Ambulatory Doodles

It occurred to me when we first got Fips that smell was to dogs what sight is to us. They live in a world of smells as vivid to them as colours are to us. They orient themselves to points of smell as we orient ourselves to shapes and objects. So I have been patient with Fips' ambulatory doodles. But it was still instinctive to me to think of them as endless, circular digressions off the path, at odds with the line. What idiots we are! What foolishness to think that our sidewalks and roads are any the less meandering than Fips' seemingly haphazard course. We have laid them down, in asphalt and concrete and, having done so, come to see them as the given line of direction from which the dog strays. But he no more strays from our doodles as we stray from his. We plotted our paths according to our lights, according to ways which made sense to us...a path in the sun, a road to water. It is not even that our meanderings are settled whereas the dog's are not, for Fips' too follows more or less his same smell-way every morning. It is rather that having laid our path down in concrete we take it as a given and we fool ourselves into thinking that it has some inherent as opposed to a simply reflective logic. So much for Descartes.

.

Loosing Lothar

Michael came into my room. “There’s some guy on the phone calling about Lothar.”

I frowned. “What’s he like?”

“He sounds nice, do you want to take it?”

“What’s his name?”

“Mike”.

“Hello....?”

The voice at the other was that of a young man in his late twenties or early thirties and sounded pleasant enough. He and his wife Vicki were looking for a child-friendly, outdoors, family dog. I related how we had found Lothar and said that he was a full Lab or nearly so. I described what Lothar was like and what we had done with him. I told Mike that although we were sure he had been given his vaccinations, we ultimately decided to to run him through the full set of puppy shots just to be sure.

Mike said that Lothar sounded pretty good and he wanted to know when he could arrange to see him. I replied that I had been driving Lothar around for placement interviews, that I liked to check out prospective takers and that I would be happy to drive him over to their place. Mike replied that he and Vicki lived all the way down in Cupertino, which was a long way for me to drive. He added, though, that he worked up in Woodside and we could meet at his place of work for a preview check out. We arranged to meet on Tuesday.

“So...?” Michael asked.

“He sounds nice,” I replied, “I’m meeting him Tuesday after work at his place of work for a check out.” Michael said he felt this was it. A part of me resented that this might be it.

“How do you know? I said I wasn’t going to commit to anything on Tuesday without seeing how they lived. “Fine” Michael said “but we can’t keep him forever.”

oOo

Late Tuesday, I piled the doggies into the truck and drove down to Woodside. Mike worked in an industrial park and by the time I got there most everyone else had left and the parking lot was pretty much empty. I pulled in and looked for someone who fit Mike’s self-description -- guy in his late 20’s, 5’ 11” brown hair, slim-to-medium build wearing a brown jacket.

“Hi.” We shook hands.

Mike did not look like a jock, but he did look like a reasonably fit outdoor kind of guy. + 1 point. He was easy going with me and relaxed with the dog; + 2 points. He gave a humorous snort when he saw Fips (well... what could I expect?) but I could see that Lothar was what he had had in mind. I let Lothar out of the car and let him and Mike check eachother out. +1 and +1.

Mike and I chatted it up a bit while Lothar tangled around our legs. Mike was at ease with my desire to check him out as well. He said they had a large yard, and that he and his wife liked to go on weekend outings and camping trips. Either he or his wife had owned a Lab before and knew what the breed was like and how water loving and energetic they were.

So....? Mike said that Lothar looked like a great dog, but he needed to describe him to Vicki and he would give me a call in a day or two.

oOo

The following evening, Mike called back and said that Vicki wanted to check out Lothar herself but otherwise they were willing to take the dog if we were willing to part with him.

Gulp.

I said we had one more check up at the vet on Thursday and that it would probably be best to make arrangements for Sunday. Mike said that sounded fine.

I hung up the kitchen phone and looked at Michael. “Looks like it’s a done deal.” Michael was relieved -- not at loosing Lothar but that the whole placement hassle was finally over with.

I started to hypotho-worry. “Suppose it turns out that the place is awful?”

“What do you mean?”

“I donno. I mean suppose it’s just obviously not the place for Lothar?”

“Then bring him back.”

“Even if I’ve agreed...?”

“Yes.”

