Walking the Dog

Jones was skittish and balking tonight. I don’t know where he’d rather go or what he’s trying to avoid when he puts on the brakes and resists. This is one of those times when subtitles would be helpful. I was reminded of that scene in Little House in the Big Woods when Prince the dog wouldn’t let Aunt Eliza go to the well because there was a huge panther hidden there. She thought Prince had gone mad as dogs are wont to do, but she was sure grateful when she saw the footprints the next morning. What ghoulish perils was Jones trying to save us from? I didn’t give in, however, and instead provided the firm, visionary leadership required of tonight’s walk down the river path. Which, while full of impish atmosphere, was otherwise uneventful.

There we are walking along, kicking through the piles of leaves, enjoying the snap in the air finally, appreciating our fave sex advisor, whucka whucka, mundane walk past the bungalows, when all of a sudden, crime scene! CSI Springfield had two square blocks cordoned off with yellow tape and flashing squad cars. A blinding stadium-type light was set up to shine on a house at the corner of G and 8th, and officers with flashlights were peeking around under bushes. No guns were drawn or anything, but Something was clearly Up. We diverted down 7th to try to get closer, but were denied. Jones is a law-and-order type and he can appreciate a good show of force, but for me, it was unsettling.

These are troubled times, and perilous. There are comforts, however, such as the student crossing guard at Brattain Elementary in his bright orange vest and safety yellow flag branded with the word SCHOOL. Also the reliable dog that barks at us through the window at 5th and F. Protectors, both. I wanted to ask the crossing guard if I could take his picture, but then I realized how one could interpret that request as really creepy. What might I do with the photos? And the first grader who waits for her bus in front of my house. Jones has finally stopped barking at her, and I always say good morning in my best friendly adult way, but would it be inappropriate to, say, offer her candy appropriate to this holiday season? Make friends? But I would literally be a stranger with candy! She should continue to regard me with fear and suspicion, right?

There are things I say aloud to Jones that are, in truth, for the benefit of people who are hanging around, people who have a larger vocabulary than walk, hungry, and chewy thing. I say them to Jones as if he can understand, but really they are for the people who might take issue with our collective behavior at that moment. These include dude, skateboarding is not a crime, and I guess we do need a bike light, little dog, and say there, you do not own the sidewalk/dog park/couch. Also you know better than to steal toys and sorry pal, you just lost privileges. It’s a neighborly way of acknowledging how I fall short of the glory of excellent dog management, while not actually requiring me to do anything different.

I figure there is enough anxiety and effluvium in today’s modern society without the added distasteful details of my dog’s daily cat poop consumption. So I’ve decided to discontinue that feature of the doglog. His affection for it seems abundantly clear, and it seems safe to assume that he will continue to consume it at least 50% of the time. That said, a dog keeps one close to the essentials of our common animal existence: food, exercise, sleep, lovin’, fascination with death, excretions. For example, as we crossed the Parkway we encountered another of its victims, a flattened squirrel. I hoped Jones would remember his earlier dead squirrel encounter and realize he should stay the hell away from busy streets, but instead he picked it up to carry it home. I guess the squirrel was so flat, so far from its squirrelness, that it had become food-like to him, i.e., not scary & very necessary. And indeed, it did resemble jerky.

Halloween Horrors:

1. Fear that all these tents and chairs and hay bales mean another wedding is going to get us kicked out. (Relief; it’s just the Haunted Hayride.)

2. Tombstones erected to add atmosphere (Jack O. Lantern–Squashed Before His Time; Ima Spook; Skella Ton)

3. Ramona with the joolies.

4. A painfully thin woman walking vigorously, arms swinging, her emaciated legs barely visible through her baggy sweatpants.

5. A Lochmead Dairy half & half container-full-abandoned in the weeds, bloated like a corpse. Jones maneuvered it into his mouth and carried it all the way back down the hill, across Main Street, and through the neighborhood back home, where it was promptly treated like biohazard.

If I were a Romantic poet I might wax rhapsodic about lemony dogwoods among the stately plump doug firs skirted round with ferns and Oregon grape. About the rill trickling down a mossy bank into stone cups worn smooth with old time. About the froth and roar of the mighty McKenzie that bordered our path. Or perhaps the thrill set astir in one’s breast from the aromatic spice of these very woods. And all of that would be true; yea and verily. But also Jones paused to graze in the salad bar of fresh grass, and Ramona couldn’t seem to get out of the way when mountain bikers skidded past. I sang campfire songs. L. wondered why we didn’t bring lunch.

As often happens at the DP Lounge, the ingress was simultaneously serving as the egress, so we faced a little bottleneck. Jones really is a lover, not a fighter, but he does have some triggers that cause him to become a rageful shadow of himself. So when he started barking at the poor leashed dog just trying to get the hell out, L. engaged in some dog whisperin’ to show him who’s boss. Meanwhile, while I was hanging up our leashes on the fence, another exiting dog showed what I thought was interest in yours truly, but the owner set me straight: He doesn’t like people. So as soon as you move out of the way I can get him on the leash. Well, excuse me for being in a public place where both people and dogs tend to mingle. I think it’s clear who has a problem with people, dollface. Hmph.

Cat poop consumed: no

A morning for similes: The maple trees emerge from the fog like flaming sticks of cotton candy; our breath steams like smoke; it’s cold like wet towels on naked skin in a shivery basement; giant sunflowers hunch like hooded dementors. Otherwise, it was a utilitarian spin, not like a real walk, more like hanging laundry, like brushing teeth, me rushing around like a business traveler in prep to spend two and a half hours driving to the conference.

Cat poop consumed: no

One could interpret the political system in our household in a variety of ways: benevolent dictatorship (I am the decider but I try to be nice about it), socialist democracy (we’re all working toward the common good according to our individual strengths), totalitarian (it’s all up to me, pal, so be grateful for the scraps!), republic (I get input from Jones but ultimately I enact legislation chez nous). Jones cares deeply about property rights but also subscribes to the Marxist tenet of each-according-to-his-need-and-ability, e.g., I need that other dog’s squeaky hot dog and I can snatch it, therefore it is now mine. And of course the relational politics that play out as an ongoing push-pull of I want and You will. All of this went into the mix as we circled by the ballot drop box and I did my bit. Such a small gesture for such big big hopes.

Cat poop consumed: yes