Walking the Dog

I have a hard time giving in to sloth and unreliability. It’s a fear of commitment, really. After sleeping in until 9, I decided I could pretend to be one of those people who skip out on work until midday claiming to be mysteriously ill in the morning. I tried. I refilled my teacup twice and read a new book while cozied up in my fave perch point. But I couldn’t quite relax. I fear the slippery slope, especially under the influence of the Edies. I can see how one lazy morning so easily becomes a house full of raccoons and unrealized hopes. Jones, himself a staunch fan of routine and vigorous exercise, prods me in the leg with his nose with a gentle persistence, like a guardian angel of the puritan work ethic. Two loads of laundry and one trip around the historic district later, I pulled into the campus bike rack right at noon.

Cat poop consumed: no

Was Mother Hubbard a busy career gal, trying to keep fit and doing her best to stay in touch with her friends? Should we really fault her if once in a while a kelp forest takes root in the upstairs toilet or the hydrangea wilts and fades for lack of water? She probably has some creative projects to work on, maybe a love interest. She’s pretty good about walking the dog since she knows how restless he can be at night if he doesn’t get enough exercise. She pays all her bills on time. So she spent the weekend going to potlucks and painting the kitchen. Who has time for the grocery store? So the cupboard is bare, should that define her–this inability to focus on the culinary needs of her small household? We’re told the poor dog had none, but dogs are pretty resourceful even when we try to make them dependent on us. I think it’s clear whose bias shows in this telling of DOG (Dog Owner Guilt). P.S. Jones and I both enjoyed a nutritious and well-balanced dinner today, if a bit late.

Cat poop consumed: no

Economic hope burns hot in the heart of downtown Springfield, where I was happy to see “Our Sewing Place”–the spot for communal crafting–up and going, a huge expansion of the arts magnetic school, and the strip club proudly claiming to be open for business soon, but not serving alcoholic beverages at the moment. Plus a new store for used baby stuff in the former jewelry store, and further down at 12th a new antiquey junk store next to the Gla-Mar Beauty Salon. El Trenecito was unexpectedly closed and I knew I couldn’t go home empty-handed, not with L. in full aesthetic imperative finishing the wainscoting in his underwear after brushing up against the freshly painted cabinets in the kitchen. I tied the dogs to a tree outside the taqueria at 5th to risk their carne asada burrito. Bullseye. Home improvement starts at home.

Cat poop consumed: yes

The hazelnut ranch hosted a wedding this afternoon and dogs weren’t invited, so we retrenched. How it had gotten to be 2:30 already was baffling, but the sun had burned off the morning fog and provided us a brilliant autumn day. Ramona and Jones were good citizens in the field, even when a couple of teenage boys blundered past on their bikes. That is, until they flushed out a pheasant from the tall grass. They’re just doing their job, but the bird was a little freaked out. Ramona, ever compliant, trundled away to keep up with us, but Jones lingered in the brush, certain there must be more where that one came from. Thus the term “dogged,” I suppose.

Cat poop consumed: no

The mist hung low this morning and frosted the spiderwebs into high relief, the kind of hyper-reality of a theme park, something so real looking you think it’s fake. We tried to pass through the cluster of kids waiting for the school bus on the Parkway but they came at Jones like a room full of clutching relatives. I do believe in the public service aspects of dog ownership, in that one should offer up one’s dog up for affection to the underprivileged, i.e., those without the love of a good dog, but among these grasping pre-teens Jones wasn’t having it. He skittered away and slipped out of his collar, then froze as if to say Oh fuck if I’m free these kids might get me.

Cat poop consumed: yes

I so appreciate when folks leave their curtains open at night so that curious dog walkers can see inside their houses. It’s like those wonderful dioramas at the natural history museum: And here is an example of a typical American home… The architectural jewel on the back side of the hill was all lit up, giving me an excellent view into the spacious and stylish living room behind the corrugated metal exterior. Even the house still under construction had the benefit of the streetlight to reveal newly sheetrocked walls and a ghostly staircase. The charming cottage, vacant and dark alas, is still for sale despite the large banner sign on the sidewalk: Photo’s and Info at thisurl.com (grr).

Cat poop consumed: yes and yes

With le mot du jour hanging heavy in the air, we set out toward Kelly Butte for a hill climb and distracting upliftment when a man and child crossed the street ahead of us. The man carried a large duffle bag and the kid was pulling a wheeled suitcase. Where were they headed? Away? Toward? They passed under the streetlight and hustled into the Bungalow Market, luggage and all, and I couldn’t help considering worst-case scenarios. As he is wont to do, Jones resisted once we passed the defunct Book Nook on the corner and I didn’t feel like fighting, so we circled back into the level streets of the historic district. Around 6th and B, Jones pursued his own recovery plan by retrieving an entire biscuit out of the hidden depths of an ivy hedge.

Cat poop consumed: no

There are some dogs that burst into the dog park with the unleashed (ahem, so to speak) exuberance of the recently paroled. They bound and gambol, greeting every other dog with a hey!buddy!c’mon!let’s!run! Jones is self-possessed and not given to these large emotional displays. Although he is an astute observer and willing butt-smeller, he is selective when it comes to deeper play engagement. The truth is, we’re more alike in this respect than I really like to acknowledge. What’s the big deal? Go play jeez get involved, but he circles on the periphery, smelling stuff, admiring the buttery glow on the grass in the setting sun, occasionally making eye contact, weaving through the other dog owners posed like an album cover-standing apart in the same area and all gazing in a different direction, but mostly content to do his own thing even in a setting designed for social interaction.

Cat poop consumed: no

Springfield has its charms despite its seedy reputation, and I am blessed with several great parks in my neighborhood. I also think the Bungalow Market is charming, as well, but in a much different way. Mostly because I like to say the word bungalow. I listened to NPR’s pop culture podcast as we looped around the ballfield and tennis courts then past the playground and thought about the vast and unwieldy catalog of Warner Brothers films I have never seen, my capacity for consuming information nonetheless, and how it is that the corn can get so damn high in the little community garden next to the apartments.

Cat poop consumed: no

The green down vest made its first showing of the season today, as Jones, Ramona and I set out in a misty rain for the loop down the bike path. I’m convinced that progressive Eugene has subsidized sunshine, and sure enough, as soon as we passed under the interstate and into the Eugene city limits, the sun busted through the clouds. We all wanted to go the extra 30 minutes through the field for some off-leash adventuring, but I had to make it back in time to meet L., held up in Cottage Grove to show the departing Swede Hearts the pix he took yesterday for their freshly produced album, so we could hustle to the 3:00 matinee.

Cat poop consumed: yes