The Joy of a Happy Dog

The joy is mine alone; the wetness is their joy, the running in and out of the water, the occasional swim for the ball; the running up and down the beach. The small squabbles over whose turn it is to take possession of which ball.

"Mine," says Frida, and "mine" repeats Bob, snap, jaws on air, as feet pound the surf.

For the very first time, Frida goes out farther and gets to the stick first. Triumphant Frida.


Confused Babboo.

Happy dogs.

Joyful me.

Frida gets there first

I'm coming for the stick Frida!

Give me that stick!

It's mine Babboo

Babboo get his own ball, so all's well.

Poem about Dogs

Dogs are the hardest to write about because they are so fleet

And so fleeting

Their lives like burning embers with a wet nose

They make the worst metaphors because they are so real

And yet so ethereal

All at the same time

There are so many types of dogs

Some are trees

Some are stars

Some are just plain tired

Well you would be too after

Stressful chasing of squirrels you can never

 Ever catch, who taunt you

With their snarky cackle and small

Brains

You who are so smart, so open

To all things new and shiny and yet

So wary

Do you feel the bones within you beginning to rust

The fuzz that grows into your eyes

Do you remember the stories told

By dogs past

Of warnings given

Of lessons taught

This way danger

Big cats

Cars

Poison oak

Lassie’s in the well

And Timmy can never rescue her

It doesn’t stop you

And your hearts never break

Because we know all the things you don’t

And it doesn’t stop us either

Babboo preparing for Agility demonstration - A venture down memory lane

On the first go round of practice for the demonstration run we had volunteered for on the agility course at the Marin Humane society, Babboo did himself proud, veering off track only once for a detour over the A-Frame, which was not part of the course. This made the other participants laugh, but he was quickly drawn back on track and took all the jumps and tunnels like a pro.

His mom, me, was very proud of her boy too. At the end of the week, we were to be part of a demonstration of agility for the public at a special course set up just for the occasion as part of the Humane Society's promotional activities.

Other dogs with vastly more experience on the equipment (with owners with vastly more time on their hands and money to spend on training classes), did not fare so well.  Except for spunky little Poseidon, a Jack Russell, who was a leaping fool, and a fluffy Keeshoundish looking dog, whose prowess was first rate.

I recognized two of the ladies from the Intermediate class, in which I had attempted to enroll Babboo as he had already passed Agility 2 last year.  In the one class we attended, the older of the two with a rather overweight blonde Cocker looking mix complained to the instructor that Babboo was taking away from their precious time, as he needed a little extra help getting the knack of the “target,” the plastic cottage cheese container cap that marked the end of the narrow dog walking platform.  Babboo in his eagerness overshot the target time and again and had to be coaxed with treats to perfect the art.

Other than that, he tunneled and jumped with the best of them.  Better in my humble opinion, given his months away from the course, while these dogs’ parents bragged about their weekly instruction over the past year. 

Taking the hint that we weren’t wanted in this class of semi-pros, we dropped back to another Agility 2, taught by the same instructor and just as challenging.  Babboo aced his first class there, becoming a world class targeter.  There were pitfalls to this new skill, however, as he much preferred targeting for treats than tunneling or jumping for praise.  He’s a natural rooter, and should have been a truffle dog.  I could see him snarfing along through the loamy earth, turning up the prized tidbits (and probably scarfing them down before the humans could harvest them from his quick nose and snout). 

Babboo’s Achilles heel is treats dropped in the grass by handlers, myself included; his nose catches the whiff of a morsel deep in the turf, he he’s onto it fast, all lessons forgotten.  Luring him back to attention is my job, and not always easily accomplished.

So going into a group of dogs practicing for a demonstration of their skills for the public was a giant leap of faith on my part. On his second and third turns on the course, which had been opened up slightly for the ease of handlers who, despite their experience, got flustered over fast turns and short distances between hurdles, he pretty much bombed. More distance between jumps means more time for snurfing in the grass for goodies. More time for distractions, a passing road grader, a dog in the next field, a pee on the side of the tunnel to my horror, after making sure he had time to “go” between turns in the proper location.

