Nightwalks

Now that it is getting darker earlier, we've started up our nightwalks again to the evident delight of the doggie-pals. It's not the same during the summer. Then, nightfall is later and the air is still warm and moist from the daytime scorch. But now, by eight or nine, it is brisk and cool and the deutscher doggies are in their element. They assemble at the back gate impatiently waiting for me to put on their leashes and, once the gate is opened, take off with such velocity as to nearly yank one of the leashes out of my hand. Invariably, the chord gets stuck in a car fender or the pals run on opposite sides of a pole. One way or another, things get untangled and the dachshund gallop heads down the back alley toward the street.

Fips actually gall-hops like some oversized rabbit. Rosco doesn't but rather scurries along like a big furry centipede. Either way, they just as abruptly halt to sniff. They decide whither and yon they want to go and, since the town is pretty quiet at this time of night, I simply follow their meanderings occasionally casting the third vote when they want to head off in opposite directions.

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Fips Takes a Pad About

There was a light knock on the door. "Oh shit," I muttered, annoyed at being interrupted at work. It was the Complex's gardener. "Are you missing a dog?" he asked.

Missing a dog?? Why would I be missing a dog? I took a quick look under my desk. No Fips. I took a quick feel of the jumble of doggie blankets and pillows on the floor. One Rosco. No Fips. Why the hell, am I looking around here? I berated myself.

"I couldn't tell, if it was yours or not," said the gardener

"Well just show me," I said impatiently as I headed out the door, "Where is he?"

"He didn't have a collar; it looked like yours, but seemed fuzzier."

"Where is he?"

"A lady brought him over but we couldn't tell...."

Ah yes.... it was one of those stomach-knot moments.

"Where is he?"

The gardener pointed to the grassy pic-nic area, and there in the distance I saw woman kneeling down and an unmistakable fuzzy shape.

He won't budge, the woman said, as Fips jumped up and started getting all frisky.

"We thought it might be yours," the gardener said.

The woman was Kim, a next door neighbor whom I some time cross paths with as she walks her shaggy dog in the evening.

"I thought it might be yours," Kim said, "but he acted older. I was going to take him to Dr. Smith's but he wouldn't move."

As it turns out, a handyman who was putting up a new gate at Kim's house saw Fips walking slowly down the middle of the road. He called to him, and Fips, always up for a "hello," came over. Thinking he might be a stray, the handyman offered Fips some food, but Fips wasn't hungry. "That's when I figured he belonged to someone."

The handyman called Kim, who yoo-hoo'd across the street to Jim -- "who knows everything" -- and who said, "Oh yes, he belongs to that guy in the Complex".

Kim put a leash around Fips, but he would not be moved; so she carried him over. "Boy, he's heavier than he looks." "I know," I said.

Rosco many times, but Fips has never wandered off like this, and I couldn't for the life of me figured out how it happened. But it had.

I profusely thanked all concerned: the handyman, Kim and the gardener. Then I walked home, with Fips trotting merrily and hip hopping at my heels.

"Boy, look at him now," Kim said.

I smiled.

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Doggie Gratitutde

Now, as the summer draws to a close and the dry grass and nettles have been ground down into the dirt, the doggie boys and i have resumed our near noon walks at the town Park n' Rodeo grounds. At this time of day, no one is there except for ten or twenty seniors pulling up to the Senior Center for their daily meal.... And Fips who makes it a point to amble towards the kitchen's back-door.

Unfortunately, the cooks have been pretty busy and Fips has had to go away empty mouthed, and with that air of disappointed bafflement at how something which worked before (being there) no longer worked now.

Sunday, when the Center is closed, Fips stood at a distance looking intently at the kitchen wondering whether he should even bother walking up toward the door. Eventually he decided, in a not very hopeful way, that maybe it was worth a try. It wasn't.

Today, though, the kitchen door swung open and one of the cooks came out carrying a LARGE ziplock bag chock full of Pork Bits. She handed it to me, saying that maybe it would make up for the past week. "Ooooh... thank you so much," i said, as Fips and Rosco danced and jumped around my feet.

"What have we got here....?" I said as I took several steps back and opened the bag while the pals followed after me all but exploding with excitement. I gave each a chunk o' pork as the cook looked on and the doggies gulped. I took another step back, bent down and gave them two more chunks. Gulp.

I straightened up closed the bag and looked over at the cook, who was about five yards away. "You've made them real, happy; thank you." She took a puff from her cigarette and nodded.

Just then Fips and Rosco trotted over to her and nosed her legs. The cook and I looked at one another, fairly blown away. "I guess I didn't have to say it for them," I said. "They feel more than we give them credit for, " she replied.

After thanking the cook, Fips and Rosco returned to where the succulent smell was and followed me back to the Jeep.


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