The Demands of the Day

To a dear friend with a Seasonal birthday:

There are two ways to look at this sort of thing, as illustrated by Fips and Rosco on that other person's birthday.... Both doggies got BIG real bones with an inch diameter of juicy marrow and lots of fat, meat and gristle. Rosco jumps and grabbing his runs off to a private corner where he spends the rest of the afternoon chewing and gnawing in mindless contentment. Fipsie, jumps, grabs and then spends the entire next 12 hours sitting there sullenly guarding the great treasure, looking at everyone with suspicious and worried eyes.

I hope you have a ROSCO kind of day.

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An Equivocally Merry Christmas

I figured it would be a good day to take Fips and Rosco to the mountin'. We climbed to the half way point and then sat there looking out over Napa Valley as the wind blew through our hair. It was a lovely clear day.

On the way down we met a 1/2 wolf - Dalmation. The wolf was pretty impressive, but I asked its owner to hold him back from sniffing at Fips, because Fips would probably get scared and snap. The guy looked at me like I was nuts. Fortunately nothing happened....

When we got home, I gave the doggies their (thawed) presents.

Jumping quivers of expectation!

Rosco tooks his and ran to the dinning room where he immediately began to gnaw, gnaw and gnaw happily.

Fips.... well Fips sat there and looked worried. An hour later he was still sitting there looking worried. Argggh!

Meanwhile Rosco is outside looking for a good treasure trove spot, running around with his bone in his mouth.

Fips remains grim. Of course, I leave him alone and go to the office. He follows me there, with his bone and sits under the chair but grumbles when I pet him. After a while, I get up and go lie down. He follows with his bone, and lies beside me. I can pet him, but he's still just into possessing.

It's much the same 7 hours later. Rosco has buried and unburied his now dirt-caked bone several times. Fips is basically still guarding his treasure. I hope he gets around to enjoying sometime. He can be petted now but I can tell he's still touchy.

What a dog!

I gave 'Shnuts and doofy Bear their bones. Shnuts, hugged my leg, took hers and ran off somewhere. Duffy looked at me in momentary astonsihment: For meeeee? Last I saw him he hadn't budged from the gate and was chewing away.

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Roamin' Rosco

Arrgh.......

Tonight, as I'm falling asleep, I notice a certain lightness of missing fuzzy butts. I reach for the flashlight and see Fips staring out the dining room window into the dark. But where is Rosci? Sigh... Not again!

I get up and flash around the garden. No sign of number two. I call out and check around the house, but there is nothing. Merde.

I pull on some pants and a tee, leash Fips and head out the gate. I'm hoping Fips will smell the right way. He turns left and we head down Hilderbrand. This makes sense because that's were the current bitch-in-heat lives.

Two houses down and we're joined by Peanuts and Bear who make total pests of themselves, quite obviously thinking, "Oooh, this is FUN!" Fipsie more or less makes a bee-line for the bitch's house. When we get there, the troop of us walk half way down the driveway, as I start to call out softly. The guy's truck is there, but all the lights are off and I don't want to start banging on his door. Not at one in the morning. I wait around hoping to hear or see some sign of Rosco chasing and humping. But it's total silence. Merde.

Now I'm worried and wish I had taken the truck. If Rosci's not here he could be anywhere and that includes the highway. I'm also sweaty and clammy since its chilly outside. In Anglo-Saxon, !F&@*$%#!!

Shooing Peanuts and Bear away, Fips and I head back home where, very very carefully, so as not to run over anything dark and fuzzy, I back the truck out. Talk about "tension city!" I head down Mirabel, parallel to the highway, all the way to end, hoping to catch a trotting Rosco in my high beams. Still nothing.

I drive back up on the highway hoping like hell that that's not where he's at... Nothing. The shape I saw on the turn out, turns out to be a paper bag. Whew!....

Back down Hilderbrand. Still absolutely no sign of Rosco.

I return home and wonder if it would do any good to call Michael. Really! What am I thinking, or not? I decide to take another walk down Mirabel. This time I put on my jacket. As I get to the gate... there is Mr. Fuzzy Butt himself, panting and ...I suppose... wondering when I'm going to snap to and open up.

Fips is all kissy poos and runs very right next to his bro. Rosco could care less and makes for the toilet. Slurp, slurp, slurp. It is now 1.59 AM and instead of getting a good early night's sleep, I'm going to get drunk. I still have no idea where the hell Rosco went.

