Over at Willy's house they've got some new treats that are phenomenal. Kim brought them out when I stopped by to pick Willy up for a walk.
Then he gets the treat.
Kim tried for a bit to get me to roll over.
But that's really not my thing. My feeling is, let's dispense with the preliminaries and just let me jump up and get the treat.
She did.
As a California coastal dog, I am drawn to the seafaring life.
A prime research source for me has been Margaret Wise Brown's classic book The Sailor Dog, which examines the very satisfying experience of a dog by the name of Scuppers.
Apparently all one needs to get going is a boat and a spyglass. A hat and a can-do attitude are also desirable.
The book also provides a song that I have adjusted so it goes, "I'm Lambie the Sailor Dog..."
...
...
...
A dog can dream, can't he?
I was not feeling my best yesterday evening. I had had another seizure earlier in the afternoon.
Just being out among other dogs was exhausting.
I retreated to a bench to rest.
The night sky nourished me.
I needed it.
It's the verbal section I have trouble with.
As I was walking along the bluff I saw a woman in the distance.
She looked like someone who would like me and want to pet me. I'm usually pretty good at charming the ladies.
So I hastened toward her winsomely.
To my shock, the lady's step did not slow as I grew closer to her. In fact, she actually stepped to the side to avoid interacting with me.
That never happens to me.
Then she walked right past me.
I was forced to question some long-held assumptions.
How had I read this woman so wrong?
Was my charm on the wane? Was I losing the come-hither that used to draw them in?
What happens to dogs who can no longer get by on personality and good looks?
It's sobering moments like these that cause one to enter into major life re-evaluations.
Portia approached me with a problem of a personal nature.
I can't reveal what it was, but as my friends know, when someone asks me for help I'm on the case immediately.
Initially it was hard to get our other friends' attention, but I had promised Portia that I'd get them involved.
As soon as Henry was available, I took him aside and he agreed to help. That's the kind of guy Henry is.
Portia seemed relieved that we were all there for her.
Would I be a better dog if I tried to engage a little more?
The tree stands short and proud. Kind of like me.
Also like me, it has witnessed violence -- in its case, the scurrilous attack by vandals upon the neighboring garbage can.
I decided to sniff around to try to understand how the tree could put up with such violence and still keep serving bravely in its post.
At first I thought that the cigarette butts littered across the grass -- perhaps left by the perpetrators as they wrapped the garbage can in pink paint that symbolized something or other that mattered at the time -- were the important clues.
But when I stepped back, I saw that in the big picture the cigarette butts were too small to be seen. And even the graffiti on the garbage can blended into the tranquil overall picture.
Everything* --the tree, the bench, the ocean, the garbage can, the sky, the bushes, and even insignificant me -- is all part of the tapestry of the bluff.
*Almost everything, that is: Rest in peace, my squirrel comrades. You are not forgotten.
