Big Brass Ones

Doh!: A deer, a female deer

Ray: A golden drop of sun

Me: A name I call myself

Fa: A long, long, way...

Wait an arfing minute. That makes no sense at all. Not even if you're from Bahston.

And golden drops of sun are all very well in their place, I'm sure. But the focal point of my story is the doe.

And the me.

I'm Dexter. My partner is the biped. We were working the early morning shift out of Garland Park. Our job: Chase things.

It was a nippy morning in Carmel Valley. The biped and I were headed for the Mesa Pond--same old, same old. It was a little buggy for late September. I didn't mind. I'm a dog. A large dog.

When we got to the pond, there was no one in evidence but a great blue heron. Just standing on the opposite bank like he owned the place. The biped didn't want to bother with him, but I decided he needed to be interrogated. I approached him with all four paws in plain sight. He took flight. I gave chase. He made good his escape. You win some. You lose some. There'd be another day for the heron. There always is.

I investigated the scene thoroughly, then the biped and I went back on patrol: We continued generally southnorthward on the Mesa trail to its junction with the Vaquero trail, where we made a sharp left and continued down hill.

I went on ahead to see what I could scare up, leaving the biped to sweep the trail for stragglers.

Some minutes later, I came upon a pair of adolescent mule deer. Or possibly they were white-tail deer. All deer look alike in the dark, as the saying goes. And these two looked like they could use the privacy, if you know what I mean.

When the pair spotted me, the young buck said, I'm pretty sure he's here to see you, honey. I've got to go point Percy at the pavement. I'll be right back. And with that, he bounded off nonchalantly through the underbrush.

Maybe he was trying to draw me off. Maybe he really did have to point Percy at the pavement--though there wasn't any for two miles in any direction. Either way, I wasn't having any of it.

Your parents know where you are, young lady? I asked the doe.

Look! she yelled, pointing one dainty hoof over my shoulder.

When I turned my magnificent head to look, she lit out like a shot out of a firecracker, making a dog-awful crashing through the underbrush.

But I was on her like stink on ugly or stupid on a cat, as the saying goes. And I'd've caught up with her, too, if the biped hadn't started blowing his whistle just about then.

I put on the brakes like a Ural falling off a cliff and headed back to see what was up.

What's up, Boss? I said when I reestablished contact with the biped.

You know that heron, Dexter?

The great blue one?

That's the one.

What about it?

Turns out it's turned up missing.

Spit!

You know something about it, Dexter?

Not a thing, Boss.

Well, any way you look at it, Dexter, we're going to have to get you back to the station and bathed. The lieutenant wants to see you.

Spit.

The long arm of the law...

...of unintended consequences bites him in the arse again.

Since that time before which the memory of dog runneth not to the contrary--and then some, I believe--the biped's front office windows have not opened. It's not that they were defective; it's just that they were not windows of the opening kind.

And the biped, I have only just learned, has long been dissatisfied with this derangement. One of the reasons, it seems, that he found his unopenable windows irksome, in addition to the poor ventilation, was yours truly, if you can believe such a thing.

It seems that, when I am out in the front yard, I sometimes bark, for reasons which either are not apparent to the biped, or which, being perfectly apparent, are, in his considered opinion, nevertheless inadequate. He would like to have been able to communicate his disapproval to me without leaving his office, walking across the front of the house, and opening the front door--what the lazy bastard wanted were windows that actually opened and could therefore be effectively yelled through.

All that has only just now been explained to me. I knew nothing about any of it until just minutes ago.

All I knew was that I got banished to the back yard quite early this morning, right after a couple of strangers in a white pickup truck showed up. And I stayed banished for several hours, during which time I heard much banging and sawing going on at the front of the house.

Finally, a few minutes ago, the biped released me from the back yard. Then he went back in the house to return to whatever sort of "work" it is he claims he does.