And perhaps he was just plan bored. Mom, I did this already, give me something new.  His third round was pure disaster; he snurfed, he veered, he completely ignored the tunnel, which is usually his favorite trick.

Frida in agility

Other dogs to be fair did not do much better; the ladies from Intermediate got confused about what to do next, the older one had a hurt ankle and limped her way through the course, another’s refused the tunnel, and missed half the jumps altogether. Even brilliant Poseidon and Keeshound took detours.

This was our first go at it. Thursday we are back for more punishment.  We’ll see. Babboo may be a washout, or just an example of what not to do in your agility trials.  Either way, he’s a winner to me.

Update -  Babboo was ok on the field at the demonstration but soon thereafter, his boredom with all things agility finally won out, and we removed him from class. By that time, he had a sister, Frida, Queen Frida to you, who is now my ace agility dog. Babboo prefers the regal pose in chairs.

Queen Frida and her selective hearing

I once had a dog named Sammy, a beautiful, but kinda dumb blonde Golden Retriever. He was the gentlest dog I have ever known. He let kids, dogs, cats even crawl all over him. He raised our other dog Grover from a puppy, licking her clean when we brought her home from where she had been living with her littermates under a house on a nearby farm, and they slept curled together for months.

Later, he raised a black kitten named Jim Bundu, who used to suck on a tuft of his fur while kneading like crazy, then curl up and sleep in the nook of Sammy's protective armpit.

Sammy was the perfect dog except for his one fault. For years we thought he was deaf. On walks, we would call him back from where he was sniffing somewhere he oughtn't to have been, or try to find him when he was all cozy under the table to come and get brushed or go for a bath. Poor Sammy is deaf we said to everyone who came over to visit us.

One day, we discovered that when we mentioned the word "dinner" in a low tone of voice that didn't even make Grover budge, although she was right there in the same room, Sammy would come on run from where he had been lazing on the deck outside, looking expectantly up at us, tail awag. Hmmm. We experimented with other of his words, like "walk," "ball" and "treat" with the same result.

Nothing wrong with his ears at all. He had selective hearing. The ability (or the stubbornness) to tune out what he didn't want to hear, but to pick up on even a whisper of what he did. We were on to his bluff.

Not that it made any difference in behavior, not his anyway. As for us, instead of shouting over and over for him to "Come over here right now!", we just went and got him, clipping on the leash and all but dragging him away from the intriguing scents that were occupying his interest.

So it goes with Queen Frida. Normally, a quick "Here" followed by a slap on the thigh (my thigh) brings her around to where I want her to be. On the agility field, I can get her back immediately (or almost) when her attention wanders to a dropped treat in the grass, or a passing dog outside the fence. Not so on the trail.

There's a wonderful trail near here called the Bay Trail. It meanders along on the edge of the San Francisco Bay for miles. Dogs may go offleash on some portions of it. The water is to one side, with the San Rafael bridge stretching across to Richmond, the occasional passing boat, shore birds winging overhead, knowing enough not touch down where dogs and people abound.

But on the other side, a steep and unstable slope leads to a big field, probably protected wetlands, definitely off-limits to dogs. Critters live on the side of that cliff, not a tall one, but difficult for a human to traverse; I know; I've tried.. Lizards and ground squirrels and all manner of small hopping birds and insects use the scrubby grasses and dense brush as shelter..

Yesterday, Frida discovered the mother-lode of forbidden pleasure - rustling about among the grasses and underbrush in search of elusive small animals, whose chirps and scuttlings called to her. I called to her too, to no avail. I could picture her bounding across the field into the distance, me shouting and tromping after her, through much and mire.

But, for now at least, ignoring me all the time, she stayed close to the path, moving through the bushes; I caught glimpses of her white/red fur among the green/brown foliage. I stayed on the path, and kept moving forward, parallel to her frenzied route, until finally, finally! she burst back up ahead of me on the trail and turned in my direction. Naturally, I knelt down, my hands full of treats and called out cheerily, "Here, Frida, good girl, treats!" And she ran to me and gobbled the treats. I popped on the leash for the rest of the walk.

Frida on the run, on the beach, not the trail, but you get the picture

Selective hearing. It's a dog (and I understand, not having any) a teenager thing too.