For Michael it was obvious either way. If it worked, it worked. If it looked bad, then cut the losses and bring him back. Or leave him where he will be unhappy and mistreated?

oOo

It was mild and sunny as I drove Fips and Lothar down to Cupertino early in the afternoon, along with Lothar’new set of papers and doggie-kit. As always the dogs stared out the window, with no inkling of what was in store. After a while, both dogs slumped into long-distance mode until they felt the car slow down as I turned onto the city streets. Back up to the window! both sniffing the air for what was up.

The directions to Mike and Vicki’s place were fairly complicated and had me manouevering left and right and left through strange city streets. “You’ll cross some railways tracks....” And when I did, I realized that I had indeed gone over to the “other side of the tracks”. This was not Hayward’s going-upscale neighborhood but a part of town that was rather on the scrappy side. The area was not a slum, but it could turn into one without too many steps in between. I turned into a cul-de-sac of small single family homes behind waist-high cyclone fences, and pulled up to the address.

Mike and Vicki were waiting and came out to greet us. Vicki was as friendly as Mike, only more talkative. Mike understood that I wanted to check his place out and invited me inside, as I made excuse-noises about going over the paperwork with them while the fuzzy butts waited in the truck.

There certainly were no porcelain wash-basin pitchers here. In fact, “decor” of any sort was not a word one would use, unless Eclectic Functional is a new post modern style. The house was definitely actively lived in.

Mike showed me to the back yard past a cluttered back porch. “Yard” was also not a word one would use, unless DustBowl is a new landscape design. There was a swing set on one side, a large fenced-in dog run on the other, some barrels of something here and there, and some patches of grass here and there between dusty track trails. My heart sank.

Mike hadn’t mentioned anything about a fenced-in dog run, and I interrogated him on it. He explained that they had had a Rottweiler whom they kept inside the kennel when they both had to leave, as they hadn’t felt comfortable letting a Rottweiler be loose.

“Well, are you planning on putting Lothar in there?”

“No.” In fact he was planning on taking him to work most of the time.

I believed him. Some people smell of lies and others don’t.

My eyes scanned the hard scrabble back yard, as I turned around and looked at the back porch and house. And Then it hit me.

“Why am I looking at this through human eyes!? What would Lothar see?”

What Lothar would see is: Oh goody a big space to galumph around and around and around in without ever having to worry about digging up the flower bed.

I looked at Mike, took a deep breath and smiled. “Well, lets bring him in.”

We all walked to the front fence. I walked over to the truck and brought Lothar over. He Vicki and Mike got acquainted and after a short while, I walked back to the truck, and drove away waving out the window, as Lothar, Mike and Vicki stood by the fence looking and waving back.

Fips looked at me quizzically. “No Fipsie; no more Lothar.”

=====0O0=====

Letter to Mike and Vicki

=====0O0=====

EPILOGUE

.

Lothar's Element

Michael walked into the office and said, “Why don’t we take the dogs to the reservoir?”

“What reservoir?”

“Lake Chabot down past San Leandro.”

“Never heard of it,” I said.

“It’s really nice, the doggies will love it.”

“They allow dogs?”

Michael punted. “I don’t see why not.”

I looked dubious.

“Awww c’mon...”

I could almost believe the doggies put him up to it, if only the doggies themselves had ever heard of Lake Chabot.

“Okay... just gimme a minute to finish up here.”

He hurried out of the room to get the dogs, the leashes, the water bowls and everything ready. It’s only been a month and already its “the dogs.” By mere force of happenstance we are all settling into a new pack number.

It was early in the afternoon and warm -- not hot, but warm enough to warrant a good splash about. Since it was a weekday, virtually no one was there and we had the reservoir to ourselves. We parked in the parking lot and headed down to the lake and along the road that curved along the shore, looking for a good beach spot.

About a half mile along, we found a sandy crescent with a gentle slope into the water. Ideal. Michael let Lothar off his leash and the big pup took off into lab heaven. He ran along the edge for a ways and then kaplunged into the water where he swam around and around in circles and curly ques. He just loved being in this soft, cool, enveloping and giving milieu .

Fips looked on. Fips is a special breed of dachshund who likes to swim. But he is circumspect. He has to check out the water first to make sure it’s behaving; and then he needs a target to go fetch .... the big stick. He likes to swim, but it has to be according to protocol. All Lothar needs is water.

