Tug

So, Tug came to visit today. He healed down the walk in on a porch like he owned the place. Kathy saw gun first -- it seems like she always sees him first -- and called out, "Tug's here!" Without Emma, Tug is somewhat less swirly. He came in, and swirled around the place, but at a slower pace. He has a good memory for food, and a great nose. He went looking everywhere he ever had treats, and he tried to paw on anyplace that there were treats. He will sit on command, and sits in trembling anticipation for his treats. He did this on the linoleum floor, and trembled so hard he ended up sliding backwards across its slick surface.

After Tug had some treats, Kathy got one of Oz's old toys, but for Ozma really have never taken to much. It's a largish ball, about the size of a grapefruit, with a built-in cloth handle strap. She threw it for him a few times in the house anyone galloping around. Then, because he seemed to want it, we opened the back sliding door and Kathy started throwing it out in the yard. He brought back to me more often, perhaps because Bob (his owner) throws the ball for them at home. However, he was perfectly willing for Kathy to throw the ball form. We threw a bunch of times and he went sprinting afterwards. After a while, he seemed ready to go. Not anxious really, but ready. So I got my shoes on and filled my pockets with treats. I then walked him home, a walk I'd taken several hundred times with Ozma. Tug was happy as could be. He stayed near me well, pretty near me, near enough. He would come near me so bumping up against it by then swung off to the side of the street to smell something, or to have been muddy water. Then he'd come back, greet me again, maybe nuzzle my hand. Then he went to the other side of the street, where there was more money water to be rolled in. Now, Ozma love the lake. She loved creeks. She loved her little pool. But she only got in mud puddles when it was really really hot there was no other water. Tug doesn't seem to make a distinction. The lower his jaws in the mud like a moose or a duck peeking up a mouthful of self-loathing and drain out of the corner of his jowls. He looks exceptionally silly, and I can imagine keeping a house clean with him in it.

Kathy seems to be getting attached to him. (She's always liked him, and often says we should steal him.) She gets possessive, and wonders if he likes her. He does, more than just about any human outside his family. She gives him treats and makes him welcome. She's happy to see him. What more could a dog want?Greg

The Visitors

So, we had visitors several times over the holidays. To be specific, Tug and Emma have come to visit several times since that first visit. It's gotten to be a normal routine, as well as pretty comical. They just show up. They swirl around on the front porch, waiting to be let in. They are expected; they know that it's allowed.

One of the times that they came, Lisa's dog Bailey was here. I call him Little Fox because he's well little, and fluffy alert and quick. He's very sharp, very smart. However, he matches out at about 20 pounds. Emma is sixtysomething pounds, and half pit bull. Tug is all Labrador, but easily 75 pounds, and super strong. They're just teenage thugs. Tug is like having a jock around, one who doesn't know it's not okay to throw you into the school lockers.

In any case, Bailey went crazy when they were there. He was whining and yipping, and running around trying to get the. Maybe we were overprotective, but we didn't let our visitors in. Instead, I ran them home. Incidentally, they expect this.

I know that they come to be patted, to swirl around the house a look for Ozma, and then I'll take them home. They come with me at least two reasons. First, I run with them. We run together like a big dog pack. I call out, "Come on, Tug," and swing my arm like a swimmer for diving into the surf or some froth of battle. And run gallops after me. Emma that comes to, but more gracefully. They know it's a kind of adventure. I play with them, I rumple them, I push Emma in the snow, and I pushed run around. Now the second reason they come is that I was bring treats. I'm not subtle, and they know that the treats come with. So we run, and when Tug seems to be getting distracted, will lure them back with a treat.

The last time we went down to take them back, Jackson, the other dog, was out. Jackson loves me and I don't get to see him very often anymore. He sort of squinted from a block away then came running towards us working like a big fool.( Jackson weighs 100 pounds.) He ran up to me and sat on my feet repented rolling his head back against me. He's like 100 pound lap cat. So, I showed up on Julie's porch with three big dogs one of them barking all of them swirling all of them wanting treats, all of them wanting in.

Emma still looks for Ozma, I think she always will. Tug, now, Tug seems to have accepted the new state of affairs. That too is sad.

You Got a Puppy!

So, Jon's friend Lisa had some family troubles, and came to spend Christmas with us. This meant her little dog Bailey came with us. I've been calling him Little Fox, since he is so sharp-eyed, quick, and fluffy.

Around mid-day on Christmas, due to restlessness and a desire to get some physical activity in on a day of eating, I took Little Fox for a walk. It wasn't a long one—just the Ted Edwards loop, which is a mile and about a quarter. It was tough for him in spots, because, while the snow is melting, there is still about eight inches or so on the ground, with drifts of over a foot and plow piles of two+ feet. This meant a lot of leaping, but since he can essentially hover, that's fine.

The walk was largely without incident—no accidents, no threatening strange dogs, etc.—but also without the pure joy of a W with Oz. What was striking was that we ran into one couple and one man who I'd regularly seen with Oz.

The couple's face lit up. "Look's like you've got a new friend," the husband called, and they grew more guarded when I told them it was just a friend's dog who was visiting. The guy who lives down the street was more direct, calling "You got a puppy!" I said no, it was just a visitor. He repeated, "You got a puppy," and came over to rumple Bailey's light and silky fur.

When I'd returned Emma the other day, Sandy had commented on how they'd seen me with my new puppy, and how happy they'd been. I blinked, and then asked if it was a brown and white dog. When she said yes, I realized it was Ruben. She was chatting about how she'd told Julie, and how happy they were, and…I finally got it straightened out.

I got it straightened out, but I'm again surprised at how happy people are for me, that I have another dog. It's like they see me as incomplete, or, more simply, unhappy without Oz. They are happy for me.

Greg

The Pack Comes For A Visit

Yesterday, around noon, I was headed outside to clean the ice off the porch. As it happens, just send Lily and e-mail and their human came walking by. I went out to say hi, and to play with Dino, ha ha to play with Lily, and found that there was an unexpected treat there. Tug and Emma had followed along. They were going along the side and with Lily and Dino, sometimes playing with Lily sometimes just running along with, leaping over the snow.

When I got out into the street, where I would be visible to the dogs, I called them. Dino didn't come right away, but the rest of them came running, came sprinting, came leaping over the snow in great furry draining bounds.

I haven't seen Emma since the Sunday before Ozma died. Emma loves Ozma, loves her with the intensity of early imprint. Remember, we met Emma when she was just a meatloaf. I hadn't seen Emma in two months, well more now, but she was insanely happy to see me, jumping up on me, licking me, but always looking around me for Ozma.

Now Tug has seen me since, has seen me without Ozma. However, once he was with Emma, it was like he thought they had spent a special chance, a better chance to find Ozma. They ran past me, sprinting up the snowy driveway and onto the porch. Kathy opened door and let them in. I followed more slowly.

When I got inside, they were being petted, being made welcome, but they had a mission. It was a mission that had to fail. You see, they were looking for Ozma. They swirled around like great white sharks, except they're both so dark and richly colored that that's a bad image. During continuous motion look treats looking for low looking for Ozma.

We fed them, that I took them back outside. We met up with Lily and Dino and their human, and I walked back with them playing with the puppies the whole time. I called myself their dead mother. I'm the one who hovers a little bit, making sure fights to get too rough. I also get out the treats. It was, as I think I said, a bittersweet afternoon. They are so happy, and treat me like, well, one of the pack. They expect me to play, they, my call, they rub up against me. They accept me completely. But let me put it another way of cars, they let me break up fights. They follow me home when they have to go. Well, that worked better if I have a pocketful of treats, but they do follow.

But they aren't Ozma, they look for Ozma, and Oz would've loved it. She loved Lily, she loved Emma, she loves Tug, and she loved making her pack larger that was what was happening yesterday -- Emma and Tug packing up with Lily, taking turns being the dog in front, being the dog in charge, well not in charge but the dog initiating play.

Ozma should've been there, and everybody except maybe Dino knew it. Merry Christmas.

The Fade

One place we walked, there was a rock and many dogs pissed on it. I learned this because Ozma smelled that rock, smelled it over and over. However even on with my puny human senses could figure it out eventually. One day we must've gotten there just after another dog; they were still traces of wet on the top of the rock. If we been there 10 minutes later, they would have been invisible.

In many ways, my memories of Ozma are like that piss. Crude, yes, but that's me. What I mean by that is there was a time when the memories and the pain really fresh. Anyone, even a human, could see the markings. However, with time they've gone invisible. Your table to smell the pain, smelled memories, nor to realize they're there. You have to have subtler senses to realize the loss of love. Of course, now that I've said that, I'm flooded with memories. It's like once I catch scent of something, the whole history comes back. I'm thinking of a walk, half a dozen, a dozen, more than a dozen walks, all in fragments all at once I'm thinking the time we saw the pagan architects. The spiral built out of sticks. When thinking of the time we swim in the lake, and got buzzed by a bald eagle. The thinking of the last time we went swimming with a stick. When Ozma would try and try to get it in her mouth and she caught it once and she spent it back once, then twice, always chewing always replacing and always shifting it, try to find a place where it was comfortable and not bleeding. I'm thinking of the time we chased rabbits, the time we chased a great blue heron the time we chased cats are arms and paws and leashes outstretched to make one great wide organism running to attack a terrified cat – I left it a place to escape, I didn't really want to catch it -- the time Ozma and I was rolled on the bank and she got a fish hook in her, and we had to walk us back frantic that her was hurt and it was my fault.

For all these memories are like dog markings on the rock, waiting for a nose to realize them, waiting for someone who can smell to be able to know that they're there.

And right now, everything is covered with snow.
That's all.

More snow, more dogs.

