Senior Citizen Alert!

Yesterday it was close to 100 degrees, dry and listless. Today it is in the low 60's, moist and overcast. Toward evening it gets a little blustery. Fipsie Weather!

I heave the doggies into the Jeep and drive them over to the High School where, after due poking around for pizza crusts in the class yards, they amble on over to the fields. There, with soft grass under his paws and earthy wind-smells in his nostrils, Fips kicks up a dash.

I run alongside squealling various half-dog, half-man noises as Rosco trots behind. The only thing Rosco has ever dashed for has a certain smell ... which is not in offings today.

We always think of Fips as Il Pensoroso but, while he is that, he's also one hell of a jock, and running has always been his favorite. More squeals from half-dog. Fips is in his element, so clearly being happy to run; and I am blown away.

He chases diagonally across the field toward an exit on the far side where a handful of people are playing frisbie. I want to avoid them and so double back through the baseball diamonds so as to make a circle to from when we came.

Fips will have none of it. After a short time, I turn around and see that Fips has chased over to where the people are. He is being petted by a black boy and his blond friend. Rosco, who apparently had a "dilemma moment", has decided to follow big brother. So much for my "plan".

I walk on over and recognized the boys from the other week. I wave to the black boy's mother who is seated in a chair by the fence wrapped in a hooded sweatshirt. As I get closer, Fips kicks up and trots on over to the adults playing frisbie. He chases up to one and then to another. They think he's going for the frisbie, but I know otherwise. I call to the humans' attention: "He's coming to say hello..."

One of them turns around and bends down. Fips accepts his due and heads off towards another , as I remark in a loud voice that he's 15 1/2. "Really?" the man who just petted him says. "Yes, really."

"Hey folks! Senior Citizen Alert!!!"

Fips heads for the blond boy's mother for a snif and pet before changing directions and heading off toward someone else.... making the rounds the group, before finally sitting on his haunchies and looking up, as if, all accounted for, some sort of gather-round will now begin. Overstaying one's welcome is not really a canine concept, and so I tap Fips on the neck and say, "Okay Fips, lessgonow komm."

I've lost track of Rosco, but soon catch sight of him off sniffing by the fence. After some pleasantries with the sweat-shirted mom, we head on out toward the Jeep with the black boy and his blond friend skipping after us. The blond boy says something about "doggie years" and the black boy announces, "My great-grandfather is 90 years old,"

"He's almost as old as Fips."

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