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A Common Appreciation

All concerned -- two cats, two fuzzy-butts and one bi-ped -- are gratefully cool and happy in the wafting chills of insta-arctic. We all spent most of the day sitting in front of the damn thing, just appreciating cold air. Ah the simple things of life.

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The Time Keeper

".... I am going to have continue this tomorrow. Fips is barking at me, telling me it's bedtime. He will not stop. He wants to go to bed, and I have to be there ... Is that nuts or what?"

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The Party Pooper

Rosco is being a real asshole. Fipsy is all friendly and let's play and Rosco just wants to sulk by himself. He just snapped at Fips and now Fips is upset.

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A Brother's Keeper

Fips is the most astonishing dog -- part human and sweet to boot.

Towards dusk, I looked up from the glow box and noticed that Rosco wasn't around. He did not feel nearby either. I checked around and, sure enough, he had gone for an unauthorized pad-about. I looked down at Fips who was looking up at me. "Where's Rosci?" I asked. Fips went to the dining room and looked outside. Outside the dining room, I ask again "Where's Rosco?" Fips looks toward the river and back out at the road. He lead follows to the gate. I open the gate and repeat, "Where's Rosco?" Fips heads down the road toward the bridge.

Fips is walking briskly and does not stop to sniff until we pass over the bridge. He walks to the left of the road and back to the right, where he sniffs briefly. Then down a bit and back to the left. Then to the right where he stays till we get to the Mirabel curve. These quick sniffs lead me to conclude that he is scenting for Rosco and not just getting distracted. After all, why in the world am I predisposed to thinking that Rosco left in a straight line?

At the crest of the curve, Fips stops to sniff by the pine needles and leaves. This is a usual sniffing spot for both of them. I look down the road and see nothing. I peer harder and think I detect a dark spot in the greyness of the asphalt. I squint ... yes ... the dark spot is moving ... getting closer.

"Oh Rosci!" I reach down and pat him. Fips is wagging his tail and hop-humping about Rosco. Rosco is not in the mood and gives a mild snap. "Oh no, Rosco," say as I pet the two of them. I don't scold Rosco or encourage Fips. We then make our way back.

Returning home, Fips will not stop his circling around Rosco. His tail is wagging and he nudges Roscoe's ear and butt. Near the bridge, Fips humps. Rosco stands still, morosely uninterested. "C'mon you guys; lets go back now."

Back inside the gate, I return to the glow box. After a while I noticed that neither dog is inside. I get up and look for them. I find them by the truck. Rosco is staring into the neighbor's yard and Fips is sitting by staring at Rosco. I figure I'll let them work out whatever is going on.

Somewhat later, Rosco his back inside and I notice that he is definitely not his self. He is lethargic and shivering mildly. I kneel down to feel him up and check him out, as he lays on his side. Fips is standing right by. He looks at me, looks at Rosco and looks back at me. His eyes reflect a combination of concern, curiosity and expectation...as if to say, "Are you going to make it OK?" I look at Fips and say, "Yes, Fipsie; Rosco's not OK. He's sick." There is no doubt in my mind that Fips understands. At one point, Fips either licks Rosco's penis or nudges his butt. There's no question that he wants to help.

I check Rosco's ear, paws, gums and nose. They seem normal, but he is decidedly unresponsive. I do a test by walking over to the chew-bone box. Both dogs follow. Fips is excited but Rosco could care less. Poor Rosco is definitely not feeling well.

We walk back to the dining room where Rosco resumes his laying about. I lay alongside, stroking him while I think about it. Fips pulls up into the crook of me knees and hangs his head over my thigh looking at me and at Rosco.

I am amazed. This is not just joining the cuddling. It is not mere curiousity. It is concerned curiosity. Fips knows something is wrong and is standing by with an aura of brotherly responsibility, even though he expects me to fix it.

There's not much I can do. I massage Rosco's tummy and penis, thinking that maybe he's constipated. Fips looks on. It doesn't seem to do much good and so I eventually stop. With these two critters, one never knows how much of the shivering is drama. So I leave Rosco alone for a while to see just how much of the shivering is purely physical and how much is his way of saying he's not feeling well.

After a brief "departure" I return. Fips is sitting upright by Rosco. Rosco's shivering seems to be only "20%" of what it was. So I leave them alone for a while longer.

After a while, I check up on them again. They are still upstairs. Fips has not left Rosco's side and Rosco is still laying on his side. At this point, I call the vet to talk things over and to make pre-arrangements should I have to call her at 3 a.m.