We had more snow yesterday. There's something close to a foot sitting in Bellingham right now. Yesterday, Jon and Zack went into town to see how things were. I got them to take me with them in the truck. It really handles well in the snow. I wouldn't want it; I would hate to drive it. However in the snow, it's really useful.

In any case we went in and I went to the Y they went to the grocery store. On the way home, we had just turned onto Oriental Avenue when I saw Lily and her human. I had John slowdown in the world on the window. Lily! I called out. Lily came towards me. It had been two months since I'd seen her. However that meant nothing to her. I don't know what people talk about when I say dogs have no memory. It seems insane. Lily was happy to see me; Lily jumped the sound of my voice recognizing it before did. I gave her a good rumple, and had to keep her from joining us in the truck right then. However, once we're home I get everything out of the car, I headed back for real visit.

Lily and Ozma are sisters under the for. The first time in that they both went to the deep play bow --deep deep bending till their front bellies touched the ground and their jaws were almost flat to. And they jumped up and Lily cocked her head to the side, her usual first play move. Lily spun in circle which was her usual first play move. Ozma launched for Lily's legs; Lily jumped in a circle, bouncing off my thighs like a pinball. Then the chase began.

In any case, I explained to Lily, and was hospitalized, and why she wasn't there. I got choked up again, of course, but that wasn't the real surprise. The real surprise was how moved everyone else has been. I know I keep saying it, but it's still true.

So sympathetic, making suggestions for how to get over the loss of the dog. It seems like everyone carries around these furry wounds in their heart. If they get this way over dogs, how must it be your people? Or maybe they really do love their dogs more.

I've been thinking about trying to be more methodical about this -- this blog about Ozma. This story, this remembering, this homage.

I guess I'd say my relationship with Ozma fell into four categories category one: I don't know you. During this time hospital was an alien thing a kind of living toy for person I didn't know. Category two: I get to know her. This is the time of the early on W.'s. Category three the real W's. C tegory four: Ozma gets sick. Category five: after her death. The endless W.

Upon reflection, I guess I'd compress category two and three for ease of reference. It was more of a gradual spectrum of any kind of firm delineation there. I'll start trying to address these different categories tomorrow.

In any case, Ozma would love the snow. That's all.

Greg

More Snow, and a Realization

More Snow, and a Realization

It snowed again today. It's dark now, so it might still be snowing. The prediction was 4 to 7 inches, and that comes on top of the three, four, 5 inches from the other day. So call it three and five for a total of eight. It's enough snow you could hide a small dog in.

Bellingham isn't really set up for this kind of snow. There are some hills throughout the town, and its snowplows are too infrequent. Actually, I'll take that back. The city does a pretty good job considering it's a town in the Pacific Northwest. However, the drivers do not. To be specific, they panic a bit. They forget to signal in the snow, and they speed up, following too close.

In any case, when Kathy and I see the snow, one of the most obvious thoughts is Ozma would love this. Especially now with the backyard fence, she would've had a blast. She always did. She was rollicking snow dog, and we went up hills down hills around trails and through the woods. It was one of the many times when we moved off in a children's book or fairytale land. I remember one time we walked down the road in sudden valley, I didn't realize that there were deer nearby. They stood up and moved away, and when they did, I could see the five or six little brown patches, ovals where their bodies had been pressed against the grass, melting the snow.

I don't know what also moving around to hear. I've seen dear tracks, of course, and a number of bird tracks. . However, what with the snowfall in the way it is I'm not sure if the small animal tracks are squirrel raccoon. We've seen both, the squirrels are far more common.

When I started thinking about borrowing Ruben, I wondered: would Ozma be jealous? Would she care?

Immediately the answer came, and came clearly. Ozma would care, but she would not be jealous. By that I mean, she was a sharing dog. She loved Ruben. She loved humans. She loved people; she loved animals. Since she is always with me, with us, there would be no jealousy. In fact, except for an occasional time when she thought she wasn't getting petted enough, she didn't really understand the meaning of the word. What she wanted was everybody in a big puppy pile. Everybody shares. Everybody plays. Everybody rubs. Everybody feeds her.

So, I will borrow Rubin. It won't be Ozma but it's a member of her pack.

Outside, everything is quiet, everything is white. And all is softened by the snow.

Greg

Snow and Stories (from 12/14/2008)

Earlier today, I looked out the window and saw Ruben and his humans playing in the snow. I ran downstairs and got my Crocs, then ran outside. But a time I was there, they were slightly out of sight behind a tree. I ran two more steps, then called Rubén! He looked around looking for me. He. What's more, he knows the great call, the call of his name, the call of welcome. Once he found me, he started jumping up and down until his humans let him loose.. He came sprinting at me through the snow scrabbling around, jumping up on my legs.

I was rubbing him and rubbing his ears, telling them he was a good dog, a wiggly dog claiming him and calling him.

When his humans got here, they said as they always do, boy, he really loves you. They went on to say that as he's gotten older he hasn't liked everyone is met; he's growled of some people, even barked at some people. This amazed me. I looked down he was rolling on my feet, eating snow, writing ice, rubbing his snout against my toes.

Ruben not friendly? This is ridiculous so I said, well, I think he just thinks part of the same pack. They nodded and smiled and agreed, but when I think about it I think I was right. I think he met us as a puppy. I think he meant me in the presence of Oz. Oz never understands that people were dog sometimes aren't pack members, or it already friends, weren't already playmates. Because she assumed this, it often became that way. So Rubin met us when Oz was still wiggly, he was wiggly and when I was giving him the great call: RRRRuben! This meant that we would sometimes make a two dog one-person puppy pile. Everyone wiggling everyone embracing. Because of this even though it's been two months since I've seen Rubin is gotten a lot taller, a lot older -- he's essentially an adult dog now -- were still start part of the same pack.

He doesn't see any reason for separation between us, and neither do I. Today's big news: they said I could borrow crazy boy as they called Ruben..

I asked him three times if they meant it. They said yes.
It's like Christmas.
Greg

Vulnerability

One of the ways that Ozma changed me was to make me more vulnerable. Well, to make Kathy and I more vulnerable. Apparently, the other day there was a news story, a CNN story, about a dog that left outside in the Midwestern states. His owners had left them outside for something like 12 hours, and his coat had frozen to the ground. Kathy started crying over this, unable to face the thought of the dog being left so neglected, so unloved, that someone would let it freeze to the ground.

I too find myself more vulnerable, but more in interpersonal or interspecies interactions. That is to say, I more vulnerable I'm actually talking to a dog, or when I see a dog than I am to the idea of a dog. This means it's hard for me to go to the library, because the homeless man who hang out there sometimes that their dogs outside. The dogs are attentive, patient, and don't usually suffer. If anything, they suffer boredom. However, once the while it will be raining and the wind will be blowing. The day is simply chilly. On those days, the dogs look from person to person, longing for someone to take them, to be with them, to welcome them back to the pack. That's when I feel vulnerable.
Greg

I Still Run Into People

I still run into people who knew me through Oz. Not many, because my routine has changed so much. I simply don't go many of the places I used to go with Oz. However, there are some people I still see. And some people will have their own routines. For example, they come out walking their dogs, when I'm getting things out of the car.

These people always know that something's happened, because well, it had to. We walked by them every day, sometimes three or five times a day, and then we didn't. It just stopped.

I'm serious. There are places while houses that are same block away. Oz and I used to walk several 5-10 minute walks, well, say 10 minute walks, so she could pee. We'd do these about three times a day. This was in addition to the big W.

If someone lived within the range of the short walks they really see us, well, 3, 4, 5 times a day. So, to go from five times a day to, say, zero ellipses well, that's a big jump. In any case, they know they ask about her quietly… hesitantly. Some of them raised one hand, as if to pat me on the shoulder. If they are walking their dogs, they look at their dogs. Sometimes they calldogs to them, so they can pat them on the side. They feel the wind that blows without her.

And then, when asked, I tell them. I tell them how we fought to keep us alive, and how closely monitored her through that last month. We didn't want her to suffer, but we didn't want to kill her before her time. Putting her to sleep when she still had life and joy -- that would've been wrong. So I tell them. I told him how we fed her for the last few weeks. Howard took longer and longer until it took an hour a day just to future. How the tumor grew in her mouth until eating became more effortful. All the signs were she could he went from greedy dog big yes I'll take that hamburger, to normal size bytes to polite bites to teeny tiny ridiculous little fragments. By the end even the hard chocolate -- ha! That's a laugh. Even the chocolate on the edge of a Reese's Cup was too much for her. It was too stiff to rasp to get past that damn tumor.

Oz was also tired at the end. The vet told us she had been anemic. I didn't know she was anemic. All I knew was, walks took five minutes to get to a house might take 20 home. In fact, last Sunday service with us, that's exactly what happened. She insisted on seeing her friends, who live five minutes walk away. We got there, and she played with them, briefly but joyously. Then we turn to go. We walked one yard's width, maybe two. And then we would rest. And then I would guide on us up slowly onto her feet would rock another 2 yards. One time I cross the street. That's all they did. Then she had to lay down. The thing was, the thing that broke my heart, she was so happy to be there, happy to be with me, have you suck up the sun.

I'm choking up now, and it shouldn't surprise me. We still miss her.





Greg

Whole New Social Group

One of the things Oz did for me is change my circle of friends. In fact, I'd have to say she gave me a whole new social group. She did this in three ways.
The obvious way is that I met a lot of people while we were walking. That's nice, but it isn't revolutionary. I'm a pretty friendly guy; I meet a lot of people anyway.