Everybody loves Frida

Frida is my art dog. She's named for Frida Kahlo because she is a piece of art, and quirky. She's part ACD and part sight hound, we like to think Pharaoh Hound for her grace and regal bearing. She is swift. Her color is read and white, she has eyelashes of different colors and expressions for every mood. She is whimsical and needy. She has been a model for the Marin Clean Energy program (along with me. She stole the show.)

Frida and me modeling for Marin Clean Energy

She had her portrait painted by an artist who saw her picture on Facebook and couldn't resist.

Frida by Brenda Duke

My friend Joe Louis Wildman fell in love with her when he saw her picture on my page. (He has four dogs, he is a dog person, and maybe she says that to all the girls.) When Joe heard Frida was in the car last night at the Sonoma County Democratic crab feed, he asked to meet her. Of course the car was locked and my husband had the key, but he saw her through the window and said, "You know I'm in love with that dog."

Considering if she wants to keep going with this photo shoot

She is a beauty, smart and fast, and skittish.  She has no patience with foolishness. and shows it wit her expressive eyes.

Rolling her eyes

Dogs at the Beach

Dogs love the beach more than anything. Even if they don't swim. Frida hates the water. If she must get her dainty feet wet to retrieve a stick or ball, she waits until the tide brings it close enough to grab. Babboo is my swimmer. He goes way out after the ball; no other dogs can touch him.

Frida will chase him on dry land, or damp sand, as the case may be, but not into the water. He will hang onto the ball, though, not drop it at my feet so I can throw it back out for him to chase. Does he really think I would throw it for Frida? Only some of the time and she drops it every time a treat appears. so in this way, they take turns. Sort of.

Babboo heading into the water; Frida heading the other way

Different dogs, different dispositions

You've read about regal Queen Frida. Babboo is all dog. Boy dog. He lifts his leg high and proud, marking every tree in sight. If other dogs come along, his ears go on alert, and depending on his location, in the car, or on the street, he may leap about in a happy anticipation of a romp with a new best buddy or goes all Cujo. And if Frida is with him, it's more likely to be Cujo.

Not that they are best buddies, or he sees himself as her protector. He'd probably be happy not to see her at all. When she first came home, he hid under the bed. He tolerates her cuddling his back in the evenings, but he not a cuddle bunny. Frida on the other hand is the ultimate couch potato. A soft furry one with big eyes, who pleads every night to join Mom and Dad on the couch, while Babboo hunkers under the coffee table and lifts his lip when humans reach out for a pat.

Babboo will go on the couch when no one is around. During the night if he gets locked out of the bedroom. But join us and Frida? he'd rather snuggle with a porcupine.

Queen Frida

Queen Frida. At her regal best she could pass for Egyptian royalty or a Sphinx, she lies with long legs tucked up. Head held high, the barest twitch of wet nose signaling the subterfuge.  If I sit like this, the humans will admire me, exclaim on my beauty and maybe drop a morsel of that treat they are eating.

 

Usually Frida has no truck with subterfuge. She may have a regal bearing, but she can counter surf with the manliest of curs, dumpster dive with abandon and snatch a sandwich right of the hand of anyone who turns their attention away for an instant.

Unlike Egyptian queens of old, she is not subtle. I discuss Egyptian queens because with her tall slim speedy body, unlike the shorter, squatter Australian cattle dog line which shows I her speckled red fur and wide forehead, she could pass for the vaunted Pharaoh hound, a built for speed site hound, having nothing to do with Egyptian queens except in bearing.

The red heeler is obvious. But she neither heels nor herds, she scavenge, turn your head and the dinner pork chop is gone, the butter plate licked clean, even the napkins scrunched up on the after dinner table chewed to soggy bits at her feet. She savors the flavor but doesn't swallow, I don't think.

The only way to deter her inquisitive tongue from an exploration along the table edge while human dinner is underway is a rap on the skull, with a knuckle. Low voices, chiding remarks have no effect. Knuckles only work momentarily before the tongue is back.

Frida feels no guilt.  We could post a dozen pictures of her on the dog shaming site, and her expression would not vary, eyes pleading, tongue darting in and out, yum that was good, more please.