Once Lothar settled down a bit we called him out and played the stick game.

After a while I wanted to give Fips a chance to fetch his stick without Lothar’s cooperation, so I told Michael to hold onto him while I threw the stick for Fips. I threw the stick out far -- about seven yards -- and Fips started paddling for it.

He had just gotten it in his jaw and had turned around when Lothar broke loose and bounded into the water like a huge fuzzy projectile.

We both yelled for him to stop, but he all but loped on water to where Fips was and pounced, pushing Fips way under. For a terrible moment I stood there waiting for Fips to come up, as I had visions of his little fuzzy body sinking into the murky ooze.

I waited.

I was just about to jump in the water when ... slowly and gently this little silky brown head bobbed to the surface, coughed up water and looked confused.

Fipsie!

He saw me and started a hesitant paddling motion. It looked like it was going to be okay, but I waded in to grab him at first chance and lead him back to shore, where the poor boy spat out some more water.

Keep Lothar away! I shouted, as I praised Fips, petted him, and made sure he was okay all at once.

I wanted to beat the stuffing out of Lothar, but of course it was nothing he could help; so I grit my teeth, took a deep breath and said to Michael it was probably best if we kept them apart. Michael, who was just as appalled, agreed.

I took Fips down a ways where I got him back into the water so that his memory would over-ride the bad experience. Further on up, Michael played stick with Lothar who ran around crazy on shore, swam around crazy in water and was having the happy time of his labrador life.

At last it came time to go. Lothar bounded up the road still in a state of doggie-joy, while Michael and Fips brought up the rear, padding along leisurely. Everybody dried off, we got into the truck and headed home.

As we got in, Michael and I exchanged a glance. We aren’t getting any takers, but it’s not possible to keep Lothar. He's the sweetest dog imaginable, with not a nasty bone in his body. But he’s too big, too galumphy and, in the end, by imperceptible but ineluctable degrees, Fips will just be crowded aside and beaten down.

.

Little Knowest Thou...

It’s been slow going trying to find a home for Lothar. It’s as much a question of interviewing prospective takers as it is a matter of showing him off. I am determined to do more than simply “get rid” of the dog, but rather to secure him a good home and a good life.

And so, I tell the relatively few prospectives who call that, of course as they will understand, I want to make sure that they have the right environment for a young lab. And, of course, since it is politically correct to do so, they couldn’t agree more. God only knows what they really think.

Given the fact that I am writing this, the interviews have not panned out and the rest was all polite but bald faced lies.....

The other day we got a call from a couple down in Hayward. I asked them a few a questions, including whether they had a yard. They did, and it seemed as if they might be good candidates. So, a little after the worst of rush hour, I piled Lothar into the truck and drove down to Hayward.

Poor doggies. They trustingly have no idea of the future. Lucky doggies. They happily live in the present. Lothar was all alert and perky as we were going somewhere long.

Following my scribbled directions, I pulled off the freeway and drove through an appreciated early 60’s lower middle class neighborhood of standard-worker-issue single family units. Our destination was clean and neat and had a nice front lawn. I let Lothar out, led him up the brick path to the door and rang the bell.

The Mister, answered. We met the Missus. They were very friendly and nice. They smiled and looked appreciatively at Lothar. I made filler conversation about this and than that, as I eased into seeing the lawn. "Oh sure.... it's out this way...."

Lothar and I headed through some sliding glass doors to the lawn, a long more less rectangular strip of grass, enclosed by good fences and bordered with neatly planted flower beds. Hmmmm. I had got the impression it was bigger. Give it a 6. I let Lothar romp outside as I headed back in to interview the prospectives.

Now, there are two ways to conduct these interviews. One is the Swiss woman lab-rescue way: Do you....? √ Vill you....? X Half you....? The other is the cowardly way, which I felt more comfortable with. “So..... pretty nice place you have here.....”

They beamed. They had just been remodelling, and could hardly wait to show off their new kitchen. It was kind-a hard to miss actually, since it was at least a third of the living room space. Apart from bedrooms which I did not inspect, the house was basically a large square kitchen up front and adjacent to a long rectangular combo living / dining room. The yard ran alongside out back.

