Sunday, November 23, 2008

Smellavision isn't Everything

This morning it was sunlit and crisp -- perfect doxie weather. So, I took los doggies out early, at 9.30, while the humans were off praising their Sky Alpha or catching pre-runs of NASCAR , allowing us the school grounds to ourselves.



Fips was in an ultra-frisky mood, hop skipping around like a doggie in a meaty-bone store. When he's bursting with energy like this, it blows me away to think that he's 14 and 1/2. Rosco was full of it too... but that just turns him into a hyper Electrolux, scowering the ground furiously for edibles. If it weren't for the adoration in his eyes, I'd type him for a stomach on four legs.



When "we" had finished scouring the grounds and taking a trot over the field, I headed back to the Jeep. The field is about a yard down from the parking lot and in order to exit, you have to pass through a turnstyle in the fence and then walk up three or four steps onto a raised grassy knoll that abuts the lot. I walked ahead and waited by the Jeep. Rosco was not far behind. But Fips got detained by a smell, and when he looked up, I was nowhere to be seen.

The poor little doggie panicked. From my vantage point, I could see his head look left, then look to the right... I called out, but he didn't hear the exact direction, so he started running back in the direction from which we had come but away from the exit and stairs. On the other side of the fence, I ran toward him, calling out so that he could see where I was. He looked up, stopped, was evidently happy again and ran back toward the turnstyle.


All of us back in the "truck" and done with the obligatory water slurps, I decided to get my gym session out of the way. So we drove over the hill to Hidden Valley. Once parked, I gathered up my sweats and headed inside. But Fips was having a separation attack and insisted on coming with me. He was so intent on this that he fell into his water bowl before forcing his way past my hand and almost jumping out of the cab -- which would not have been good orthopaedically speaking.

I decided to take the boys into the gym, but had to get the rope-leash from the other side of the Jeep. As I walked around, both doggies trimmed to the other side of cab, knocking over the bowl again. Sheeesh...doggies! Just a minute, Just a minute. Eventually and after no small amount of entangling with sweats, leashes and bounding furry bodies... I made it to the ski machine where I did my half hour as the doggies - now motionless -- lay nearby.

When I had finished, the doggies were just as impatient to leave, and tugged me by their leash out the door, where they suddenly had lots of time to sniff and piss. Eventually we got back into the Jeep and headed back to Middletown. It was such a nice day, that I decided to take them to "Central Park" for more walking about.

There was no let up on their eagerness as they hopped and sniffed about until, all of a sudden, Fips decided he wanted to go... Now! So I lifted him back into the Jeep and waited for Rosco to bring up the rear. He did, but just outside the fence gate, where we had parked, he stopped.

Smell Alert!

Rosco stood at the base of a blue plastic barrel looking up to where a very attractive aroma was emanating. He stretched out his body and leaped up -- his little paws almost reaching the rim. Back down again. Stare at the rim. Stretch and leap. Back down again. Stare at the rim.....

Rosco was trying to push the barrel over, but this was not going to happen because from where he was standing, he was pushing it directly into the fence it stood against. I saw that the barrel leaned a little to the right, so it was obvious to me that if Rosco was to succeed in his ambition he would have to jump push from the left. Again, Rosco pushed the barrel against the fence.

"Rosci"

He looked over, his eyes reflecting the apprehension that I would put an end to the enterprise. I walked over as his he took a slight step back, still looking up with uncertainty and apprehension. I stood to the left of the barrel and prodded it with my fingers.

"Pushy, Rosco," I said, "Pushy here."

The look in Rosco's eyes now told me that he was waiting for me to push the barrel over; but I wanted him to do it.

I kept prodding the barrel and motioning Rosco to come over to the left side. Fairly quickly he caught on that I wanted him to keep jump-pushing the barrel, but he simply did not fathom that I wanted him to do it from the left side. Again he pushed it into the fence.

At last I took him by the collar and led him around to the left.

Bonk, Bonk

Pushy here Rosco; Pushy here.

He ducked away over to the front side of the barrel.

Again I took him by the collar and led him around to the left.

Bonk, Bonk

Pushy here Rosco; Pushy here.