The Eyes Have it

 

Eyes on the prize, always

Burying Chopper

My friend's dog died. He was a good dog named Chopper who died way too soon. But that is Cindy's story. This is my story of burying Chopper and I'll tell it my own way. You don't need to know that all Cindy's dogs are named after motorcycles, just that the shed she keeps her tools along with her wine making equipment has a plaque like you'd find on some summer cottages, that says Cindy and Harley.

I'm in my office on a Saturday, considering the piles, and scrolling through Facebook. Cindy is looking for company when she buries Chopper, in a hole that is already dug, in a coffin that is like a foot locker only fuchsia colored. I see it on Facebook in the back of the truck her latest girlfriend gave her to get her to leave.

Cindy hasn't left yet, though. She plans the burial for 5 PM. "Sorry, can't make it," I type. Giants game, I am thinking. The husband. Dinner.

"Come where?" The directions to her ex's house in Sonoma have me envisioning woods, dirt roads, streets with no signs.

"You can google it."

"OK." I close the computer, leave the paper piles for another day and set out.

After just over a half hour on paved, well marked roads, I pull up to what looks like just another tract house at the end of the street.

Cindy is coming out the door, her phone in her hand, long hair whipping around her face and shoulders. "See it wasn't so hard to find."

When I met Cindy we were in Law School, the now defunct New College of San Francisco. Then housed in old Navy hospital on Fell. We bonded over dogs you might say when I learned her then girlfriend had the littermate to my Grover, a dog born under a house in Paradise Valley.

As an aside, these were two very dissimilar looking dogs. Each of that litter was different one from the next, Grover was the only one who was the spitting image of her father, Hitch, a large wolf-like beast, who was the progeny of a delicate Australian Shepard named Honey Bear and a large imposing full blooded Borzoi named Bagel. Grover was 90 pounds of blue merle  Her sister a delicate honey colored golden Labrador dog.

Cindy was a rogue, even then. It must have been her idea to sit with the seasoned lawyers in the jury boxes, where, hearts pounding, we watched the morning arraignments. How it worked in those days was if there was a conflict with the public defender, the judge would look to the jury boxes and pick out a lawyer to represent one of the defendants. This would be in multiple defendant trials. Soon Cindy and I were getting a fair share of the cases. Mostly drug sales and sometimes an assault from the Canal area, a densely packed part of the County peopled mostly with Latinos. This is not a racist remark. only a true statement.

Cindy took over the office next to mine in Larkspur over the Brown Realty.  She had big ideas, and plans for a booming practice in personal injury. She started in painting her walls, even though we'd already gotten notice that the space was being vacated by the main tenant and the landlady was seriously considering converting it into apartments.

When she finally did, I took other space and Cindy moved on I don't know where.

Naturally it was Facebook that reconnected us years later. And now here she was summoning me to witness the burial of Chopper.

I was halfway down Arnold Road before I went "Whoa, I think I am plying Ethel to her Lucy."

When I pulled up, she was texting in the driveway. "Is anyone else coming?" I ask.

Walter is coming, she said. Good, there will be a Fred. Then, "there's Chopper," pointing into the back of her truck, where a plastic wrapped container lies. Chopper was not a small dog. But this box diminishes him. I guess all coffins diminish those within. As does death itself.

"Worms and things are already eating him." Cindy is very matter of fact about such matters. She takes me out to the shed, to get the shovel, not the right kind of course, then back into the house, very un-tractlike inside. With fancy woodworking, stained glass and bright blue porcelain stand-alone bowl for a sink.

"There's no champagne, nothing to toast him with," she comes up empty. "We can go to a bar," I offer.

"Ok, let's go, Walter will be waiting. He's in the middle of a trial, and can't stay long."
Walter is nowhere to be seen. "He's lost in a vineyard," she grins. "He'll be here." She texts some more, then a car appears out of the dust of the dirt road we have taken into Cindy's ex's landscaping yard. We are parked beside a large hole, much bigger than any dog. Cindy got them to use the back hoe to dig out. Them I take it means the workers at the yard. A small vineyard is opposite the gravesite, some rose bushes at the end of it. We have brought roses from the yard back at the house., three for chopper and three for us to remember him by. I brought my camera; I knew it would be alright.

