Ordinarily I’m not out the door before 8:30 in the morning. Oh, I may be out of bed by 5, or 5:30, but I am far from ready for my closeup.
First, one must shake hands with the governor. Second, attend to Miss Mia Sopaipilla’s litter box. Finally, there shall be strong black coffee, some news, toast with butter and jam, more news, more coffee, some colorful language, a flushing of the headgear via the southern sally port, a light breakfast — oatmeal with fruit and nuts, yogurt with granola, or a fruit smoothie — and p’raps a large mug of strong black tea to wash it all down.
Then, and only then, am I prepared to greet the shit monsoon face to face.
There was a time when I could cut to the chase with drugs and alcohol, but that was many moons ago and 8:30 was out of the question unless I’d stayed up all night, in which case it was more like noon-thirty, and I was only leaving to get more drugs and alcohol.
Or maybe it was 8:30 p.m.
But I digress.
On Tuesday, I was out the door at 7:30 a.m., because it was already warmish and due to become more so. I was kind of tired of cycling — I’d been riding 100-plus miles a week for like five consecutive weeks, which is a lot for me, since I’m not training for anything beyond staying on the sunny side of the sod — so I thought I’d slip out for a quick trail run, maybe lift some weights after.
Turns out 7:30 is the time everyone around here walks the dog.
I’d forgotten about this ritual, since Mister Boo has been absent for six years now and Miss Mia only takes brief, infrequent expeditions into the backyard grass for the folic acid. Dogs gotta walk, winter, spring, summer and fall, and unless you want to fry their furry feet in the dog days of summer, you best get ’em out before the sun comes up and after it goes down.
When you walk a dog you meet other dog walkers. There are no red people or blue people, only dog people. As John Steinbeck observed in “Travels with Charley”:
A dog, particularly an exotic like Charley, is a bond between strangers. Many conversations en route began with ‘What degree of a dog is that?’
Thus I met some degree of a retriever, off leash, whose human advised genially, “It’s OK, she doesn’t bite.” I stifled an “That’s OK, I do,” because the pooch was clearly living the doggie dream.
Likewise a grinning purse dog in the company of a young woman.
“That looks like a very happy dog,” I said. “Oh, she is, she is,” replied her companion.
Dogs mostly don’t wear signifying T-shirts or sport bumper stickers, lacking bumpers and political opinions, and if you’re busy scratching furry ears and cooing, “Who’s a good boy?” you’re not thinking much about what kind of flags their people fly, or how, or where they get their “news.”
You’re probably thinking, “What we need is some degree of a dog.”
Just kidding, Mia. Must’ve had a touch of heat stroke.
Mad Blog Media 
We have that 140 acre dog park, the Frank Ortiz, just about a quarter mile from the homestead up here. Running into folks sometimes makes for good conversation. Sometimes just a tip of the cap. Usually not a distasteful discussion. Politics might come up, but only in a joking way. It’s mostly about the dogs. Sometimes we just find a quiet path in the scrub brush and avoid humans.
Annie is 60 solid pounds of red Chow mix, now six years old; she was 18 months when we adopted her and was batshit crazy. Not sure what else is in her genetics-wise, except a bark that would raise the dead. It seems at times she is shot out of a cannon when I open the back door. She pulled my wife’s arm half out of its socket one day (her rotator cuff took a year to heal), so I am usually in charge of the leash. We got back from a trip on Wednesday and I picked Annie up from the doggie day care and she almost pulled me over when I was not looking. Sometimes she reminds me of that story about Fuerte.
Dogs are good. Far better than most humans.
There’s a canine version of Euler’s Seven Bridges of Königsberg problem where you try to explain how an animal with four crooked legs can become one with a planar surface.
Man, you should’ve seen how Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (commander, 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment) could spread his big self out on a cool section of pavers. We used to call him “Flatty the Catty” when he did that.
Me, if there is half a pea underneath my nine mattresses, I’m up all night. Yesterday Bruno fell asleep with his head on one of the legs of my wife’s office chair, right on top of the caster wheel.
PO’G: Surface area ….. surface area. It’s all about surface area. Mebbe I should gain some weight/girth??!! 🙂
The Turk was a highly efficient radiator, to be sure. Having him stretched out in the bed next to me of an evening was like kipping next to a furry tube of traction sand that had been left out in the sun all day.
Patrick, since you are Air Subaru a dog does work for car travels, even long hauls and with certain motels. But, would a dog fly with Mia – I guess you have your answer.
Yeah, Libby, I think that since Miss Mia is the Last Critter Standing of the three we brought with us from Colorado 10 years ago, she deserves to have our full attention in her golden years.
Yes, that sounds right.
Duffy is in his 14th golden year. Hearing is going hard, and he’s very reactive to loud noises. Has a dental cleaning and probably extractions next month. It will be his last dental procedure unless an abscess pops up. These days he only walks about 1/2 mile in the morning. Sleeps most of the days and all night. Still enjoys his rides to the library and its walking path. We just try to make each of his days a good one and let him be a dog on his walks.
The Duffinator is already 14? Wowsah. The time, how it passes, etc.
Mia has some hearing loss as well. This makes it easier for Herself to sneak up on the old gal and then snatch her up for a bout of corporal cuddling.
She’s not as eager to leap to some high spot, either. But then, neither am I.