The second way is change my interaction with people is through making me an event. As I said, I'm friendly -- but I'm not an event. On the other hand, Ozma was. She was an event for several reasons. And in several ways. First she assumed that we were already friends. At the same time there was a joy of discovery so that the old and the new came together at once. It was like she would say, "Hey! Look who's here!"

Sometimes she even mentioning, as if to say, "Don't you recognize them?"

And so, going along with things, I do like I did. And that meant more lively interaction. Joking, instead of just chatting.

However, the main way past change my social circle is through, well, putting me on a different level, an old level. To put it bluntly, when you have a dog, or a dog has you, you are immediately and intimately interwoven with three groups: people with dogs, dogs (and all other animals), and little kids.

What does this mean practically? Well it means when a Great Dane ran flopping Scooby Doo like across the street yesterday, running right for my car, my first thought was not hey there might be an accident, but I should go play with him. In fact, I kept the car stop otherwise, because I assumed that there would be other dogs running along after him. Why not? That's the way it's been for the past few years.

Ozma and I did things like race little kids home from the bus stop, greet senior citizens in wheelchairs were being helped out of band's – Oz would like their forearms gently, somehow where the she really shouldn't be written very active -- and stop by to see if any other dogs were available to come out to play. Sometimes, this took bizarre twists. We've taken more than one dog on a walk with us without meaning to. In fact, we've taken one dog run through the woods going on a mile-long loop as a kind of extended pack.

Little kids talk to adults casually, the little kids talk to guys with friendly friendly friendly dogs more than casually. They talk to them like they're living in amusement park rides, or clowns that don't scare them, or free pizza.

I like being an event. I miss my dog friends.



Greg

Wasting Time?

I've often had trouble getting enough time to post here, but for the first time today, I felt a kind of restlessness regarding this blog: like I was wasting my time.

I don't know. I still miss Oz. I still think our exploits would make a great book, and that people would like to hear about them. But…restless.

I'll share a specific for today, and then go on. Out in Sudden Valley, we started our W's on the road, walking on pavement, or, when cars came, in the roadside ditches and brush. However, there were a lot of woods, some parks, and a host of trails that we often went on. The closest trail was about 7-8 minutes away; the closest park around 12-15.

One of the times we hit a park, we followed a trail as it wound through it, then went off so Oz could explore the tiny creek. She waded along, then decided she wanted to cross. Well, it was a narrow creek, but I'm not much of a jumper. I gave a heroic squat-leap!

The other side of the creek was pure loose mud under the moss. It gave way under my shoes, and I slid…well, judging by the skid marks I left behind, I slid about two feet. I also fell to my hands and knees, dropping the leash in the process.

Oz thought this was the best thing since sliced kibble. Before I could pull my face out of the mud—did I mention my nose hit the mud—she was there, licking me, down in a low "Let's play!" squat and barking.

It was like she was saying, "Finally! You just figured out that four legs and mud are more fun!" We had a little wrestle, with me rubbing her over the grass, and then I eventually learned how to stand upright again.


Greg

Contact, Dominance

Kathy is reading bunches of books on dogs recently. Some of it is openly as a way of mourning Oz. Other books, though, are on things like dog training, and, specifically, on adopting dogs.

I've dipped into a few of them, and will be looking at more, and have been stunned by what I've learned, and, again, by how fortunate we were. For example, while many of the books suggest patting or stroking your dog as part of a reward and reinforcement, one book noted that contact wasn't a natural thing for dogs, and they had to learn it.

Huh. I never would have known that. Oz was, among other things, often in contact with us. Oh, she liked sitting in the sun, and rolling in the grass, and digging in the dirt—but she loved being in contact with us as well. In fact, when she slept under my desk, she often made sure she had some tiny part in contact—her muzzle on my toes, one paw on one ankle, etc.

I was also struck by the frequent mentions of pack leader issues: who will lead, you or your dog? What often seemed to be the case with Oz was a mutuality: let's go here!

Greg

Ghosts and Echoes

Jon is still close to his ex-girlfriend Lisa. She came to visit over Thanksgiving, arriving late in the day on Thanksgiving to stay overnight for Black Friday shopping the next. She brought her little dog Bailey with her.
Bailey is…well, I'm going to show my ignorance of dog breeds here. Bailey is small and fluffy, like a fox, but runs like he has some border collie in him. He's very cute, and, if I have to admit it, smarter than Oz was. He's like a hummingbird of a dog—zip, zip, etc.

Bailey visited a few times while Oz was still with us. The first time, they played, but Bailey also seemed to be caught up in fear and turf wars; he tried to bite Oz more than once. The second time, they played like old pals, and ran around the back yard over and over, swirling through bushes and weeds and grass. That's more amazing than it sounds, since Bailey is less than a year old and Oz was a) 12, b) post-leg surgery, and c) carrying around a tumor that would kill her in another month.

In any case, Bailey stayed with us while Lisa and Jon went shopping. It was an education. We played with him, and I walked him. He is, as I said, bright. I could sometimes fool Oz with a fake throw of a ball or toy. Bailey can always tell.

But there little warmth to him; he's cute, but not loving. There's also little connection. When we went for a walk, the leash stayed dead: a thing, not a lifeline. After Oz, the leash came alive when I walked Tug, Baby, Jackson, Emma…not Bailey.

I'm still learning, and I guess still looking for Oz's shadow in every dog.

Greg

Sherry on the Street

So, I ran into Sherry on the street corner today. It was a classic meeting, actually. I was coming one way, she was coming another, and two women—one walking a rather spritely basset hound and one a kind of bright-eyed collie-like friend—from the other two directions. We all ran into one another at the corner. The dogs tangled their leashes nicely, I saw Sherry, and then we were talking to one another, and to the collie-ish pup.

Sherry was Oz's dog sitter, and builds her life around dogs. She thinks nothing of having a house full of dogs, and grills chicken for her dogs literally every night.

I filled her in on Oz's last days, and she let me know one of her dogs had torn an ligament. She was pricing surgeries, and trying to decide…and the first five minutes, the black and white hound was pressing up against me, cuddling in against my legs, and, for reasons known only to dogs, smelling my keys. A few gentle licks landed on my chin.

It was nice, but kind of like…well, not getting what you want. He was a fine dog, and I was happy to charm and shelter him, but…yeah.

Greg

Changes, Changes

I started this blog because I wanted to share the stories of my wonderful W's with Oz. I came back to it because we've lost her, and I wanted to remember her. One of the things that’s common to both of these is change.

What was amazing about the W's is how they changed my world. I like to think I'm both open-minded and original in my thinking…but I fall into routines like anyone else. I move from point A to point B with a purpose, and that means I cut out the rest of the world that doesn't serve this purpose. I wear blinders, almost literally. Driving makes it worse. I take the same routes, much like others, because they are the fastest/most direct routes.

Well. With the pup we didn't do any of that. Oh, we had purposes, but they were varied, spontaneous, and visceral. That is to say, if we ___ a ____ that ____ good, we ___ after/toward it.

If we saw a duck that looked good, we swam after it.

If we smelled a path that looked fun, we pushed through the woods towards it.

If we heard a cat that sounded friendly, we meandered that way, even if it meant going around a corner.And so on.

And what's more, the world changes. Apparently, it changes even from morning to noon, with new smells, new tastes, etc. After a while I got so I'd spot some of these, even if they weren't the ones Oz was tracking. Hey, the sun's now making that spider web glisten! Hey, that flower that was half-closed is open now!

Hey!


Greg

Stealing Tug

So, for whatever reason, I was missing not just Oz yesterday, but Oz's friends. I got accustomed to going for W's in order to see these specific dogs. So…yesterday I went to see Jackson. I filled my pockets with bones and walked his way. However, I had forgotten that since it was a Sunday, his younger pack member Tug might be off leash. (He's usually not because he's so young and ready to run.)

I called Jacks once from three houses away—and Tug burst out of his garage like a cartoon race horse. Everything was flopping and he was insanely eager to see me. He skidded to a stop, big paws at my toes, nose on my ankles, hands, then in the left pocket left pocket left pocket HEY!

I got him back and down and pulled out the bag o treats. He sat immediately, if not neatly. (No one sits neatly with paws that size.)

Tug always acts starved. He's not. He gets fed well, gets real bones from the butcher, and can scam the neighbors half the time. But he does a good "God, I haven't eaten in days!" scam. When he catches a biscuit in mid-air, his jaws make an audible snapping sound.

So, I fed him for a while, then tried to take him home…only to find that his kids were on the front lawn crying (normal family squabble). But that meant that I either had to intrude on that or sneak away. I tried to sneak away…and Tug came with me.

I led him as far back as I could without getting involved. He came with. I gestured him on. He suddenly doesn't speak English. Or gesture. I try to sneak away. He's with me. I go back. He's with me. I gesture, miming throwing a biscuit. He fixed on the hand, and besides, knows there are more in the pocket.

He kept trying to lead me back to my house (he doesn't know Oz is gone) or into the woods, where we had a good run one time with Oz. Finally a neighbor helped us out, taking Tug home, but it was so tempting. And I have to say, he was being…understandably bad. Go home…to crying kids and being tied up? Or come with me, for W and maybe a run and the rest of the treats? Hmm. I know which one I'd choose.

Greg

They Don't Know

One of the bizarre advantages I had as an assistant dog was my nearly absolute ignorance. I really knew nothing about dogs. The first time we stopped so she could eat grass, I was baffled. When someone nearby called out, "Eating grass, huh? Well, you know what that means!"

Actually, I didn't. That meant when Oz finished with the grass, plopped down on her tail, and vomited, I was horrified. Dear god, what's wrong!

Apparently, nothing. Apparently, people who know dogs know that they sometimes eat grass to calm an upset stomach—and that they throw it up again. Who would have known?