NOW, he finally got it and started jump-pushing from the left side, as I stood back to see if he would succeed.

About the fourth or fifth pounce, the barrel slowly started to keel over and then fell to the ground with a thud. Rosco wasted no time in scampering over to the opening and delving inside from where he emerged with a full half ros' beef sammich in his maw which he devoured in three seconds or less as Fips looked on through the windshield of the Jeep.

Rosco then got his nose stuck Heffalump style in an empty bag of Cheezos, and after running around for a while eventually disengaged and was ready to get back into the Jeep and return home --- a good morning having been had by all.



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Monday, November 17, 2008

Back to the Big River


Fips started skip-bouncing when he saw me gathering up coats and leashes. Seeing Fips get excited got Rosco going too. As always, it’s better to let them wait out their excitement in the “truck” rather than exercise it under foot; so I opened the back gate. Rosco trotted out and positioned himself to be lifted into the Jeep. Fips followed but seemed a little confused and nosed over toward the Ford. I gently put my hand on his side and eased him the other way and lifted him up too. Then I finished gathering up my stuff and locked the door.

First stop, the town park. It was bright but not too warm. I let the fuzzy butts peramble at ease. It is a long and tedious mountain drive over to Cazadero just 10 miles short of the coast, so I figured I’d let the doggies shake as much leg as possible now. Rosco headed over to his spot to gnaw the dirt where the Senior Center cooks dump their grease. Fips headed over to the kitchen and waited by the door, until I called him away.

When they had had their fill of sniffing and poking, I lifted them back into the “truck” and we headed over the mountain. As usual, Fips started the trip with his nose poking out the window like some sniff-O-scope and then, as the endless curving back and forth got to be too much, retreated back down and curled up in the seat.

From Calistoga there are two roads to Santa Rosa -- Calistoga Road which heads south to central Santa Rosa and Mark West Road which meets up with highway 101 just north of the city. Whenever we take Mark West, we invariably turn south upon reaching 101; however, today, after reaching the freeway, I continued going west. Aren’t we supposed to turn left here? Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Fips sit up, look out and take stock. It’s been 10 years since we’ve been to Guerneville and I wondered if Fips remembers the road. It seems incredible that he should but I sense that he does.

As we wound our way through the dimly lit redwood forest to Cazadero, I also sensed that this damp, mossy, bark and earth smelling environment was a dachshund’s delight. But it’s too dank for me and, as I don’t know the area at all, I just let them out for a brief sniff around. Instead, on the way back, through Guerneville, I stopped off at an almost as damp “park” of sorts that sloped down to the river


This is new, this is fun and the doggies find plenty to sniff. Rosci leads the way, trotting down a path carpeted in redwood pine needles. Fips treads softly, as his spongy pads detect sharpness. Eventually the two fuzzy butts scramble down to the what’s left of the river and puddle about in the pools of water.

I look for a stick. Finding one, I hold it up for Fips. “Stick, Fipsie, Stick” He looks up, but doesn’t get all skippy and hoppy the way he used to. I toss it several yards into the water, and he wades in after it, drags it back in his teeth and then gnaws it at the shoreline. But there’s no gusto in it. He does it more out of a dutiful remembrance of habits passed.


Ten years ago, in the Spring when the river was flush and strong, Fips had paddled out from a little watery cul-de-sac and almost got swept away by the seemingly placid but unforgiving current.

After some more poking about, I say “Let’s go back to the truck now.” and Fips leads the way scrambling up the embankment. He manages pretty well all things considered, even getting up a little trot or two. His energies definitely correlate with the ambience. Cool and damp is Fipsie’s favorite.



He’s as eager to get back to the “truck” as he was to get out and down to ground. Rosco brings up the rear and probably wouldn’t mind hanging out some more. I lift them back into the Jeep and the two furry pals curl up in their respective spots, Fips entangled into a blanket and Rosco nestled into a pillow and sweat jacket. They both know it’s going to be an hours ride back.

By late afternoon we are home. The doggies are tired and curl up in bed. I’m tired of all the driving too, and lay down for a little snooze alongside Fips, my arm around his head and feeling his warm doggie body next to my side and Rosco curled up by my leg.

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