Le Toilet de Fips

Fips spends a lot of time curled up at my feet under the desk. I can’t quite tell whether he is sulking or just likes this womb-like cubby-hole. I like having him there and hope he’s happy.

On the other hand, Michael does most of the outing and Fips is always eager for a walk, scrambling out from under and scampering down the hallway whenever Michael says whatever it is he says in German.

Fips is still a young puppy and Michael is gradually extending the length of their pad-abouts. We are fortunate to live on the lakeshore as this provides a nice greenbelt that is 3 miles in circumference, which allows Fips to sniff bushes and walk on the sidewalk, grass or dirt path along the water’s edge as he likes. The other day, Michael returned and proudly announced that they had walked up to Grand Avenue, a little over a half a mile a way. This is certainly building up Fips’s hind legs, or “gambies” as I call them.

Although not as much as Mike, I take Fips out as well. He is just as eager and runs to the elevator door where he waits, in evident impatience, for the exact grinding sound that indicates the lift has arrived. Once at ground level, he chases down the hallway to the glass front door where he waits with his tail wagging furiously. There is no point in trying to restrain him. and I just let him bolt forth.

Once we’ve chased over to the grass, the sniffing and pissing begins. But when it comes to pooping, Fips is the oddest dog I’ve ever seen. It was the first time I took him out when, as we were passing a large patch of ground Ivy, Fips suddenly stopped, sniffed and then carefully turned around, backed into the foliage and pooped. It was so discrete, I had to laugh.

Unlike other dogs, Fips never simply stops and poops wherever. He always looks for something to poop into or against, whether it is foliage, a bush, the trunk of a tree or, if worse comes to worse, the base of a hydrant.

A little dance always accompanies le toilet de Fips. He stops, sniffs, turns left and sniffs, turns right and sniffs, left again, right again, and when he has thus radar’d the exact spot, turns around and hunches for the poop. Michael said he did this from the beginning.

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Fips Explores the Earth

August is Europe’s vaction month and Michael’s friend, Harald-from-Norway has come to visit. We spent the week preceding, shampooing the carpet and putting runners down in the much trafficked hallways.

Michael got it into his head to show Canyon -- a communal collection of counter culture cabins on the other side of the Berkeley-Oakland Hills -- to Harald. “Oh, c’mon lets go and take a walk in the hills above your cabin,” he said, referring to the shack I had rented a couple of years before.

“Fips hasn’t had all of his shots,” I said. Michael thought about it and, not surprisingly, convinced himself that this was not an impediment to his plan. It can’t be any worse than whatever he’s exposed to around the lake here, and anyways....”

And so -- Harald holding Fips on his lap and Michael squeezed into the jump seat --- we piled into my truck and headed across the Bay. It was noon by the time we got there. We parked in the moist and shady redwood groves down by the Post Office and then headed to the ridge summit up a bumpy, cracked semblance of roadway that wound its way past “mothballed” cars and assorted dwellings in various states of repair and disrepair.

It was cool and two shaggy dogs came loping down the road to say hello and sniff up Fips, who didn’t get much of a chance to return the interest on account of his size and the fact that the other dogs just as happily loped off. We continued on; and, as we ascended into the sunlight, it became warmer. By the time we reached the summit, Harald had taken off his shirt. But the li'l puppy kept up the pace.

Although Fips was hanging tongue, he didn’t appear tired at all. He liked being with the pack and interested himself in sniffing mud tracks and under bushes. Aside from the environs around Lake Merritt, this was Fips’ first real smell of the world.

After making it to the summit and sniffing around its cluster of trees and carpet of leaves and dried acorns, Fips and party headed back down. By now the pup was getting a little tuckered -- he's barely past newborn after all -- but the increasing shade as we descended to the grove, reinvigorated him. Back in the truck, he zonked out.

A day or two later, Harald said he wanted to see the coast. I had work to do, and so Michael, Harald and the Fipster headed up to Drake’s Beach.

According to Michael, Fips was at first uncertain about the feel of the sand but soon got the got the hang of soft-padding and scampered about, the salt air (new smell!) filling his nostrils. He was not interested in the surf which seemed to intimidate him. But.....ooooh.... what’s this smell under the sand....?

Fips is part terrier - an earthdog. Does he look up with wonder at rolling hills or out with awe at the vast undulating sea? What were Fips' first impression of this Earth we live on? I can't say for sure except that the wide wide world we see is but cousin to the one he smells.

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Nothing but the Best

Chewed: One pair expensive English oxfords.

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Fips' Panoramic Perch

Fips had been curious to go out onto porch and even wandered down to the far end on the right. So I put up planter-barriers to keep him from wandering (and pooping) on neighbor’s porches.

More importantly, I had horrible visions of him poking too far over the ledge and falling off. He was fascinated by the motions outside and liked to stand by the railing and watch the passerby. A couple of times I caught his fuzzy snout staring down at me as I walked up the front entrance.

Mikey says he won't fall off; but I'm not so sanguine. I certainly do not want to keep him cooped up behind the glass. So today I put everything else on hold and put up some chicken wire. Now Fips can survey the panorama and I can rest at ease.

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Fips Gets Checked Out

We took Fips to Moraga to be checked out by Dr. Smith and to get his third DHLRP shot. Once he gets that, we can take him out in earnest, at least around the Lake. Smith has a very gentle manner and Fips seemed to like him. At least he did not quiver or seem ill at ease.

Everything checked out ok so far, although Fips’s umbilical cord protrudes. Smith doesn’t think it’s a problem for now. These hernias can self-correct, although there’s a possibility it might have to be reworked. According to Smith, Fips also has a slight overbite, but that too should not be a problem. Otherwise, he seems quite healthy.

Needless to say, Michael has been in doting mode, stocking up on all sorts of doggie accoutrements, from yeast pills to chew toys. He has bought nail clippers, brushes, flee combs and shampoos. He also bought a nice ceramic water dish and a lovely multi-colored wool collar which is quite dashing against Fips’ brown and wild boar hair.

I asked Michael if he was considering taking Fips to “obedience classes”. He gave me an impatient look. “What for?” “Just wondering,” I demurred. As far as Michael was concerned there was no need for such stuff as Man and Dog would reach their own ordained and natural equilibrium. The only thing a dog needed to be trained to do, he said, was to unquestionably give up anything he had taken into his mouth. This was necessary, Michael explained, because dogs had no way of knowing if that something was poisonous or hurtful.

I added that it seemed to me Fips also had to be trained to halt on command. Michael agreed saying that he already would not let Fips cross the street until told “jetz” -- German for “now”.

“So are we going to speak to him in German?”

“He’s a German dog”

“He was born in California.”

“I’m speaking to him in German.”

“Well please make sure he learns nicht zu pissen inside”

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