What this meant, though, was that I was in a continual state of discovery. I never knew if they were dog things or Oz things. I would just make a little note: Oz doesn't mind the leash. Oz loves water, but hates slippery rocks. And so on.

One thing I noticed, though, was how poorly people who think they understand their dogs understand their dogs. To be blunt, they don't know jack about them.

I remember one time we were walking along a road in Sudden Valley. A door opened, and a woman came out with two large-ish dogs on leashes. We were just getting to that yard, and were on that side of the road. Oz wanted to say hi, but we didn't know the dogs, so I asked, "Should we cross the street?"

"Oh no," she said. "They're always friendly."

At that point, they both leapt at Oz, snarling. When they couldn't get to her, they looped back around their "owner," so that the woman's arms were folded around herself and she was essentially tied up with their leashes. They started dragging her toward us, but slowly, due to all the confusion. We left.

They're always friendly.

Riiight.

The First Dance

I mentioned the dance on the trail. It was the biggest dance, but it wasn't the first. The first dance came on a local walk in Sudden Valley. We'd walked uphill and across the flats, and were starting to wind down the curves of Sudden Valley Drive. We turned right into one of the many cul de sacs that mark the development, Indian Hills Road.

They were building new houses along Indian Hills. Now, Oz loved new construction. I was never fully sure why. Some of it seemed to be for purely doggy reasons: the new smells. Other parts, though, seemed Oz specific. She seemed to get a kick of returning to the new house day after day, seeing the house change under her paws.

So, when we saw building, we went to explore. As usual, we divided the labor. Her job was to smell; mine was to watch for nails and other pointy things. However, rather than pulling me into the house, which was largely framed, she pulled me to the steam shovel in the driveway. The day before, the driveway had been a flat dry spot. Now it was dug up and roughed in, and the steam shovel was clearly responsible. Half a load of dirt and rock still sat in its scoop, which was turned knuckle down to the earth like the hand of a giant ape. Oz pulled; we went to see it. Oz smelled all over the scoop, then walked back and forth under the bent arm, pulling me with her, bending and grumbling as I knocked my head on the rivets.

Then, as soon as we went back and forth a few times, she stopped and did her dance. Oz twirled in circles, reared up on her hind legs, threw herself diagonally, and lapped the air in pure joy. Oh, we went on—the treads of a steam shovel are covered with good smelly dirt, and the garage had new piping piled in one corner—but the steam shovel was clearly the highlight of the W. Why it pleased her so much to walk under construction equipment, I'll never know, but it was like being in Mike Mulligan's steam engine for a moment.

Ah!

The Greatest W Ever

Oz and I shared many great Ws. We had adventure Ws, pack Ws, exploration Ws, lick the baby Ws, etc. However, if I had to identify Oz's favorite W ever, it would be the deer trail walk.

We were still living in Sudden Valley. We had several routes we took fairly often. In one we'd go down to the bottom of the hill and turn left. We'd be on a fairly main road for Sudden Valley, but we'd turn off frequently onto side roads, depending on which one looked fun, which one we hadn't been on for a while, etc.

Many of these side roads ended in cul de sacs. Others came to explicit dead ends. This one sort of trailed off. The road ended, then there was just a bit of gravel, then a wide trail went on for about two yard lengths, then it narrowed to a game trail. There were no signs, but I'd guess they had planned to expand the road that way, then reconsidered.

In any case, we often went down this road, because that narrowing of the road led to some interesting places to explore. Many deer used the game trail, and there were often smells. However, we had never taken the game trail because it curved around the side of the hill, winding up hill and out of sight into the brush.

For the most part, that was fine. It meant Oz and I would weave through the bushes, under some low branches, and over a fallen tree, and go until the trail essentially vanished. Then we'd turn around and go back. No problem.

One day, however, Oz wanted to go on. This happened sometimes, and I never knew why. Perhaps the deer smell was fresh. Perhaps she just wanted to explore. Both happened. She pulled…and I gave in.

It was a gooey adventure. The trail vanished to the eye for a while, but was still visible to the nose…judging by the actions of my faithful companion. I know it was a game trail and not a human trail by the narrowness and irregularity. It wound around as the hill got steeper and steeper, until Oz and I were both sliding sideways down the hill from time to time. Our right paws were covered with mud, and my right shoe was twisting on my feet from all the sideways pressure. I doubt any other dog had even been on this trail, it was so much work. It was a deer only route.

Then it happened. There, on the side of the hill, Oz stopped going uphill and just started jumping up and down, a little dog dance of joy. She was wiggling, and kind of biting the air, and throwing herself from side to side (aiee!). Only the leash kept her from falling to, if not her death, at least serious injury. And she didn't care. There was something about being the first people on that trail that just filled her with joy, so much joy that she had to stop and dance right there in the mud and the shrubs.

And then we went on.

The First Lake W

I was a bit concerned when we moved into town. I wanted to, for my sake—the only thing the Sudden Valley location had going for it was the woods and wild W's. The roads were actually kind of dangerous at times, since they had no shoulder, no sidewalk, and at times blind curves. We jumped into countless ditches to keep from getting clipped.

Before we moved, Kathy and I did a lot of searching: where would the walking occur? We chose our current house for a lot of reasons, but one was that it was near good walk spots. The first night after we moved in, I decided to break Oz in. We got the leash, headed right, down the street, left on Euclid and toward Lakeway. We crossed and went on. Oz was happy enough, but then, Oz was a happy dog. I was trying to get a sense of if the park that we'd seen on the map was real, if there was an entrance, okay, there's nothing but trees on this side, how the heck do we get in? There!

A kind of muddy entrance way led to a trail. A trail led into the woods. The trail forked…and we followed the left fork to the lake. That first time, we walked there, because we were just in exploration mode. We were Going Someplace New, but not someplace specific yet. But Oz got to wade in the water that first night, and to scare a big flock of ducks, and she came back happy. How happy?

The next night, we headed out on our W…and she led me right, left, straight…and on to the park. When we got to the park, it wasn't "Which trail should we take?" It was "How fast can we get there?" We didn't walk, in other words. We ran, to a target of ducks and waves.

A new home.

The First Stick

From our old house in Sudden Valley, it was about 5 minutes walk up to Sudden Valley Drive. From there, it was about 2-3 minutes more up hill and around a corner to a little dead end street. No big deal, right?Well, it wasn't, at least until I figured out that what looked like a road that hadn't been finished (there, behind the dead end sign) was actually a paved walking trail. We snuck up, afraid that we were on private property (meaning, I was afraid), and went down the trail. A whole new area! Trails! More streets! No traffic!

We walked that route for some time before I notice one of the road side markers was different from the others, and more time still before I bent my head under the low hanging branches to check out why. There we found some older wooden steps. We tried them…they led to a "secret" pathway along a creek.
Oz was in Oz heaven. Exploring things, but also, water! She plunged in to the little creek, splashing around, biting the water, etc. I watched for a while, but honestly, I got a little bored. I picked up a stick and started waving it around…and all of a sudden Oz was crouching and growling.

"Jesus!" I said. I dropped the stick.
Oz picked it up, shook it back and forth to break its neck, and started biting and tearing it. She took it into the water, the better to kill it. She put a paw on the body of the stick, and tore her head sideways, as if ripping the head of the stick clear off. Then she let the pieces drop to spin in idle circles in the creek.

She slapped her paws on the water and barked. What's that Lassie? Timmy's in trouble? Screw Timmy! I want the stick! It was the first time I had seen Oz be so demanding, so aggressive, so mock violent. I checked to make sure I understood. I picked up another stick, but before I could ask "You want this?" she had already clamped down on it and started gnawing. Hell, yes, I want that.
Gnar!

The Celebrity Dog

Just as people say that you don't know what you got till it's gone (or maybe they sing that…), so you don't know what you have if it is the only one of its kind you've experienced. That was the case with me and Oz. At first, I just didn't know that people were paying special attention to her because she was special.

Let me make it clear: Oz was not a genius dog. I've met some pretty smart dogs. I met one dog down in Arizona whose owners couldn't say "Walk" around him, because he figured out what that meant. So they spelled it out. He figured that out.

They switched to Spanish. He figured that out.

They switched to spelling in Spanish. He figured that out.

At that point, the humans just accepted that their dog was always going to know what was going on, and moved forward from there. Oz's talents lay in other area, specifically joy and friendship.

When the little girls down the street started stopping their games to run up and pet Oz, I thought it was because they were so happy to see a dog. It took me months to realize they had a dog of their own in the back yard. They were running for Oz.

It should have been a clue, though, when the folks were standing up on their second story balcony having a beer and the wife said, "There's that wonderful dog. She's got such a charming face." And Oz pranced a little.

It was brought home, though, when Kathy and I went couch shopping. We were looking for something nice, but also something that would clean up pretty well. One of the saleswomen helping us said, "Aren't you the guy who walks Oz?" I blinked. She lived just a mile or so away, at a corner we always turned on some of the long W's. We chatted, and she pointed us to a couch that she noted would match Oz. That's confirmation: when the salespeople who don't know your name can match the color of your dog's fur, your dog is the celebrity, not you.

Greg

The Evolution of W

It really didn't take long for Oz to get back in training, and to move from panting a bit after 20+ minutes to wanting to Energizer bunny through the world: let's keep going, and going and going…

It took me a bit longer to become adventurous. Part of this was the location. Kathy had chosen the house out in Sudden Valley before we were together. I moved in not having really explored or investigated the community. As a result, I didn't have a good sense of how amazingly large it was, or that there were so many trails leading off the roads.