Poisoning is the main concern. We go over the details of the area, likely causes and so on. Lisa says that if it was freon "he's toast" no matter what. There's nothing that can be done. But we decide that there was not likely to be any freon where he was walking. What about snail bait, rat poision and the like? What kind of "trembling" and "shivering" are we talking about? I ask. She says that I would know it when I saw it. There's "brr-brrr" type shivering, there's convulsions and vomiting and, in between, there, shaking, spasdicating type trembling. Rosco's seems to have the first and which is indicative of general discomfort. So we decide to wait and keep an eye on things.

I go back to the glow box and after a while, still not noticing the dogs, I check around. Roscoe is on the front "lawn" and Fips is standing by him. I walk over, check them out and return inside. The dogs follow.

Keeping an eye on things, I go to bed. Fips is on the bed and Rosco is on the floor. Lights out. I feel Fips jump off the bed. So I get up, turn on the lights and notice that Rosco has gone outside and Fips has followed to the flap of the doggie-door. Rosco heads into the garden, Fips follows. In the beam of the flashlight, I see Rosco lying in the garden and Fips standing by him.

Eventually Rosco comes back inside. I go back to bed. After a while I hear some rustling and get up again. This time I find the two fuzzies in the office. It's obviously going to go on this way all night long and so I decide to lock all the doors so that Rosco will be inside where I can hear him if he starts to convulse or something.

Throughout all of this Fips has never left Rosco's side. I finally doze to sleep with the odd assurance that if something does start to happen, Fips will wake me.

In the morning, Rosco seems to be a little better. Still pokey, but alive. Fips is still shadowing at Rosco's haunchies. I'm pretty blown away by Fips' awareness, sympathy and sense of responsibility. He knows, he wants to do something and no question but that he loves his little brother.

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Another Chien Fatale Performance

After finishing up some accounting, I went to the kitchen to get some cohwfy. When I came back, Fips was standing on the carpetted part of my office holding up a limp patito. "Fix it, please?" So I kneel down to do a patito check. Schmips is very patient. Then he decides to do chien fatale and just keels over on his side with an air of total hopelessness and passivity.

I find absolutely nothing. I go back up to the kitchen and Fips is now trying to follow, limping on three's and pathetically trying in this fashion to ascend the stairs. What drama! I tell him to sit, that I'll be right back.

I'm right back. He flops on his side again. I inspect again. He had been curled up tight in the corner of my file cabinets and I'm suspecting that his foot has simply fallen asleep. So I gently massage his shoulder joints. Fips is completely unresponsive, but then looks up and starts to kissie pooh. Well, it's hard to say, but maybe he feels better.

I suppose sleepy patito is what it was. I sure didn't feel any joints snapping into place. Anon, anon, Fips is back to normal. We drive to town where I shop. When I return to the truck, two fuzzie faces are expectantly peering out the driver-side window. The doggies get chew chips the sight of which produce a looooooooong drool from Rosco.

Back home. Fips is now now trying to interest Roscoe in pouncies. Rosco is doing his "nothing doing" sprawl. Fips is wagging his tail and poking Roscoe's ear and butt.

The evening news is blathering: "Camps..., how safe are they? What every parent should know about summer camp." Arrrrgggghhh. Mute. I count myself lucky to have the sterling artistry of Fipsie Drama

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The Sleep of Innocents

A friend of mine started his banking career as a fledgling trust officer. Among other miscellaneous duties, he was assigned to routinely check up on the fulfillment of some millionaireness' Trust for Fifi. Her entire Piedmont Hills estate was to be maintained "just as it was" for the life of her canine darling who had to be fed a precise menu of filet mignon from a silver bowl...and so on and so forth. Two caretakers lived at the estate for this sole purpose. Every other Tuesday or so, my friend would straighten his tie and head on out, saying "Well, it's time to go make sure darling Fifi is being taken care of...."

At THIS estate, Rosci kept this caretaker up till about 3 am. Every time I was just about to fall asleep, he started up and ran out the flap door barking furiously. At one point, I heard what sounded like snarling, so I got up, went to the door naked, saw nothing, got dressed and went outside looking for him with a flash light. He was nowhere to be seen. Then, out of the dark, darts this little rocket doggie, vacuuming the ground with his nose. Jes' sniffin. So I bring him inside and give him a chew bone, hoping it will distract him. For a while it's quietish... gnaw, gnaw, gnaw... And then: WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! ... Oh gawd!!!! Will it never end??