The couple had manifestly spent a lot of money on the new kitchen, which was lined with well-made cabinets and lit with recessed lighting. There was a very upscale stove, a brushed steel refrigerator and to be sure, wall ovens and microwaves. In the center there was large square counter with recessed drawers, lit by a dropped fluorescent “sky light”. “It’s really very nice,” I said.

The living room ... was a throw back to Yesteryear in America. I am tempted to say it was done in ersatz “Early American” but it was actually a notch or two up from Montgomery Wards. It was more faux Western Americana. The carpet was thick, the furniture was moderately well made, and there were some good reproduction pieces, in particular a large converted, cut-glass oil lamp. A small, painted hobby horse stood in the corner. There was no escaping the La-Z Boy with it’s magazine rack but at least it blended style-wise. I swallowed hard. “Very nice....”

We continued chatting, as my eyes casually scoped out the place. It was then that I took better stock of a large porcelain water pitcher that I had glanced at when first coming in. It was 'casually' placed next to the magazine rack. What drew my attention was that it was just like the large water pitcher my grandmother had sitting in the large matching basin on her washing stand. It had a pinkish glaze on a white background with some sort of insipid pastoral scene, enveloped in flowers and curly decorations. I wondered if it was real, or if these basins had always been ersatz or at least faux.

As I stared at the pitcher, I saw Lothar come bounding in from yard, all galumphy and happy, his tail wagging furiously and smashing the pitcher to pieces, oblivious to the damage done. “Oh Diamond Diamond, little knowest thou.....” [ ? ]

“So... do you have a place for him to sleep?” For sure! They took me to the garage and showed me a large dog-comfy padded space under what had been a work table. I had another vision of Lothar chained to his comfy bed, prohibited from entering the house... the misbehaving accoutrement to the decor.

I made further chit chat and concluded the interview by telling the Mister and Missus that it looked like they really loved dogs and it seemed this was something that could really work out. But of course, we all had to sleep on it, to be sure. I wanted to be sure that they were sure, and they should feel completely assured they could frankly let me know if they weren’t totally sure... and so, let’s get in touch tomorrow, and blah blah blah.

“C’mon Lothar!!!” I dragged Lothar back to the truck with as casual a walk I could manage and, at the end of the brick path, turned around to cheerfully wave, before holding the door open for Lothar to hop in. Another wave and I was outta there. Once out of sight I pulled over hugged Lothar hard, and said, “We’re going home now.”

.

Lothar's Letter

SNIFF, SNIFF, ARF! -- [Translation:] "Hello, my name is LOTHAR. I am a 4-5 month old, black lab puppy. I need a home where I will be cared for and loved. I love to run around, and play and tussle and paddle around in the water. Most of all I want to find a two-footed companion I can trust, look up to and be loyal to.

"My rescuers found me running about loose without tags. I was afraid of their hands, but they took me home gently and spent a lot of time hugging me and petting my head. They gave me really good chow to eat. They gave me chew and tug toys and play with me. Now I do bellies up for them and wag my tail when I see them. I know they will never hurt me, even when they make the "No" bark. They also have a little dachshund who is fun to chase and run around with. I like to steal his toys. He steals mine too. It's fun.

"But my rescuers look at me sadly. They say they can't keep me because they live an an apartment which is not a good place for a dog like me.

"Please, please, if you have or know of a home for me call Mark or Mike at 510 272 9077. I want to have a fun life. I need a good owner. I don't want to be put in a cage and, most of all, I don't ever want to be hit again."

Woof!

Lothar the Lab

.

Lotar Meets Mountain

It was a mild day and so I decided to take the pups for a nice long outing. Since it was a weekday, I figured it would be a uncrowded time to show Lothar Fip’s Moun-tin.

Aus? -- It hasn’t taken Lothar long to learn DoxiDeutch.

Even though we haven’t found a home for Lothar yet, it is only a matter of time and so I took along my camera.

[click on photos to zoom]

Out the door, into the elevator, down to the ground floor and the doggies charged furiously to the front door, where they abruptly stopped and stood wagging their tails. How would they know where I was planning to go?

“No, no., doggies... truck!”