I also had only had dogs in my life when I was ten or younger, and when we were living in the country. That meant I didn't realize people expected you to clean up after your dog. In fact, I'd always thought people were a bit silly and overly fastidious, carrying poop bags around everywhere. Are you serious?

Apparently, they were. One time we went down a side street and Oz pooped on the gravel near the side of the road. The next day when we walked past, there was a cardboard sign asking people to pick up their dogs' poop. That was us. We did that.

In any case, there were these trails. I didn't know about them, so we were comically hesitant at first. We'd go a little ways down a trail, then I'd get concerned we were on private property and turn around. A day or two later I'd look at the trail again, and realize it really looks like it sees a lot of traffic, and we'd go a bit farther, and so on. Eventually, we got to the next stage: we go so far on the trail that we're hopelessly lost, and have to backtrack.

The roads in Sudden Valley bend, split, and change names so often that this happened on roads too. I'd end up reasoning through which yard gnome we'd seen before, which swing set we'd passed, etc.

What I didn't realize, though, was how as we were exploring the world, we were also marking it—becoming local minor celebrities, in our way. Well, at least Oz was.

Greg

From w to W

When I met Oz—right up until the last weeks, actually—she had great energy. She was an exceedingly playful dog. She loved to chase, to hide, to play tug of war, etc. In fact, those she was unfailingly loving about it, at times she'd get kind of tiring. It was almost a cliché: it's the end of the day, and I just want to sit down, but there's this jazzy dog running here and there and…yeah.

Well, Kathy took to watching The Dog Whisperer. Some of the shows were impressive, some were kind of crazy (you have how many dogs?), etc. Along the way, Cesar mentioned more than once that an unruly dog was usually acting up because he just didn't get enough exercise, and prescribed at least 45 minutes of walking a day.

Slowly the light dawned. I took Oz out morning, noon, afternoon, and night to pee, but we just did a few minutes walk. Maybe, I reasoned with ponderous stupidity, if she got longer walks she'd be more well-behaved in the evening.

Well, duh.

I can still remember the first W. We went up hill, like we usually did. We got to the flats, and to Sudden Valley Drive, where we usually turned around. That was five minutes there, five minutes back. Tonight, though, we crossed the street. We went up mysterious road beyond, and down the hill we hadn't ever crossed before. There were great houses, and odd side streets, and a park!

We didn't go more than 30 minutes total that night—probably 25-27, actually—but Oz was panting. That night she slept.

We'd won, but at what price? You see, Oz was a "We always…" dog, as in, when you do something once with her, she changed that to "We always do x" (play chase, sit here, share the hamburger, etc.). We got a happy, sleepy evening dog, but we also created a monster of W.

Greg

Hanging Up the Leash

I screwed a hook into the wall of my office yesterday, over in the corner. Then I hung Ozma's leash on it.

This leash has been through…well, let me look at it. It has knots in it, from when the boys would take Oz outside while they were working on their cars. They'd tie the leash to a post, so she could be there with them.

The leash has mud on it, from all of our many, many swims. It's ground into the fabric of the leash now.
And the leash is dark with dried blood at more than one place. The blood came from Oz's stubborn love. She liked to grab the leash in her mouth and run with it, so I'd come along. She kept doing this right up till the end, even when the tumor got so large that she couldn't eat. She'd clamp down on the leash and take a leap forward, then cut back to a kind of trot. We'd job along until she could get the leash situated very far forward (pressing against the canines), or very far back, almost closing off her throat.

I tried not letting her bite the leash. It saddened and confused her, and she'd bite it anyway, chasing it around my body till she could get it.

She didn't like the taste of blood. If we hit a hard bump and the leash pulled tight, abrading the tumor, she'd bleed a bit, and I'd see her licking and tasting around it. But she loved the leash, loved me, and loved the sense of connection she seemed to get from biting the leash.

When folks would see us like that, they'd call out something like "Hey! Are you walking her, or is she walking you?" We got that in a dozen neighborhoods, from a score of people. I always answered something like "Well, we're still trying to decide that."We still are. The leash is waiting.

Greg

connection

If I had to put my finger on the strangest thing I've learned through Oz's death, it's a recognition of how important a feeling of connection is, and how rare.

I felt connected to Oz. I still do (more on that later). However, I don't feel connected to most people. I don't dislike them, but there are people I've known for years with whom I've never felt the connection I felt with Oz.

Greg

Telling Friends

A couple of days ago I walked over to tell Ozma's dog friends what had happened. It felt very weird walking up there. I'd walked that five minute walk literally hundreds of times, but the only time I'd ever walked it alone was after returning a stray dog to his home.

People speak of phantom limbs. I felt a phantom leash that day, tugging at my hand in a gentle ghostly fashion.

When I got to two houses away, Jackson came running, barking like crazy. He wanted his treats, so I reached into my pockets and got him some bones. After he'd eaten five of them, and slobberstained my sleeve looking for more, he settled in for some loving. I petted him like crazy, and told him what had happened. I thought about stealing him.

There was no magical moment in which Jacks acted like he understood. I just petted him and longed for my puppy.

Greg

Traces and Reminders

I went to the vet's yesterday, to pick up Ozma's ashes. It was a relief to realize that they were so different from her that it wasn't painful. It wasn't anything, really, to pick up the box containing the little urn. However, while I was there they brought a dog out from the back rooms where they do the serious procedures.
The dog was older, and long-haired, and moving kind of slowly. As the tech brought him out, she explained that the signs had been a false alarm—that the condition they'd thought the dog had cleared up on its own, and they didn't need surgery. About that time, the dog caught sight of his human, and he dropped about half his age. He started jumping around and biting the leash, and I was suddenly crying and jealous.

When I got home, I was getting everything out of the car and I saw T. J. and Chris walking down the street. T. J. is a nice guy—younger, married, with a kid just old enough to go on his first trick or treat last night…barely. Chris is a loving butterball of a chocolate lab--and one of the best trained dogs I've ever met. When Oz and I would walk past their yard, if T.J. wasn't out, Chris, who was lying in the grass without leash or fence, would wag, and even look longingly at the door which led to T. J., but would never leave the yard alone.

And, true to form, yesterday I saw them and said, "Hi. Hi, Chris!" Chris squinted at me, then looked up at T.J. for permission. T. J. gave it, and Chris came bounding over to get his butt scratched. As his dog was loping over, T.J. called, "How's Oz?"

And I had to explain. And about cried in the street. And it goes on and on.

Greg

Our First W

In recent weeks I've had reason to think back on our first W. Before Kathy and I got together, everyone took turns walking Oz. Kathy did it sometimes, Jon did, Zach did (her sons), and Beth did.

However, when we started dating, Zach was the one who was around the house most often. Kathy would ask him to take Oz out and he would agree. And then he would stay hypnotized, staring at his computer screen, chatting, gaming, etc. And Oz would wait patiently by the door. Well, patiently at first. Then she'd start to whimper, just a little. Then she'd whimper more, and shift around a little. Some of the time Kathy would ask Zach again. He'd agree, sure, no problem. And then he'd sit until she screamed at him, and, eventually, he'd give in.

One evening Oz was starting to whimper and Zach was in his "Sure, no problem, right away" loop. Kathy asked if I would mind taking Oz out for a walk."Um…okay. I'm not very good at it, though." I've always been a cat person. The idea of controlling or restraining an animal was pretty foreign to me.

"Oh, no problem. She's a good dog. The leash is over there."

I found it, and Oz immediately started bounding around, left, right, ha! Then Kathy said, "Sit," and she did, even though she was vibrating. Kathy showed me how to clip the leash on, which I probably could have figured out, but hey, and then we walked outside. It was evening, and apparently the coming night smelled delicious!

We zigged and zagged and squatted and peed, and, looking back, I think Oz knew pretty early that she had a live one. I never knew why we went from the near side of the street to the ditch at the far side, but I was game. And then we went back. When Oz stopped to smell, I'd sort of stare at her. Do I pull? Coax? What's too hard? I'd pull about enough to dent a marshmallow. Nope, not enough. (Not only was it not enough to get Oz to move, I'm not sure she noticed.)

Eventually she moved on, and so did I. No adventure that first W, and no real response on my part except a low level confusion and a relief that I got through it without losing the dog. Whew!

Greg

The Story, in a Nutshell

Back in spring, Kathy and I took Oz to the vet's for a check up. She had fully healed from her leg surgery, and charmed everyone at the vet's. She actually gets announced. I open the door, and one or more of the women behind the counter puts on this deep/fake bass voice and pronounces "It's OZ-MA," except with a long "o." Then they all applaud, and my puppy takes her proper place in a circle of petting. And I'm choking up now.

Anyway, the vet visit went well except that Kim (the vet) noticed that Oz had lost a tooth. We were properly mortified. Had we given her too much hard food? Indulged her bone fondness too much? But we got no answers, and, except for watching her once we got her home, mostly forgot it.

Over the next few weeks, that gum started looking a bit larger, just a little. Kind of swollen, but not crazy. We thought, hmm. Maybe she's chewing on the spot where the tooth used to be, yes?No. Time passed, and the gum kept swelling. Finally, in late May, I took Oz in to the vet. Kim took one look and said, "Oh, now that does not look good." She kept telling Oz how wonderful she was, and petting, and so on, while getting a tissue sample and sketching out the possibilities. Basically, they reduced to a) something unknown, b) abscess, or c) cancer.

If cancer, there were three types that were most likely: a) one they have a vaccine for, b) one that grows slowly, and c) one that grows at lightning speed and is always deadly.

When the news came back, the results were c) and c): Oz had an osteosarcoma in the left jawbone. Average prognosis: 1-3 months of life after diagnosis.

We got four months. Oz had a golden summer, and didn't always know why she was getting so many treats. She didn't fall into a bad way until the final month, and even then, things only got really bad at the very end. They did get bad, though, and tiring.