Walter gets out of his car, his shoes soft golden leather; he barely musses his crisp black and white striped shirt when he hugs Cindy. "I have to stay in contact with my investigator," he explains, punching buttons on his phone.

Cindy opens the tailgate. "let's slide him out," says Cindy; we each pull an end of the cardboard under the plastic wrapped coffin. It is wet and I think maybe some of what is inside leaked out, but there is no odor, and I figure it is just water.

The sky is broken in places, but not raining yet. Walter says, "let's do this," and we slide Chopper out, grappling with the box, first Walter on one end, Cindy and me on the other, then Cindy climbing into the hole, says, "Hand him to me."

I should tell you I am also wearing semi-good clothes, as burying a dog was not what I started out to do this morning. I started out at Democratic headquarters to photograph the GOTV crowd. But there wasn't much of a crowd, so I ate a half a sugar donut and photographed Ruth assembling walk-kits and Mike McGuire, the energizer bunny Senate candidate, doling out hugs.

Then to the office to straighten up a bit.

So I wasn't excited about climbing into a muddy hole. "It's not heavy," she insists demonstrating the lightness of her burden. Chopper was not a small dog. Is he really in there?

That he is surely in there is confirmed when Cindy leads Vincent, her "Fox Hound" who looks like a pit bull with a small rear end, over to say goodbye "And to let him know what happened to Chopper," she says, taking him right down into the hole.

"Cindy, I don't think he wants to be in there," I say. They both climb out. She puts Vincent back in the cab of the truck and returns with the roses. "Toss one in and keep one," she instructs. "And say something about Chopper. She starts. "Chopper was a good dog, a loyal dog, a warm dog, a good hunter."

Chopper tucked in his grave, we all take up shovels. Walter gives out first. "My back," he explains, going back to to his phone, "my trial."

Cindy is determined, her face wet with sweat mingling with the now serious drizzle that accompanies our efforts. I slow down. shoveling is hard work; I keep finding rocks or clumps of very hard dirt. This is not potting soil we are digging in.

"It's from the road crews," says Cindy. "When they're repairing the roads, or digging out a new one, or whatever they do, they bring the stuff here." Ugh.

"We better cover him well, or critters might, you know," I suggest.

"Do you think they might dig him up?"

"Well, let's not take any chances." Cindy throws in a few more shovels full. The skies crowd together above us. Walter says, "I really should go."

"Dotty thinks we should get a drink in honor of Chopper."

"Where?"

There happens to be a hotel with a western themed bar around the corner, named Saddles and appropriately so, because what you sit on are, you guessed it, saddles.

Well, they are not all saddles. We sit at a normal table, and order appetizers, white wine for me and Walter, something called a Lemon Brulee for Cindy, which some kind of vodka sugar lemon drink in a martini glass.

"Why are we in a western themed bar?" I wonder, as we toast Chopper and eat sausage stuffed mushrooms and quesadillas.

"Take home the extras," says Cindy, when I finally get up to leave, the skies having broken completely open by now.

Back at home, Frida helps herself to the rest of the quesadillas I foolishly leave on the counter when I go to hang up my soaken-wet jacket.

Very zen, very dog.

Two poops, one bag

Two dogs, Babboo and Frida, one walk, two poops, one bag. Very neat, very zen. My dogs

Blackie

My father set down the cardboard box he'd been carrying on the living room floor. My little brother, mom and I sat down on the rug, curious. "It's for you," said Dad to me and to Glenn. I could see black moving inside the box; between the folded flaps it looked to me like a raven. A raven! My father has brought me a raven.

I don't know how I knew the word raven at five years old, but I did. I was a only little disappointed when the box was opened and inside it was not a raven or any kind of bird, but a black puppy.

Blackie! Blackie must have been like all puppies, squirming and licking, and peeing. We children must have squealed with delight. I can't remember anything more about Blackie's puppyhood at all, except a vague understanding that it was not a good thing to have a dog in the house. My mother.

And it is good for the kids to have a dog. My dad.

Blackie had been part of a litter of some people my dad knew who lived "in the country." I don't remember knowing these people myself. But I knew my mom did not approve of these country people and their fecund dogs.