The “truck” word. Lothar has picked up on that too. It means speed, wind in the nostrils and ... who knows what doggie images they conjure up in their minds, but the memory of something fun for sure from the looks of it.

They charged back down the hallway and out to the parking area, where we all piled into the Ford.

Up to the moun-tin,
The moun-tin, the mou-ountin.
Up to the moun-tin
The moun-tin, tin!

The Mountin Song. Fips knew and Lothar could only guess that it must be something pretty good.

When we arrived, it was the perfect late afternoon -- sunny but not too hot and not too many people. The “mountin” regional park in the Oakland hills, now belongs to Fips but it was a new experience for Lothar. I took them on the long circuit, along the curvy south trail that snakes a long the crest and then, a mile on, onto the French trail which descends into the redwood canyon.

Along the ridge road, we met another fuzzy hiker (occasional, by the looks of it). Fips likes to sniff along the road, but Lothar was just bounding back and forth in a state approaching delirium.. He’d run up a ways, would stop look, and then run back to us before running forward again.

Lotar At French Trail Turnout

It makes perfect sense. He’s just a pupper and given the circumstances of his finding it is almost certainly the case that he’s never been to a place like this before. What must it be like for doggie eyes, ears and noses to be quickened with the this vast surrounding ambience of light, breeze, rustling, reflections, wafting smells and noises? We humans objectify too much; Lothar was just participating with his environment.

He got to the French Trail turn-off before we did, and I yelled for him to wait up. Then we turned left and down, on the narrow path through thick bushes, fallen tree trunks, and tall wild grass.

The French trail is great walk, especially for dachshunds. Except for one short, steep-ish spot, it slopes most of the way at a 15 degree incline which is not too difficult on the up-hike and is a a breezy trot on the hike-down. It undulates in a few spots and curves gently through the vegetation.

Like a river, it eventually disgorges at the bed of the canyon where the soil is moist, the air is damp and the light is always watery green. A creeklet runs off an adjacent ridge fills up shallow ponds here and there amidst the rocks, the ferns and the towering evergreens.

A little ways on, this grassy bed narrows again as it gets squeezed between two steep, rocky ridge formations. The creek runs through a narrow crevice as the path skirts along right as rises up the side of the ridge. It gets a little perilously narrow around here, and I keep my eyes fixed on the dogs, especially now since, in the late afternoon, the grove was darker than usual.



Past this narrows, the ridges open up again, at the star-like center of the grove where four ridges meet around a soft-earth arena carpeted with leaves and needles. Here, the creeklet breaks apart into scattered shallow rivulets along canyon bed. The path, after one last rise, makes a sharp turn to the left and the declines into the canyon floor at 30-40 degree angle.


Fips loves this spot, and tears on down like some sort of fuzzy bobsled. Lothar lopes along merrily. Without doubt, this is the meaning of fun.

We poke around at the bottom of the canyon, puddling through waters, slurping a drink and sniffing the humus (yes--- I inhale it too) before completing the circuit and heading back along a fire trail to the picnic area and then back up to the crest and parking lot where we all pile into the truck for a breezy ride back down Shepherds Canyon road to “the Oakland flats,” the Lake and home where the fuzzy ones, big and small, konk out.

.

What...No Paperz?

“ In short, he's a wonderful dog, and we'd like to keep him. Unfortunately we can't. We live an an apartment which is already at its limit with two cats and Fips (the dachshund). I'm sure we'd be evicted once the landlord found out we got another animal. Equally as important, Lothar needs or will need a place where he can be his true Lab self.”

"We've exhausted all possible placements we know of. Because of the ups and downs the puppy has already gone through we don't want to subject him to being caged in the pound. We've seen a lot of dogs being mishandled around here and also don't want him being given to some jerk... Because he was probably hit, he needs an owner who will reassure him that human hands are good things and who knows how to train him without violence...

"Your situation sounds ideal, and we suspect would be great for both you and Lothar. If you are interested, please give us a call. We'd be willing to drive him up if it looks like a go."

The Lab Rescue people turned out to be jerks. They were only interested in pure breds with papers, and li’l Lotar came with none. In addition, one prospective taker found two white hairs on his chest which “un-conformed” him. Others complained about his tail. Why don’t people focus on personality instead of dog-as-object?

