Autzen Dog Park, Eugene

Once again, Ramona met the love of her life in a tiny Chihuahua job that willingly submitted to Ramona’s attentions. She likes to get them on the ground between her paws and just nose them around. It’s very gentle but she doesn’t let up. Eventually this guy tried to seek refuge between its person’s legs and Ramona sat there in front of them and barked: You. Must. Love. Me. Jones was jealous, used to having Ramona all to himself, and proceeded to hump her. She shook him off, besotted.

Cat poop consumed: no

 

Rosa Parks Path, Springfield

Is this truly a bona fide job now–holding a pizza shaped like a guitar at a busy intersection? And are these sign-holding gigs reflected in employment statistics? What is the return on investment, i.e., how many people are inspired by the guitar-shaped pizza and decide to turn right at Q St. for a stop at Little Caesars? The guy doing it does not seem demoralized. This is the guy with the kinetic sculpture bike made to look like a jet plane. The sign is slung from his shoulder like an actual guitar and he keeps up a steady rocking as the inexorable traffic flows by. My impulse is to say that this work is undignified, all the more so because it is so public. But maybe I’ve read too much Hemingway lately, because when we passed him on our way back down the path, I thought that perhaps whatever dignity we bring to a task endows it with honor in defiance of pathos.  Isn’t it pretty to think so?

Cat poop consumed: no

 

Half of Meadow Park, Springfield

The dogs already got a good walk earlier this afternoon up and around Kelly Butte, so this one was just a tune up, for us too, after an hour or so playing Scrabble down in the smoke at Jim’s Landing. I challenge you to incorporate as many of our words as you can, L. said, his tone like an axe slicing the bonnie night air. Are we really out of all alcohol, I asked, the need for it cutting a trough through me like teeth. How you dote on a glass of wine, L. said, leaning toward F St. The Bungalow is open until 10, and it’s only a quarter ’til. Let’s head over there and set our landing gear to set down on the Bungalow tumac. Um, tarmac? Despite my haze, I saw through his word torsion, and considered the meager sum in my pocket. With poise, I waited outside for L. to make the transaction, the dogs pre-empting the leer of loiterers.

 

Autzen Dog Park, Eugene

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

 

Washburne District, Springfield

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

 

Autzen Dog Park, Eugene

The dog park frequently illuminates the gender politics of dog ownership. Manchester Terrier Man was there today, someone I haven’t seen for a year or more, but still just as proud of his m.t. I have a particular interest in this breed since my guy shares a good deal of the same heritage, which helps explain some things. Manchester Terrier Man likes to tell anyone who will stand still about how his “uncut male” likes to fixate on a neutered male at the park, keep other dogs away from him, “and then the neutered male becomes his bitch for the day,” at which point the pronouns change. Jones and this dog–Merlin (“because he’s a little magical”)–started to play a little which produced an alarming yelpy bark from Merlin. “He cries like a little girl,” the owner called over to me. Seems Merlin underwent some futuristic surgery to preserve his balls while erasing his actual fertility, thus maintaining the studliness of Manchester Terrier Man.

Cat poop consumed: no

 

Autzen Dog Park, Eugene

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

 

Downtown, Springfield

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

 

Downtown, Cottage Grove

Does Miss Lonelyhearts have to end the way it does, with the shooting cum tumble down the stairs? Such a muted catharsis. L. and I discussed various other possibilities and inevitabilities of someone so empathic and saturated with the misery of Sick-of-it-all and Desperate-with-tubercular-husband. He represents hope and redemption for his readers, but he knows he’s not up to it, even with his Christ complex. We walked past the burned down barn next to the feed store and across the swinging bridge, wondering how to convey all this on film, L. so deep in it that he didn’t notice the yard sale until we were practically right in the middle of it. How much money do you have, baby? he asked, now deep in a crate of old records, Ramona trailing her leash and headed for the yard implements.

Cat poop consumed: no

 

Autzen Dog Park, Eugene

We drove to the dog park across from Autzen Stadium for the lazy-person’s-high-value-dog-exercise experience. Driving to the dog park also allows me a trip to Trader Joe’s, and I was out of soymilk not to mention raisins. Once inside the fence we were immediately surrounded by three other variations on the black and tan theme: two mini dobermans (dobermen?) and a chubby little something that may have been something remotely rat terrier-ish. Jones is often mistaken for a min-pin but seeing those two high-strung guys with the pointy ears next to him, well, it’s clear he’s something different, and his beagley bits make him much cuter. Emma was there too, and Jones is always so happy to see Emma’s person because she once gave him snacks and plus she usually has great toys that Jones likes to run away with. I talked to my mom on the phone as I meandered around the path, which made this a doubly dual purpose walk. She took a long hike today with a friend but she couldn’t remember where despite my promptings with the usual suspects: Bishop Pass? Humphrey’s Basin? Pine Creek? Rock Creek? Something out of Mammoth? “No, none of those, I don’t think… it’s that one where you drive up to 10,000 feet and start hiking from there” like that narrows it down. She was pretty tired but still, it concerns me.

Cat poop consumed: no