Washburne Historic District, Springfield

One of the good things about having a dog is that you don’t have to worry about him becoming a grown up and finding himself irritated with my enthusiasm for the banal and the way I repeat the same questions again and again on a single walk through the neighborhood. It seems inevitable, the impatience I feel for my extremely well-intentioned mother–tonight at the mercy of Ramona–that will someday boomerang back to me from E. It’s part of the great circle of life that The Lion King neglected to cover.

Cat poop consumed: no

 

West D Street Greenway, Springfield

I found a giant mushroom–a red bulb with white spots–straight out of Tintin. Jones found a banana bread wrapper. Grandma found figs still edible from the tree on the corner. E. found zen calm from the vibration of the baby juggler. Ramona found toast.

Cat poop consumed: no

 

Kelly Butte, Springfield

It was a full-on Walking the Dog family parade, at least for the three blocks to the Bungalow Market. M. needed a Diet Coke so L. chaperoned her into the Bungalow and safely back home through Springfield’s mean streets. Grandma eased the baby juggler up and down curbs as if brain damage was imminent with anything more vigorous, while I wrangled the squirrelly dogs, disrupted by yet another shift in pack dynamics. We eased into the old familiar routine once we got to the base of the hill and started climbing, autumn splendor all round and spreading out in a rusty gold quilt o’er the valley up to the vista vista vista.

Cat poop consumed: yes

 

Autzen Dog Park, Eugene

Still not sure what Jones thinks about E. She is a bundle of new delicious smells, so there’s that, but it’s as if he already knows she’s a core member of the pack. Because after we unstrapped the feedbag and made our tardy way into the dog park, Jones raced toward us and jumped his highest circus dog jumps to confirm she was there. Then he wouldn’t leave us despite the friendly beagle’s overtures, and kept looking up at her in L.’s arms. One slow trip around the perimeter was all I was good for, though, and the prospect of no real walks for about six weeks is a drag for all interested parties, alas.

Cat poop consumed: no

 

Willamette River Path North, Eugene

Jennifer Lopez once described herself as having “a big life,” and I’ve puzzled over the meaning of this expression ever since. A lot of dancing and singing and being out and about with good hair? Having a team of people to manage it all? At this end of the river path one wonders if there is a relationship between the size of one’s dwelling and the size of one’s life. Is life really more fabulous with three sets of French doors and patio furniture that cost more than my car? My situation  seems to be inverted: my house used to feel too big for just me and Mr. Jones, and the size of my life could be described as small to medium by J. Lo’s standard (no line of fashion sportswear but good hair, mostly). Now we’re crowded comfortably together with Ramona, L. and many vinyl records, and soon another roommate will move in at the end of the month. Like Snoopy’s doghouse, we contain multitudes.

Cat poop consumed: no

 

West D St. Greenway, Springfield

To paraphrase Robert Frost, leashes make good neighbors. I do think every living spirit deserves to, you know, celebrate itself in its own special way and everything, but I have become a believer in the leash. And not just because my guy is a wanderer. A leash might have prevented the sad guy in the minivan from having to drive around this morning asking people if they’d seen a little white dog. And Charlie, the gallumphing sparkle fresh from an early fishing outing with his person, while perfectly charming and friendly, was also soaking wet and large and gallumphing. Ramona may not discriminate, but Jones and I would rather not have dog encounters forced upon us. Leashes provide a boundary which, in turn, allows for choice.

Cat poop consumed: no

 

Washburne Historic District, Springfield

A few years back when they were relevant, I read an article in one of those magazines about Sporty Spice vacationing on some tropical island. As soon as she arrived she did a vigorous workout to combat travel fatigue and jet lag. I was all, yeah right, but there were, like, pictures to prove it! It does seem counterintuitive to believe that exercising a weary body will infuse it with energy, but I just have to say that tonight when I was feeling tired and mopey and swoll’, a loop around the neighborhood perked me right up. And I even got a little upper body work done yanking Ramona away from cat poop.

Cat poop consumed: yes

 

Island Park, Springfield

My brilliant system for hands-free transport of my iPod nano in my feminine support garment has proven to be a poor choice, as it expired yesterday, drowned in perspiration. I’ve been meaning to wean myself off the podcast dependency I’ve developed and clear my head of the newsy clutter, but I’d hoped to get to it, you know, later, and with my iPod still intact. Now I’m forced to reorganize my mental feng shui and just be here now. Oh, the rain-fresh morning, oh the black-eyed susans. Oh, the warm poop in a plastic bag. Oh, the house for sale on the corner.

Cat poop consumed: no

 

Washburne Historic District, Springfield

Poor Jenna. She’s curious. She’s probably friendly. She has a mandate to patrol the perimeter. Her people let her hang in the yard without a collar. It’s only natural that she’d come over and check us out. This takes some time and care, so she didn’t respond immediately when her person demanded she get back in the house. We hustled past but not fast enough to mute the sounds of her cries when they punished her. Judge not lest ye be judged and everything, but come on.

Cat poop consumed: yes

 

Downtown, Springfield

The extremely skeezy Club 420 (a supposed reference to its address, not its guiding principle) lost its liquor license two weeks ago and there seems to be a domino effect happening downtown. The stalwart guns & ammo store has “closed until further notice.” Lifetime Ink has relocated its needles and naugahyde lounge furniture further down to 14th, one assumes so they can be closer to the inspired patrons of the the strip clubs that cluster there. Dancers A La Carte (serving all of your dancewear and erotic housecleaning needs) is also closeing [sic]. But if you still have needs there is a number to call in the window. And the strip club that tried to open across from the arts magnet high school has finally removed the Opening Soon! sign. I doubt that my colorful burg will ever really gentrify, i.e., open a dog treats bakery, but is it possible that vice and dissipation may give way inexorably to day spas, Jazzercise, and soul food?

Cat poop consumed: no