We had some hopes along the way, and I'll say more about those, but mostly, life got really unfair for our puppy and to our puppy.

Sigh.

Greg

My First W

I took my first W last night.

Scratch that.

I took my first W alone last night. It was only the length of two houses, and I cried a little, but I expected that. You see, it was the first W I'd taken since my puppy died.

I stopped updating this blog when Oz got diagnosed with cancer. I tried a bunch of times to write about what was going on, but it seemed wrong, somehow. It seemed selfish and off to write about what was going on instead of doing it. Now, though…now that my puppy is gone, I feel like I've been through a lot, and I want to share some of it.

So. I took my first W last night. I walked very slowly, like Oz did at the end, and I only went as far as she could go the night before she died, which was the width of two yards. After that she had to stop and rest. She lay down in the middle of the road, right on the yellow lines, resting on her side and panting. When she was finally ready to walk again, we came back. The wide of one yard. Then she had to rest again.

I got her one more yard's length after another 3-5 minute lay down, and then managed to get her back to our property through jazzing her up—talking about seeing Kathy, about getting a drink, and so on. That last nighttime walk was about two minutes of healthy Oz walking time. It took us at least 20 minutes.

Last night, I just crept along and cried. I didn't lay down in the street, though some of her places, I plan to. I miss her so bad. I miss her, and I miss her dog friends and all of our places. That was my first W.
Greg

Hope, Knowledge, and Sadness.

A few weeks ago, Julie moved south to go to school, taking E-M-M-A with her. As a practical matter, this simplifies things greatly. Emma was a loving linebacker of a dog, and I don't have to worry as much about her snapping one of Oz's legs or biting her bloody. (Lest these seem overprotective, both have happened. When Oz's leg was marginal, Emma hit her so hard Oz couldn't walk on it, and at least three different dogs have been left with bloody snouts from Emma, one that got infected, producing a trip to the vet.) This means we can W up that road without fear. That should be good, right?

On the down side, Emma is Oz's favorite. Or make that Oz's Favorite Dog In The WORLD!

This means that that every time we walk near there, Oz smells the grass. She stares at the empty kennel out back; she stares at the garage she used to visit E in. When the garage door's open, she's sure that means Emma is back. But no.

This requires coaxing, but at that, it's still better than Sammy. Sammy (or Sammy!) is Oz's cat friend. Or rather, Sammy was Oz's cat friend. We haven't seen Sammy for a month, and I fear the worst. Sammy was a strange and wonderful cat. He come running across three yards to rub against Oz. I'm great with cats, but he'd go to Oz first, me second. He was fearless, loving, and fond of Oz.

And he was also old and creaky. And the cul-de-sac where he lives. Lived. Lives. Anyway. His house is right next to a huge tract of woods, where coyotes still run. He had full run to come and go—his humans left the garage door open about six inches for him—and I'm afraid he's just left.

But Oz doesn't know. Oz just knows that this is Sammy's house. Oz leads me to the garage door. To the truck Sammy used to sleep on. To the bush he liked. To the turned over garbage can Sammy had once used as a sunbed. And repeat the cycle. Oz stares at me, waiting for me to meow Sammy forth. When I do meow, she stares at the garage, waiting.

Jesus.

Who's in charge here?

I was always a cat person. In fact, when my sister learned that Oz, who had been Kathy's dog, had essentially adopted me, she turned to Kathy and said, "What have you done to my brother!"

I had a couple of dogs growing up, but we lived on the outskirts of the country, and they could be let run in the fields by the house. In other words, I had never walked a dog, except for some clumsy attempts to help my dad when I was home.

They were clumsy because I'm not very good at being in charge of things. I cooperate well, and I've got initiative up the wazoo, but I had giving orders. That includes to animals. The result has been an interesting walking style. I guide Oz by getting her to associate me with all things good: W's, swimming, visiting other dogs, cats, etc.

This has resulted in a division of labor. I'm in charge of security, which means handling cars and aggressive dogs. She's in charge of friendly greetings. We split the route selection. When we're on the road, we have standard routes, and whatever looks best that day, that's where we go. When we're in the woods, we alternate. She sometimes guides us by smell. I sometimes guide us by eye.

This sounds very haphazard, but it works. I usually keep one finger on the leash. I don't care if we weave or stop, so long as we don't get hit by cars or accidentally threaten other walkers. She's happy to go about anywhere so long as we're outside, and since we both like visiting her dog friends, we got along fine.

Greg

Dances With Squirrels

Dances With Squirrels

Remember that Kevin Costner movie Dances With Wolves?

Well, the last two mornings, our W's have been defined by Dances With Squirrels.

The first morning, we were walking along a fence when we realized there was a squirrel on the other side. It was one of those fences with two rows of slats, so you can peek through and see glimpses of light. The squirrel was on one side; we were on the other. Oz started following it, and it moved directly sideways from board to board…which made it look like it was doing jazz hands in the air. This got Oz more and more excited, until the squirrel leapt directly backwards, turning in midair to grab a tree trunk. Yeah!

This morning, we were walking and we passed under the power cable that crosses one of the roads near the house. There was a squirrel on it, and he reached the midpoint just as we went underneath. Oz saw him, and for once, one of the sky squirrels saw Oz. He froze, then turned around, apparently deciding he was safer if he went back.

So we followed, slicing diagonally across the road.

He saw we were following, and turned around.

We followed.

He saw us, and turned around.

We…you get the idea. This was repeated 12-14 times, until Oz was leaping in the air and the squirrel was frenzied beyond belief. He finally made a break for it, ran to the end of the cable, and leapt onto a branch. He then sat there cussing at us and slashing the air with his little claws for…well, let's just say he was still cussing when we got too far away to hear him.

Dances With Squirrels

I'm With the Ministry

As a teen, I loved Monty Python. (Of course, now that I’m an adult, I love Monty Python.) One of their classic skits was John Cleese in the Ministry of Silly Walks, in which the British government gave grants to people who, well, walked in distinctive and markedly silly ways.

Sometimes Oz and I qualify.

The other day, it was really nice—sunny, and much warmer than it had been—so we went to Oz's favorite park. We chased squirrels (both of us), sniffed butts (just her), and had a good time.

At one point, we were walking by the duck pond. Oz decided she wanted to go in, but there is a strong current (over a dam) and some ducks she might chase too close, so I kept her on leash. The result? She went in the pond anyway, and I walked her from the bank. Judging from the looks on people's faces, it is surprising to see a leash vanishing into a bunch of cattails, or, when we weren't in the weeds, for a man to be walking a swimming dog.

Sometimes, I'm with the ministry.

Greg

Who stole the lake?

We'd been having a cool and moist spring even for Bellingham. Nights were in the 40s, days in the, well, upper 40s to 50s, and mud everywhere. That meant that when the news predicted a heat wave, everyone got ready.
They got it right; the heat rolled in right on time. It moved from 40s early in the week to 80s by the weekend…and this had some fun implications for our W.
We went to the lake we usually go to, via the normal route. We went down the street, crossed the one busy arterial, and then went along the park till we got there. The air was heavy, but invisible.

Which is what made the lake so surprising. When we got there, it was gone. To be specific, a heavy fog had completely whited the lake out. We could see an arc along the beach—some bushes, and the first dock on each side beyond the park—but beyond that, nothing. We can usually see the houses across the lake, and all the water birds and water fun happening on the lake.

Today, white. Oz stared at the white, jerking her head at the bird cries. She looked at me. What's going on? She put a paw in, but didn't dive in with her usual abandon. For her, it was clearly a bit off. For me, it was simply beautiful, and doubly so because unexpected. I looked behind. Clear air, and a completely visible woods. I looked forward. A white curtain closing off the world, and an invisible lake.

Ah.

Walking a Question Mark

Most of the times, when I'm walking Oz, I'm walking a dash— a straight line. Sometimes she's an exclamation point. Other times, though, I'm walking a question mark.

That is to say, Oz walks forward, but arcs her head and forward bits off to something that really interests her. This happens fairly often when we pass something that she likes that I won't, for whatever reason, let her actually explore. A baby in arms, for example, held by someone who looks scared of dogs, or a cat that doesn't like dogs.

The other day, though, I got to walk a question mark that left me, well, questioning. We were walking along a familiar street, and no one (no favorite people, no dogs, no cats) was in sight. I checked again. No squirrels, no birds, etc. What was it?It wasn't anyone. It was missing someone. Julie, E-M-M-A's owner, moved away to go to school. Oz was bending towards where Emma was supposed to be, and bending again towards every bit of evidence that Emma used to be there. A hole under a bush? Question mark. A ratty tennis ball? Question mark. A forgotten Frisbee left on the rocks in a storm run off culvert, marked by teeth? Question mark.

Every bend toward where Emma is supposed to be, a question: where is my friend? Why isn't she here? And a period: I miss her.

We W'd on in silence.

The Midnight W

Recently Kathy and I went away on a brief trip—just a couple of days. Before we found Sherri, that would have been a bit of a trial. The previous places we'd left Oz had been…let's just say disappointing. Let's stop there, because we don't want to say "traumatic" or anything harsher. Let's just say Oz, who is always lively and friendly, and had never cringed in her life, was silent and cringing after two days at one place. And we were guilty for some time.

But going to Sherri's is a treat. Oz knows the name, and knows that it means she gets to go on a R-I-D-E to get there. (Hey, she's under my feet as I type this—can't be too careful.) This means Oz is throwing herself from side to side, rubbing us like cats, and in general ready to go.