Michael and I are annoyed in equal measure. This ain’t gonna be easy, and we’re going to have to do placement leg-work. Mike will broadcast on the internet and I will take charge of taking Lotar to interviews....

Interview of the prospective takers because we are determined that he will get the home and stewards he deserves.

Woof!

.

Tusslin' and Splashin'

Lothar is making himself welcome and proving himself to be a wonderful dog. But we know we can't keep him and Michael has taken over the task of contacting lab-rescue sources so that we can find him a home. He's been in touch with some Swiss woman up in Washington State whose apparent mission in life is to save all labs and who is sending us de-worming pills, an application and a list of precise instructions which we must follow or be disqualified. Michael and I exchange a look, but decide to play along anyway.

In the DoggieSphere, oblivious to what is going on on planet-human, Fips and Lothar are tusseling eachother out.

"He is very playful and, in the several days we've had him, has struck up a tossling, running friendship with our wire-haired dachshund -- who apparently couldn't resist liking the 'intruder'. The lab, whom we've temporarily named 'Lothar', loves to run, roll around, and wrestle. "

I'm relieved and amazed at how Fips and Lothar have worked out their equilibrium. `They surely have to be conscious of the disparity in their sizes and strengths but there doesn't seem to be any jockeying for domi- nance. Instead their wrestling consists in a spontaneous choreography of playful positioning.

We've been very careful to be even-steven with both on everything, and almost immediately upon beginning our therapeutic stroking of Lothar we realized that we'd have to show equal attention to Mr. Fips. Once "security" was established the way was clear for puppy-friendship.

The cats want none of this and have reserved themselves into their own world.

-0O0-

“We took him to the Bay on Sunday, and he plunged in and started paddling about in total doggie-joy."

Sunday was perfect outing weather and so Mike and I took the dogs to the "Oh-shin"at Wiley Field by the bay. I ran my five miles while Mike and Lothar lolled on the grass and Fips ran to and fro between us . When I had finished, we all headed down to the water.



Michael held onto Lothar while we gave Fips a little "bal" time to himself and then released the water-pup into his element.

Here we did have to moderate the situation because the excitement of being in water so overwhelms Lothar that he nearly drowned Fips who, needless to say, was stunned and none too pleased.

But no grudges held and both got their fill of water-time.

What well-being to be able to run in the sun along water's edge and then splash about in the oh-shin with happy dogs.

.

Lothar

The second order of business was to....

The big pup followed with a trusting uncertainty as I led him down to hall and into the shower stall. No doubt he had been washed before and knew what it was all about; but everything else being unfamiliar he could not know what was going to be about until it started.

And then... it was the usual long suffering hang-dog looks, as his thick fur was copiously soaped up and rinsed with the warm water spray from the shower "massager". Once out, he impatiently let himself be dried before shaking his coat and rolling around the house crazy-like as the cats flew to places unseen.

"So what shall we call him?" I asked. Michael had no idea. "Big Boy?" he wondered. "Nahh..."

We had recently been paid a visit by one of Michael's friends from Germany - a good natured twenty something guy with an insouciance bordering on unawaredness that was enjoyable precisely on account of its inherent happiness.

How about "Lothar?" I asked. Michael looked at the dog for a moment. "Yeah..."

"Should we keep him?"

Of course, it depended in the first instance on Mr. Fips, who held the veto; and Mr. Fips was manifestly not enthusiastic. Lothar was obliviously making himself comfy, while Fips had a look that mixed hurt, annoyance and apprehension. ... a typical FipsMix of doggi-emotion.

[click to enlarge]

"We'll have to see how they get along," Mike said.

But deep down we both knew there was another veto. The dark force of the landlord. Two cats, a dog and now a rambunctious lab puppy was pushing the limits by any measure. And besides, even with all our daily walkings, an apartment is no place for a lab

But for the meanwhile, Lothar was here and this was his home. Michael also noticed that Lothar was a tad hand-shy. He was too galumphy to have been seriously abused, but he had been hit it was clear. So we undertook de-conditioning therapy, routinely holding his head in our lap petting and stroking it very ostensibly. We estimated he was not more than six months old (five as it turned out) and that we could rehab him of whatever negative reflex he had developed.