Blackie quickly moved outside to beyond the beyond. At the back of the long back yard. My dad built him a dog house with a flat roof and there he stayed for many years, tethered by a chain to a stake in the ground, a patch of dirt, with a water and food bowl.

Every night at 6 it was my job to take out the can of Rival dog food, and upend it into Blackie's bowl.

I don't remember it, but sometimes we must have taken Blackie out for walks, because after my mother died, I found a photograph of us with Blackie on a leash.

Once in a while, maybe twice a year, Blackie got to run free in the neighborhood. The general belief of everyone, including us kids, was that Blackie was a ferocious animal and could not be trusted on his own. Not like Chipper, the Cocker spaniel from across the street who would regularly come over to our yard and play with our black and white cat, Lary. They would run around and around the yard and end up curled together snoozing in the sun. Blackie lunged at the end of his chain, but surely he would bite the other animals, not to mention the children. And then there were fleas and gersm of all sorts associated with sleeping in the out of doors.

On those rare occasions Blackie was let loose, he would run at full tilt not just around the yard, which in itself was very large, stretching all the way to the woods that bordered the elementary school with Karl's Market and the Beer Store in between, but around and around the whole neighborhood, through all the yards, across the street, around and around, while I yelled at the top of my lungs, "Watch out. Blackie's looses. Watch out."

Eventually Blackie would tire and return to where my father and I waited for him. It's a miracle, I'd think, that he didn't run away. Thinking back, of course I understand why he didn't, wouldn't ever run away, even though he was left outside in all kinds of weather, his only shelter a wooden dog house set on bare earth. I think of Blackie at night when I can't sleep, my own two dogs snug in their beds beside us, and feel ashamed of the way we treated Blackie, how could  my mom have made a dog live like that? My mom, who later in life, became a dog lover, the biggest dog lover ever, when she could no loner live alone, who, because of heart disease and osteoporosis and diabetes, went to live with my sister and her husband and their who adored my sister's dogs, who lived in the house with them, who spent time on the furniture and were treated like beloved children. Did she too, feel ashamed of the way we treated Blackie? Was she ashamed, embarrassed by what could only have been fear, fear of the animal, fear of germs, teeth, and dark, doggy smells?

The cats came inside every night and when they didn't, I stayed up worrying. Tiger, my first cat fell down the old well in our basement behind some large piece of furniture pushed up against the opening to keep children from falling in. At least I assumed he fell in. In the morning he was back, and I was astonished that he survived. (I now think he was never in the well to begin with, or at any rate, he didn't "fall in"; if he was down there, he found his own way down, and found his own way back up again.)

But Blackie out in the winter snow and summer heat, year in and year out, eating a can of Rival dog food a day, never playing with other dogs, never seeing a vet, never chasing a ball, or a squirrel, it makes me profoundly sad. Who were these people, who would do that to a dog?

When Blackie came back from his run, he'd sit in the grass between my father and me, his tongue hanging out, a goofy grin on his mouth.These were Blackie's happiest moments.

Once Blackie was hailed as hero when a would-be burglar at Karl's Market was frightened off by his fierce night time bark.All this time we lived in a rented house, then my parents bought their own place with a smaller back yard but an upstairs. And we moved there with Blackie. His house was now out behind the garage. I was hitting teenagerhood and when I needed someone to talk to I'd go out there and sit on top of Blackie's doghouse with him. He seemed to understand.

But i was spending more time with girlfriends and obsessing about boys, and being generally irresponsible. One day, Blckie disappeared. When I asked my father what happened to him, he said there were too many complaints in this more populated neighborhood about his nighttime barking, so he had taken him to a farm. A farm? The same farm where he was born I thought. At least he'll have fewer people to complain about his barking. Maybe they'll even let him run around the barnyard, chase cats and sleep in the hay.

It wasn't until I was all grown up and beginning to feel guilty about Blackie's constrained life with us that it dawned on me what taking the dog to the farm usually means. I only hope in this case, it was the literal truth, and I try to think of Blackie running with other dogs and smiling his happy smile when he cuddled up with his new owners on the farm.