This morning while I am drying off from the shower, I see Fipsie draped over the bed. Where is Rosco I wonder? Nowhere to be seen. Then I look more closely and protruding out from under the mountain of blankets is a very round fuzzy butt. What a charmed life he leads.... barking till three, sleeping the Sleep of the Innocents till ten.

I return home later in the afternoon to the sounds of Hobbes is doing his Chinese Meaow Torture. I snarl at him several times to no avail. He WILL be fed, on the mark NOW. In fact 'myaoh, myaoh, myaoh' starts to sound like, 'now, now, now'. So the nanimoos got fed on the earlier side today.

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A Sufficient Forgetting

This morning, we noticed that Rosco was compulsively licking his right paw which, on inspection, was puffy and swollen between two digies. Oh no.....

The thought of a $500.00 foxtail operation was certainly enough to throw a wet blanket on an otherwise sunny day, but it did not look like anything we could pinch or poke out. So Fips and Mike and Rosco and I piled into the truck and drove down the road to the Mid-own vet.

They're pretty good, I said to Michael, and if Lisa Hoffman is there, she'll try to get it out without anesthesia. A few minutes later we arrived and went inside. Dr. Lisa was there.

As Mike and Fips waited in the front office, I took Rosco into the examining room and lifted him onto the table. Perhaps it is due to his horrible fish-hook ordeal but, whatever the case, Rosco has never been as non-chalant as Fips. When it comes to examining tables, Rosco displays the typical doggie distrust and anxiety -- which is hardly unreasonable, after all.

All things considered, though, Rosco stayed pretty calm as Lisa probed his diggies with hers. "Do you think you can get it out," I asked. "We can try," she said. "I'll hold him."

As I held Rosco's fuzzy muscle-body tight, Lisa inserted a small forceps into the swollen abscess. Rosco quivered in my arms as she fished around. She pulled out part of sliver and probed some more, finding nothing. During one last final probe she hit a nerve and Rosco let out a piercing yelp of pain.

Michael said that both he and Fips heard the yelp outside and that both of them felt absolutely terrible. So did I. The anguish is so pure and piercing.

Lisa apologized as I stroked Rosco's head. "Well I guess that's it," she said, adding that she did not think anything was left inside. After she sponged up the wound with gauze, I put him down and he ran eagerly to press his nose against the door.

We spent the rest of the day giving Rosco treats and cuddlies and the like. But he forgot about it soon enough and was back to his normal rambunctious self.

I convince myself that Rosco will remember "that place of pain" and I wonder if I should take him back just to get a treat. But, on reflection, I doubt that doggie brains work that way. After all, ours don't. If there were some present good -- say a chunk of steak hanging on the front door -- Rosco would hardly shy away. Otherwise the danger/alert memory of a past painful experience can't be so cheaply erased with the counterbalancing happenstance of a milk bone. If it could be, the whole purpose of registering a memory alert would be defeated. Nah... he's happy now; best to leave him to his own devices. Sufficient for the day is the forgetfulness thereof.

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Hilder-Mountain Hike

Mike had laboured enough setting up my new iMac, and it was time for all of us to shake a leg or two.

At the end of Hilderbrand there is a gate past which lies a vast, unoccupied 200 acre property. Earlier, in the cooler Spring, the pups and I had followed the dirt road on the other side of the gate up to a mountain plateau which afforded a grand view of Mt. Helena. I thought Mike should see it; and so, even though it was getting warm by mid morning, the pack of us set off for a hike.

Trudgy-Butts

The pups were quite excited, seeming to sense that we were going somewhere more than just a brief walk-about. Past the gate, though, their scampering became somewhat more dogged; and, as we neared the base of the ascent, both pups found some shade and made a decision.

Fortunately, a little ways on, after a turn in the trail, there is a cool and refreshing pond.

Fips immediately ran toward the water’s edge looking back at me and expecting a stick. As he gave his impatient little hop, I found something to throw and tossed it far into the pond. Kersplash.

It was warm enough, and the prospect cool enough, that even Rosco got into the act.

And so, the dogs refreshed we set off again for the trudge up the to the crest of the ridge.

Trio On Top

Once there, Mike and I beheld the spectacular view, while the canines sniffed around the grounds and the remains of a mountain cabin. I sat in the shade of what had been the porch, as Mike and the dogs went further on up to explore around the base of a water tank.


When they returned, we all headed back down and home, where the dogs quenched their thirst and conked out in tired contentment.

Wooly Bully

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