From the first, the thing that was most endearing about Lothar was his doggie faith -- a willingness to allow himself unto hands apprehended and purposes unknown. It was not fear because he never cowered; nor was it resignation because he was too galumphy to have given up on life. No, it was a trusting uncertainty that was as much an exercise of hope, in its doggie way, as our own.

He made the most of his luck and once the cats came out of hiding, the human was now definitely the lesser fraction of my bed.

.

Guess What

This morning, at around ten, I looked out the window and noticed that the lake shore traffic was pretty light. It was sunny, but still moderately cool. "Good time for a quiet amble," I thought. "Aus, Fipsie?" When has he ever said no? So, keys and leash in hand we headed to the elevator, descended downstairs, scampered down the hallway and made it outside, where Fips chased across the street to check out the shrubs and stubby trees and see what news there was since yesterday.

I was standing around idly, giving Fips a long lead, when I noticed a big black lab walking down the gravel path around lake's edge. The dog looked up at me, hesitated and then continued on slowly and somewhat uncertainly. I looked up the path from whence he had come but did not see anyone. I looked back over to where Fips was sniffing and again did not see anyone. The lab was alone.

"Hey little doggie...."

The lab stopped, half turned around and uneasily let me approach him.

"What's up?"

He flinched as I held out my hand.

I slowed my motions and eased into patting him on the side on neck. The dog had a harness but no tags. He was not emaciated and looked fairly well groomed.

"You lost, little doggie?"

I stood back again and looked about as Fips stood by and gave me a stare that said, C'mon, lez go

More likely he had been abandoned.

What to do, I wondered. But, of course, there was really no alternative. I reached over and extended my hand to make friendlies with the dog. He flinched again but was otherwise amenable to my coooing and caressing. After a short while of these introductions, I wrapped my hand around his harness and led him back to the road, tugging a baffled and sulky Fips with the other hand.

"Okay!" and we all chased across the street back to the apartment, down the hallway, into the elevator and up to our floor. The lab followed easily and was obviously domesticated. Fips followed and was obviously not too happy by this turn around of events. A walk is supposed to be a walk and...

I opened the door. The dog ran into the living room, came to an abrupt halt in the middle and let loose a stream of doggie wasser onto the carpet.

"Noooooooooo!"

Michael came out of his room.

"Guess what?"

.

Fips Wins His Case

Fortunately, the law library was just across the like so it was easy to investigate Oakland's leash law. Section I. 3-9.07b provided that dogs had to be on leash on under voice control. Aha!

So armed with this information and the obvious argument that flowed from it, I duly appeared in court at the appointed hour.

The court room was a small wood panelled room on the second or third floor of the Courthouse. When I arrived no one else was in court. So I sat down in the theatre chairs and waited. After a while several police officers came in and sat down across the aisle. Other than that, the courtroom was empty.

The clerk arranged her stamps and was followed shortly thereafter by the Commissioner. My case was called. I answered, "present".

....

No one else answered anything.

Fips' "at large" rights were vindicated. I wish I could explain this triumph to the little Mr Fuzzy.

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Fips At Large

Early this afternoon Fips and I went for a poke-about at Peralta Park. As usual, no one was there and we had the sun and grass and quiet to ourselves. I had spent most of the morning at the glow box and wasn't feeling very energetic, so after a while I lay down on the park's soft herbal matting. Fips followed suit a little more than an arm's length away. I closed my eyes and thought how nice and lucky it was to be here on the grass with my doggie pal each of us enjoying the quiet, the grass and the sun. All of a sudden, I felt the shadow of a presence.

At first I expected a friendly verbal warning. Instead I got a friendly citation for having a dog "at large". How absurd! He wasn't "at large;" he was "at a plop" right next to me.

We shall fight this!! [-->]

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Fipsie's First

It’s Fipsie’s birthday!! Michael wanted to do something and a couple of days ago alerted me that Fips’ birthday was coming up.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Well, can’t we take Fips some place special?”

And so, it being bright and breezy, come mid morning we piled into the truck and drove over to the new shoreline park at what used to be Crissy Field.

As we got to the Marina, we pulled into the Safeway at Gas Lamp Cove to buy ourselves some chips and sandwiches and, of course, something special for Fips.

“So what kind of cake will we get him?”

