after treat, and I beamed at the dogs. Good dogs! Wonderful dogs! We pass a couple of hairy dogs and we don't make a sound. My nerves are frazzled to the point where I'm quite positive that you can see sparks flying out the top of my head, the ends of my fingers, and probably out my butt too, but the dogs, bless them, haven't screamed once.

And people say, "It's so nice you can walk with your lovely dogs. Isn't it a great way to relax?"

Yah.

Some Days...

I woke to the sound of gentle rain.

This is a good thing, as our region is as dry as your Great Aunt Martha's fruitcake three bites after your last swallow of milk. Dry as the devil's laugh. Dry as dust. We need this slow, soaking rain.

This is a bad thing because the nine dogs believe that during times of slow, soaking rain, the Human Servant is responsible for providing (a) entertainment in an indoor venue, (b) two miles of dry outdoor area for walks, and (c) indoor bathroom facilities for Canine Americans. They swear it's in their contracts.

I take them downstairs from our bedroom in three shifts. (Trust me, otherwise it is a Great Whippet Race and the kitchen door becomes the starting gate/bottleneck/fighting pit, and I start swearing and when I do get the door open, at least three sets of accelerating Whippet toenails launch from the tender tops of my feet, and I screech obscenities while howling in pain, and right then my sweet neighbors are coming down from their second floor apartment with their first grader and pre-schooler, not fifteen feet from where I'm standing, and the first grader asks, "Daddy what does [insert that really bad word that I just shouted] mean?" and the pre-schooler practices the word outloud to herself all the way to the car.)

So I get the last shift of dogs downstairs, only to see all nine of them huddled up on the breezeway by the edge of the steps to their potty yard.

"Go out in the rain to poop? I think not!"

"It's raining. On us!"

"There is definitely a clause in the contract against this."

"Bad Servant. Awful Servant."

Fanny by fanny I push the disgusted dogs out in the drizzle to do their business.



Later, after dogs and humans break their fast, and I get enough coffee in me to pry one eye open, I decide to walk, rain or no. Bill gamely took his two regulars, sporting a large black plastic poncho which came in its own little pouch from the dollar store for ninety-nine cents and makes him look like a cross between Antonio Banderas and Grampa Smurf. I walk Giacomino and Maria around their one block and they are pretty darn good sports. They poop immediately as they had been holding out for the walk. If they have to "go" in the rain, there better damn well be a walk attached.

Mama Pajama and Fat Charlie are next, and the drizzle has devolved into a mild spit. I notice that all the critters and vermin - squirrels, evil cats bane of the earth, and loose dogs - have yet to emerge and our walk is down right pleasant.



The last walk is five year old Sam I Am and the two yearlings, William and Lindy Loo. The rain has for all intents and purposes stopped and the dogs are in high spirits. We walk the fifty feet from the side gate to my corner garden and all heck breaks loose. There is a cat in the garden. What sort of Darwinian flunky cat thinks my garden is a cool place to hang? Nine dogs bred to chase, catch, and kill small furry things live here, duh head!



Tra la the cat runs off down the sidewalk. Tra la the cortisone injections I got in both shoulders on Thursday are now a total waste of time and money. Actually, the dogs were really pretty good, after they got over their initial instinctual urge to chase. Sam and Lindy Loo turned to get their treats because they didn't bark (good dogs) and William thought about it for a moment, and decided it was more fun to bark. I tried to get my shoulders back in their sockets in order to render my hands useful enough to dig the treats out of my pocket. Oh, rats, I noticed I was swearing out loud. And then I see my brand new across the street neighbor on her porch.



"I hate loose cats, " I explain. "What a horrible way to start my walk." (In all fairness, my shoulders were still screaming in pain.)

"Oh, I hope it wasn't my cat."

(Wonderful. I forgot this neighbor has a cat or two that go outside. Now I've offended.) The dogs recognise the perfect opportunity to fulfill the bad-poop-timing contract clause, and all assume their individual but collective positions. I whip out my baggies, only to see two monsterous poops that some irresponsible citizen with two Very Large Dogs has left right next to my dogs' little gifts. So now I have to pick up after my three, plus the Creep who didn't's. I have sandwich sized baggies, not gallon. Yuck. But if I leave the Monster Piles, my newly offended neighbor will naturally think that it came from my dogs.



Who lets their dog dump and just walks away? It is exactly the same as if you pull your pants down and poop on your neighbor's yard and leave. And people do it next to church sidewalks! You can't change your shoes once you're in church. Some sermons can be long enough, but add the smell of dog poop.... glory be. It is so bad here that it was discussed in the last City Commissioners Meeting. There can be a $10 to $1000 fine for not cleaning up. I'm going to look into the cost of supplying the neighborhood with motion activated infra-red video recording devices. We should be able to pay for them with the fines levied. I think I'll bring it up at the next Commissioners meeting.