Bang, she leads the way straight to the car. A good dawg all the way there in the car. Once the car door opens, Oz leads us immediately up onto Sherri's lawn. The only hesitation is whether to go directly to the back yard with other dogs, or to the front door where we enter the house. Ah!

And when I come to get her, it isn't "Oh thank god, rescue me!" but rather "Hey! You found your way here too! Now we can all play!" Oz is nothing but not a generous, sharing silly.

So we came back, and I drove over to get Oz. She was happy to see me, and happy to see Kathy, and happy to have chicken scraps from the takeout we had, yum yum yum.

But she really showed her emotions later in the night. Usually, we walk slowly on the night W's. We take our time, smelling and feeling the shadows.

That night, we ran. She pulled me to run with her so quickly I couldn't get the flashlight on, so we ran, dog and man, blind into the night. Happy as clams, both trusting the other beyond sense.

Baby!

The other day I was doing a little tai chi in the living room. Ozma was sleeping on the couch. A woman walked by, and I thought she looked familiar. I checked…yep.

"Oz! What are you doing sleeping? Get your leash! Baby's outside!"

Oz leapt up, not fully awake, and looked out the window. She started whining. I jammed my shoes on, grabbed the leash, and we were out the door!

"BABY!" I called.
Baby stopped ambling forward and leapt back towards us, scaring the crap out of her owner. Oz and I ran forward (about two yards) and then Baby and Oz were rolling around in a big happy dogball, licking and rubbing and fake growling. The only time they stopped was when Baby would roll against me, or when either dog would jump over to lick my chin. Baby is a boarder collie who moved into the neighborhood a few months ago and started causing havoc. Her humans would let her stay outside running free all day, and, well, she's a boarder collie. She has endless energy. She'd dig holes in yards, chase other dogs, chase cars—seriously. She was a royal pain as far as responsible living, but also a blast. She's like a rubber ball. She'd bounce around, and she and Oz would play like crazy. Eventually, too many people complained, and they've kept her inside, and, apparently, bought a leash. These people have repeatedly shown themselves not to be fully in tune with the demands of being owned by a dog. For example, when I told them I'd heard that Baby had been hit by a car, and asked if she was okay, the woman responded, "Oh, did she get hit?"

Yeah.

Today was a smaller scale version of this disconnect. The dogs are dogrolling, happy as puppies in a pile, and she says, "I'm sorry. My dog just goes crazy sometimes."Sorry? I woke my dog from a nap and ran after you to play with your dog, and you're apologizing?

All I could say was, "Um, my dog loves your dog. That's why we ran after you. Right, Baby? Right, Oz?"Lick lick lick.

Greg

E-M-M-A

It's time to share another sketch of one of the local cast of characters. In many ways, E-M-M-A, as we must say Emma's name to keep Oz from going crazy with desire, is the pivot point of the neighborhood—the spark plug, the reason there are teeming stories.

You see, we didn't used to W up the little area where Em lives. It is a nice enough street, but it doesn't link up with anything, so we'd have to W up, turn around, and come back. Ho-hum.

Once in a while, though, when we weren't doing a long adventure W, we would go up there. Always nice lawns, always friendly nods from people, but otherwise, nothing…until the day a meat loaf sprinted out of a closed door and came to see us.

It wasn't a meat loaf, of course, but that's about how big Emma was then, about 10 months ago. Her humans had just gotten her, and she was nothing but enthusiasm at that point. Julie was inside on the phone, and had left the door open a crack.
That's all it took. Emma saw us walking down the street on the other side, nosed the door open, and shot across at us. She never flinched, but flew in a straight sprint, leaping on Oz and tumbling around.

Oz is friendly at all times, so the immediate response was a friendly, rolling tumble. They licked, they wrestled, they rolled…it was fun for everyone. Oz would sometimes pat Emma with a paw, sending her pillbug rolling. Em loved it. We had a great time, tempered only slightly by Julie's concern when she finally realized Em was gone and came looking. She apologized up and down, but we were happy. Oz had a friend.
And Em has stayed a friend, though a complex friend. She's a smart dog who loves Ozma an insane amount, but she's also an stubborn and tricky dog. This, then, is E-M-M-A:
I call her a licking rocket, because she runs like the wind and tackles Oz, then won't stop licking until forced to do so.

Her hearing is sharp. She recognizes Oz's collar tag jingle when we're a block away and runs away from home to greet us.

She's inquisitive. Oz sticks her snout in the storm run off pipes to see what's in there. E-M-M-A crawls through them, a hamster in a paper towel.

She's flat out willful. Once when I kept her from biting Oz on the snout, she jumped and kicked me in the chest with her front paws.

She's smart. I gave another dog a dog treat yesterday. Emma didn't see me, but she smelled the dog's breath—and came directly to me. There was no other place the treats could have come from, therefore…

She's a biter. She loves to clamp down on other dogs' snouts and just hang on. However, she knows not everyone likes this, so she'll try to manage it. She'll bite on something else, anything else, to keep from biting snouts. I've seen her clamp down on a weed to be polite. More on E soon.

Greg

A Dog For All Ages

Oz is a dog for all ages, in three ways.
First, she is amazingly able to adjust to different ages of people. We ran into an old woman in a wheelchair yesterday; Oz approached her slowly and licked one hand, gently. We ran into a young mom with a baby; Oz snuffled the toes and backed away. But when Oz runs into energetic kids—pow!

Second, as I was reminded yesterday, Oz changes ages. It was a surprisingly warm and golden day, so we headed to the lake. I tried to sneak some sticks into the poop bag in case Oz wanted to fetch them—but Oz caught me. She wanted to fetch so badly that we ended up running to the lake, not walking, and rather than waiting to fetch, we played tug of war as we ran down the street. Cars would slow as they saw us. Sometimes she had the stick in her jaws. Sometimes I had it in my hand. Most of the time, we were tugging as we ran, both of us growling.

When we got to the lake, she was a puppy, eager to run into the lake, snuffle, and flop. She rolled on her back, her front, her snout, and anything else she could find, making sure she could get some sand scent and scratchin' on her, all the while going "Nraaa. Graaa!"

Walking home, she was a normal adult dog.

That night, as we watched TV, she was a clingy senior dog. A dog for all ages.
And of course, the third way she's a dog for all ages is that she deserves to be immortalized.

Greg

House Guests

I walked towards the door slowly, my attention on the pile of six library books and a day's worth of mail I was trying not to juggle. All that was forgotten when the front door popped open a crack and Kathy said, "Slip inside quick. Oz has house guests."Before Kathy could finish speaking, Oz was there at the door crack, doggy grin wide. I slipped inside, dropping my pile on the bench as I saw the living room was full of labs.


"Full" is a slight exaggeration. There were just two labs visiting, Tug and Emma, but they are both big and young and full of energy, and they were endlessly cycling, checking things out. Each cycled over to greet me as Kathy explained that Oz had been asleep on the couch when they'd showed up in the back yard. She wasn't going to wake Oz, since she'd been feeling bad, but they didn't just run through like they had before. Emma hung around, sticking her head in between the fence rails.

Kathy had opened the door and called Emma, and she popped right in. Tug, who hasn't visited as often and is approximately as smart as a yam, took more coaxing, but eventually came in, and there was much rejoicing.

The two young dogs—Emma just turned 1 four days ago, and Tug is about eight months old—got to investigate a new space, rumpling up and down stairs to smell things, and disappearing behind or below anything that had a backside or a bottom. Oz got house guests to play with, and play they did. They made many loops against each other, licking, bumping, play growling. When Kathy brought out rawhide chewies for each of them, things got even better. One dog would walk around with one, and another dog would take the other end that was sticking out of his mouth. There would be a brief tug of war, and then the baton would be handed off. The dog that lost his or her chewy would then look around, and bite the end of someone else's chewy, and the process would start over.

And here's the thing that was so purely Oz, and so touching: Oz insisted on sharing. By that I mean, she'd play with Emma—then come over to rub up against me. She'd wrestle Tug, nipping at his legs—then come over to lick my face, as if to say, "See! See! We've got guests! Tug! Emma!" (If you've known a lab, you know they over-use exclamation points. Deal with it.)

Oz insists on sharing good things, and it makes her happy to do so. This means her chewies, her toys, her W's, her friends, and even her food. Who and what does she get possessive about? Her people, and her routines. If I pet another dog too long, she pushes in between, as if to say, "You haven't forgotten me, have you?" But for all other things, she wants to share, and it makes her happier to do so. She'll stalk a deer, transfixed, then, when it runs, jump up and down in place, looking at me, and come over to lick and rub. When we do anything special together—chase a cat, chase a car, crawl under a bush, swim after ducks, etc.—Ozma is happier because I'm there. If she can get more than one person involved, that's just gravy. When Kathy and I take Oz on walks in the cemetery, Oz will follow a scent, then come back and weave in between us, nosing each hand.

Oz likes to share her joy.


Greg

Old Dog Day

Ozma had an old dog day yesterday. It was sad and sweet all at once.

It was sad because she's my dog companion. Ozma doesn't have a wide range of options—she's not a problem-solving chimp or a memorized route flying bird—but if it involved smelling, eating, licking, walking (or walking that might slide into running!), or, especially, loving, she's always been ready to go.

Yesterday she didn't feel well. She had an upset tummy, throwing up half a dozen times, and laying quietly. Oh, she went for her W's. She always does those, even when she was due for surgery and we had to limp along for five minutes and go back in. But she turned away from food sometimes, and she was clingy.

Oz is always affectionate, but this was like she was reverting to puppydom. She burrowed in, tucking her snout against my side and putting a paw over my leg, as if to make sure I wouldn't go anywhere. At night she got up on the bed for a few minutes before we put her out of the room for sleeping, and she tried to press her entire body against me, as if saying, "I need you, please just let me be here."