Michael wanted a beef-cake -- a big hunk-o-beef with a candle. So slab-o-sirloin it was.

Thus provided we drove down to the sandy beach area half-way to Fort Point and parked next to a table under a cluster of wind-blown trees. As soon as we got the food out, Fips was all nose. Of course, it was typical Bay Blustery and there was no hope for any candle, so we decided just to sing to the dog once everything was spread out.

“Happy biiii-rthday to you! Happy biiii-rthday to you! Happy biiii-rthday dear Fi-i-pise....”

?

“I think we should at least cut it in half...”

“That would probably be a good idea...”

Cake cut, we put it on a paper plate for the Birthday Pup.

GULP.

I don’t know what we expected. Fips was delighted, of that there is no question. But dogs do not dally over red meat.

GULP

And that, before we even had taken a bite out of our sandwiches, was the end of the birthday cake. It was all so business like in a canine sort of way that it was kind of a let down in a human kind of way.

But, although he may not have grasped the reason why, a big slab of sirloin is always a special and exciting treat for a doggie; and so, even if he enjoyed it in his gulping doggie way, there is no doubt that Fips did relish an extra and special treat on his birthday.

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Salty Pup

Michael came back late one afternoon, all enthused about the Oakland - San Francisco ferry.

"There's a ferry to San Francisco?"

"Yes, it leaves from Jack London Square and it's really great. Fipsie loves it."

"You took Fips on the boat???"

"Yes, they allow doggies ... Fipsie really loved it."

What next? I wondered.

Michael went on about how friendly the people were on the ferry and how they were all charmed by Fipster who, of course, went up to greet them all and "really had a great time."

"You really ought to come, sometime."

So now it was a week or two later and Michael was up for an Oshin passage. It was a mild sunny day and we didn't need to take much other than light windbreakers, a leash and the blue "doggie-canteen" for Fips.

We followed our usual route through Peralta Park, along the channel, across the railroad tracks and up Estuary Park to Jack London Square. Fips, as is his wont, was stumping along merrily. He likes any spaziergang, but he likes it best when a gang does the spaziering.

Mike was right. As we neared the docking area, Fips led the way. Unfortunately, we had missed the earlier crossing, so we had to kill time walking around the docks and looking at old yachts which we fantasized owning. Fips was good humoured, but it seemed to me he was wondering if boat fun was in the offing. He had definitely had an expectation focused on a place.

At length the return ferry docked. We waited in queue under the striped awning as its passengers disembarked. Once our gate was opened, Fips trotted on eagerly quite oblivious to the forest of legs around him.

The ferry was crowded, but we found a seat to the right by the stern of the boat, in the open air. We kept Fips under a tight rein until all the to'ing and fro'ing settled down, and the engine cranked up its motors. To the even churning grind of gears, the boat pulled away from shore and made its way ever so slowly down the Oakland Channel.

Once we hit the open bay, the grind of the gears increased in pitch and we picked up speed. I picked up Fips and the wind rustled through our fur and hair.

There is no question that Fips was having a ball, the sea air in his nostrils, the wind in his fuzzy mane, the secure grip of my hands, the even trembling of the motors, the sun warming his body -- all must have made for a total sensory thrill. He wanted to look -- and did look -- o'er all the expanse of sea.

Nearing the Bay Bridge, an ominous cavernous and creaking sound emanated from on high. In photographs, these famous bay spans look silent and majestic. Until you've stood under one of these leviathan you don't realize how noisy they are. Fips looked up, alerted by the sound; more fascinated than scared.

"Look, Fips. Big Bridge," I said somewhat moronically as Fips went back to nosing the wind.

Once we got to San Francisco, we let the other passengers disembark before we let Fips charge on out. Interesting thing about doggies, is that they sense when something begins, and when something else begins... and something else again. And each new beginning of something is met with fresh excitement. I guess this makes for a kind of on-going happiness.

We had nothing to do in San Francisco but to head on back. By now, though, Fips was getting tired and decided to take a sailor's snooze in the corner, reviving for the walk back home where he sacked out for the rest of the day until chow time.

Mike took several more ferry excursions with Fips and always came back announcing what a fun time doggie-boy had had. I don't doubt dog-man did too.

.