Lothar's Luck

We got a letter from Vicki enclosing pictures taken during their Spring Break vacation at "Grandma's" ranch up in Washington. They all had such a good time, they were thinking of moving up for good. The pictures showed that Lothar (aka "Max") was loved and cared for and had plenty of opportunity for romping.

"Lothar (Max) saying hello to George and Cheyenne"

"Ever see a dog play with a horse?"

But the picture I liked best was the one showing Lothar being Lothar -- the happy galumphing big pup. A part of me regrets loosing the dog I found but another part participates in his romping by knowing that, in the end, Lothar had a happy life.

Galumphing.

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ClenchClench, ShakeShake, TugTug

It was a bright Spring day this morning, so I decided to take Fipsie with me up to Grand Lake Hardware where I needed to buy some picture hanging wire and anything else I might discover I needed while there.

They’re pretty friendly up at Grand Lake -- at least they’ve never bitched about me bringing Fips inside, much less when I let him sniff around the plants and turf bags at the garden center. Fips, of course, likes going “into” places and is quite delighted when he’s allowed inside. So... in he trotted as the doors swung open, tail a-wagging.

I kept him on a fairly short lead, as I nosed about the widget & thingy aisle. I’ve also been needing a drill, and noticing the tool section, I walked over to look at drills. Fips trotted along.

All of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a fuzzy-motion down below. Say wha ...? I looked down just in time to catch Fips pulling away from a floor-level bin with a big furry hedgehog in his maw. What in the world is a basket full of fuzzy-wuzzies doing in the tool section of a hardware store? I reached down and grabbed the hedgehog, to toss it back into the bin.

Nope.

Clench. Shake. Tug.

C’mon Fips... gimme the possum’

ClenchClench. ShakeShake. TugTug

Fii-ips.....

Nope.

He had caught the possum and there was no way in doggie-hell he was giving up his prey.

Fii-ips.....

Nope.

So that was that. The purchase decision had been made. Maybe he’d loosen up by the time we got to the check out counter.

Clench.

C’mon Fips, gimme the possum, just a min’it. I need to pay for it.

Well how would he know about that? Purchase decisions are made by clenching your jaw, not by opening your wallet. Any dog knows that.

There was no way he was letting loose of the fuzzy. For what? So Big One here could put it out of reach?

The check out girl looked at me very quizzically as I lifted Fips up to the counter, possum firmly clenched in his mouth.

“He won’t let go,” I said, “we’ll have to run em both over the scanner.”

The girl looked at me and laughed. I held Fips over the scanner and she registered the tag.

Back on the floor, Fips led the way toward the truck, trotting out very determined and happy with his new acquisition.

Furry Christmas !

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Doxy Moxy

Once the rain had stopped, Fips and I went up to the “moun-tin”. We were ambling down the north fire road and reached the mini-mound in the clearing when I was suddenly seized with an Adventurous Idea. Why not strike out off the beaten path? Whaddya say Fipsie? Let’s go this way.

So off we trotted following the mere trace of a path through some sparsely spaced trees and fallen tree trunks on a slope. Fips followed along sprightly, hopping over broken branches, a tad uncertain as to where all of this was leading but enjoying the moist smell of soil, bark and humus.

In time, we came to a fork of sorts, evidencing that some trekkers had continued right and up while others hewed to the left and down. I turned left and within paces the hint of a trail turned into a cascade of rocks, as if some giant had simply let loose the contents of his wheel-barrow. I started down, keeping an eye on Fips as he figured and felt his way, rock-hoping after me as best he could, unmistakably determined.

What was he thinking ? “Snort! I knew this would be a dumb idea” ? I gave him little squeals of encouragement, as I watched him hop n' stop apprising each new situation and calculating the easiest way around or the best angle of jump. But soon the rocks turned to boulders. I turned and saw Fips at shoulder level staring down. “Wait-a-mini! Wait-a-mini, Fips. Hold on.” Once I figured where to put him, I lifted him into my arms, and trying not to loose my own balance, placed him on some smaller rocks the next level down.

Now the rocks got bigger and drops got deeper. There were fewer walk arounds, and I ended up playing human dog-lift. It also began to drizzle.

What was he thinking now? “Big One. Big Dope?”. But he stuck with me, if not out of loyalty, then out of the fact that big dope was also the only hope of getting out of this snortuation.

At long last we slid upon an intersecting trail -- Fips soggy and muddy; me sweating and wet. Fips shook himself and we picked up the pace and headed back for the truck.

The doxy has moxy; but dachshunds are not meant for rock climbing.

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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.

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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

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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.

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