Right now she's still fighting the remnants of whatever bothered her. She was lively on the morning W…but I can hear her upset tummy roiling, and she turned down her morning treats.

I want my puppy to feel better.

Greg

Reuben, Oz, and the Universe

We met Reuben yesterday. Reuben is a half grown Springer Spaniel, and cute as a button. Oz and I met him when we went out for the morning W.

Oz works on a simple premise that is charming but kinda dim: everything in the world is her friend, put there for her to greet, smell, and play with. That's fine if a dog is friendly, like Reuben very much was, but gets dicey when the dog is aggressive. More than once we've been charged by a dog while Oz stood there grinning and wagging her tail. It got closer and closer, and Oz got friendlier and friendlier. The dog's jaws went for her throat, sometimes closing with an audible snap!

Oz would stay friendly, sometimes licking the recently closed in greeting. The dog would snap again. Oz would dodge the jaws, and counter with a friendly lick. Only if the dog actually landed a bite would Oz counterattack, and even then, it was treated as a kind of one time mistake. The dog would bite, Oz would bite back—and then go back to being friendly. This has meant several things.
First, it means when a dog charges us, it's my job to do the threat assessment. Should fighting other dogs become necessary, that's my job. Oz stands and watches, waiting to be friends with the winner and the loser alike. As a side note, that means she runs towards danger, not away.

Second, it means that all those comments from people about pack order and dominance go right out the window. Oz doesn't dominate, but she doesn't submit much either. It's play time, baby. Oz is a democratic dog.

Third, it means when we meet a dog like Reuben, it's a joy. Reuben was friendly, and soft as only puppies can be. He danced on Oz's head, licked me, and helped get their leashes joyously tangled. Ah!

Greg

How was the W?

I sometimes think I should call this blog "How was the W?" That's because it seems like every day when I take Ozma out for her walk, there's a story.

Kathy asks, "So, how was the W?" Sometimes it is just a walk. Sometimes it is just taking the dog out to pee. Sometimes it is freaking raining and not much fun at all.

But most of the time, there's a story. I feel like I'm walking through a children's book—like the animals are the active characters in the neighborhood, and the humans are just a supporting cast. There's drama, there's suspense, and there's always change. The W started as a kind of awkward duty—I had been a cat person before Kathy, and only took the dog out because she needed to go—but they developed into events.

Take yesterday, for example. We had a standard schedule—three short W's, of about 10 minutes each, so Oz can do her business, and one longer, for fun and stretching her legs. #1, at around dawn, was just business, but #2, at noon, was a bit of an adventure. We went over to see her pack (an area in a nearby cul de sac where several dogs and Sammy live). We didn't have much luck. It was a blowy day, and no one was outside. We were starting to head home, and Emma got let out to pee.

Emma is many things. One of them is a young black lab. Another is obsessively fond of Oz. That means that she was let out in her own yard to pee, saw Oz, and sprinted the block to leap on Oz's head. Oz is just as fond of Emma, so we went from standing still, looking forlornly at the dogless yard to sprinting towards a loose dog.

Emma is always a crapshoot, because if she's excited, she hits hard, and bits other dogs on the snout (purely out of enthusiasm). So there's this loving black rocket of a dog sprinting towards us, and in the background her owner is yelling, "Emma! No! Come here! Em…Oh well. Don't hurt anybody. Play nice. Kisses!"

"Kisses" or "Just Kisses" is Julie's mantra for trying to get Emma to lick other dogs rather than bite them. It's a great idea, but as a shouted command, it is surreal.

Since Oz had an operation on her leg a few months ago—more on that later—she can't take hard impact. That means that Emma's fiercely loving charge has to be met like I’m tackling her. I take the impact, slow her down, and then let them play, to the background music of "Kisses! Kisses!"

Greg

So, in any case, Sammy!

I don’t know why Kathy (my wife) and I are so inordinately pleased by Ozma having a cat-friend. Part of it is her enthusiasm. Say "Sammy!" and Oz is ready to go, looking at us and on point.

Part of it is Sammy's enthusiasm. How many cats come when called, and from a block away, just to greet your dog?

Part of it is the mechanics of it all. Being a dog, Oz can't meow. (I can't believe I just wrote that sentence.) However, she knows meowing, and so if I meow when we're in Sammy's neighborhood, she looks around for Sammy. On the other hand, if we're in Sammytown and Sammy isn't, sometimes she'll stop on her W and look up at me, saying, essentially, "Hey, this is when you meow," a look that might also be translated as "Um, dude?" or "Hello, Mcfly!"

Most of it, though, is the sheer pleasure of their interaction. When Ozma and Sammy are together, both of them are clearly so happy that it spills over. Oz will push towards Sammy quivering, smell a nose or tail, depending on which way Sammy's twirling, and then turn back towards me, jumping and licking as if to say, "This is so cool!"

Recently they had a quintessentially them interaction. This being Washington, it was another lightly misty day, with the weather shifting from light rain to mist to simple 110% humidity and back. This meant that Sammy was willing to dart out from the garage to say hello, but wasn't that eager to stay in the rain. Since Sammy's humans leave the garage door open about a foot so Sammy can come and go as he pleases, after greeting us Sammy ducked back inside.

However, Sammy loves us, so he stuck his nose out. Oz loves Sammy, so she stuck her nose in.

They met under the garage door… and then Sammy started walking back and forth inside, pacing in his "I'm a cat, pay attention to me walk." All we could see when he was walking was the paws, but then he'd stop and stick his nose under the door to check on us. Oz would do the same, and the two of them walked back and forth the width of the garage, alternating who was sticking a nose under the door to say hello. And I followed with the leash in the rain. And everyone was happy.

Sammy, or rather, Sammy!

If you're going to follow this dog's story, you're going to need a sense of the different characters. Today let's talk about Sammy, or rather, Sammy!

There is a growing number of words that we can't say around Ozma. We can't say them because they get her so excited, and it seems somehow wrong to do that. It's like teasing her, or breaking faith with a child.

We can't say "walk," because she'll leap around, ready to go for one, so we say "W."
We can't say "ride," because she'll leap around, ready to get in the car, so we say, "R." Bones become Buh, chicken ch, or chick (although that one's dangerous), and then there is the pack.

The pack is Oz's ever-growing list of friends. Some she only knows by sound, like Gunnar. Gunnar's the UPS man, and when his truck comes near, Oz is looking out the window. Some she knows by smell, like Chris, who apparently smells like dognip.

Then there's Emma, Jackson (Jax), Tug (AKA Tugger, or Tugs), Baby!, Sherry, Bear, Jessie, Chris (this one's a dog), and so on. But my dog's favorite friend is Sammy, or again, Sammy!
Sammy's special because Sammy's a cat, a slender, winding, gray striped tiger cat. Sammy lives with Tug and Jackson, which explains his relaxation around dogs, but he comes running to see us, which I take as completely our due.

Oz has long wanted to chase cats, and I've always been a little nervous, what with the whole cat/dog thing. But Kathy had long contended that Oz just wanted to play and investigate, and it turns out she's right. Once Sammy showed a willingness to not run away, which became a willingness to wind around protective objects, he became Oz's favorites. This produces the bizarre sight of a dog running past other dogs to vibrate near a cat, and, perhaps odder, the sight of a cat coming when called, running a block and a half to visit us. And yesterday…

That was us.

It snowed last night. Just the lightest of dustings, less than half an inch, but for about half an hour it was coming down so steadily that I winced. We've had a lot of snow this season, and it's our first year in the house. We're still getting used to things like how our street stays icy and slick well after the main roads in town are clear and dry.

Anyway…it was snowing, but it was midnight, time for the last W of the evening. We've gotten Oz used to a regular routine of W's, and skipping one always feels wrong, like we're cheating her. So I got my hat, coat, shoes, poop bag, and leash.

Oz was asleep, so I jangled the leash against the floor and up she popped, rumbling up the stairs like she hadn't just been snoring. Click leash, out the door…

And it was snowing. Enough snow was falling to make a kind of curtain that blurred the lights from nearby houses and softened the edges of everything. Within a few steps Oz's chocolate brown fur was sprinkled with what flakes.

There were no tracks on the road. There were no foot prints. There were no paw prints. We took care of that. Weaving back and forth across the street to follow great smells (I assume), whims (I'm sure), and particularly interesting gusts of snow (I know), we had a nice little ten minute W.

We've been down this road literally a thousand times, but the snow makes everything new again. All those leaves become mysterious humps of who knows what? The branches bend and clump together as the snow settling in, and the snow thickens their shadows, so what were some pretty ratty scrub bushes become rounded, lurking shapes. I know they won't leap on us, and I'm pretty sure Oz knows. But just to be sure…

We had the road to ourselves last night. No people, no dogs, no cars. Well, one small bird, dislodging puffs of snow for a late night snack. Other than that, it was us.

So if you're driving to work and you see a winding set of paw prints and a sort of penguin set of people tracks, and nothing else on the pure white snow, that was us.

Greg

Savage Beast

A savage beast leapt at my throat today. I survived.

I always do. I estimated the beast has leapt at me at least 6000 times since it began.

I do admit, however, that the first leap was a bit of a surprise. I was just newly owned, and still getting used to being an assistant dog. What's more, Ozma (my dog) was a bit younger then, and still getting used to having an assistant. Combined, these two factors meant she jumped a lot higher, and made it a lot closer to my throat before clamping her jaws on the leash for a good tug and play.

I get the number 6000 from combining a range of factors:
4 W's a day.
365 days per year
3 years.
1-2 leaps per W.

It might be as high as 8000 attempts on my life. I'm not wedded to the number.

Greg