I had been wandering around inspecting my domain for some minutes before I noticed that anything was amiss. Then I suddenly realized that a part of the house that had never stuck out before was now sticking out. Having had no previous experience of casement windows, I had no idea what it was.

Well, of course, I did what any self respecting canine would have done, Littermates--what you would have done in my place--I barked at it! And barked and barked and barked. Until the biped came and gently explained to me, through the new window, that I should... ahem... shut the arf up.

I'm not sure whether that's ironic, or whether it's just what happened. But, either way, it is.

Sometimes, a dog likes a little privacy, that's all.

So, yesterday evening, we're out for our daily stroll, the biped and I, and I begin to feel the need to spit on somebody's lawn, as it were. And, as luck would have it, there is a very nice lawn just sitting there practically asking to be spat upon.

The owners of said lawn happened to be standing right there watching us go by, as it turns out. I myself was perfectly prepared to provide a public demonstration of my prowess, but the biped can be a real pain about these things. Apparently, he prefers not to have me spit on someone's lawn when they're standing right there watching, even though he does faithfully clean up after me.

So, when he realized I was getting antsy, he tugged me right along to the corner and thence across the street. To an absolutely barren patch of ground that he seemed to think would do nicely. But, by this time, he had succeeded in inducing in me an utterly uncharacteristic sort of shyness--I no longer wanted to do my business right there in front of God and everybody. I was having none of it.

So the biped sighed and led me on.

Presently, we were walking along next to the new Spreckels Elementary School building. The building is only about two and a half feet from the sidewalk. That two and a half feet, however, is very tastefully landscaped with bushes and ground cover and such.

By now, of course, I really had to spit, but I was still feeling shy about doing it right out in the open. So I sought privacy in the bushes next to the school. And it seemed to me that I had achieved it, too. I pushed head first into the bushes just as far as I could go before assuming the position and doing the deed.

That being the case, it is not quite clear to me how I ended up spitting right smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk.

But I did.

Mr. Dillon, Mr. Dillon!

Miss Kitty down to the Long Branch says to come quick!

As I was saying, the biped and I ran into a couple of very old friends this morning at Garland Park--the Treat Pocket Lady and her now genuinely geriatric yellow lab bitch, Peaches.

It's a shame, really, how other dogs and people seem to age so.

When last heard from, as you may recall, Peaches was demurely sitting her vent down on the trail, so as to fend off my olfactory attentions. This morning, the best she could manage was sort of a half squat. Don't get me wrong--it's an alluring posture and all, but still... a bit sad.

When we first met, some four years ago, I think, Peaches was, as I recall, seven. Which, I confess, seemed positively ancient to me at the time. But here she is, all these years later, still plugging along at the ripe old age of... what? 10? 11? 17? Something like that. Inspiring I suppose, in a doddering, arthritic sort of way.

And, if I may be forgiven an ungentlemanly comment, the Treat Pocket Lady is no spring chicken herself. While the biped, who apparently recalls dogs' names better than people's, correctly addressed Peaches as Peaches, the Treat Pocket Lady had the temerity to call me Chester!

Well, I never!

Bobbing for koiz

Simply irresistible--that's me.

While many beings, both sentient and less so, seem to experience very little difficulty resisting the biped's charms--and that is assuming, of course, that they are even able to locate and perceive said charms--nobody can resist yours truly, not even the slimy little fishities.

While the biped is busy contemplating such esoteric minutia as how best to paint the fuzz on a bumble bee's arse, or further discourage paying customers from interrupting him with their idiotic phone calls, I am engaged in a 24/7 (well, OK, maybe 4/7) charm offensive.

And I have now won even the koi over to my side (the feeder-fish comets, Betty and Veronica, are still playing hard to get, but they'll come around).

As I believe I have mentioned a life time or two ago, I love to drink out of the koi pond. I don't give a flying arf about the fish themselves, but I appreciate the fine "nose" they impart to the water. So, whenever I am allowed into the hot tub/deck/koi pond annex, I immediately commence slurping from the koi pond (unless, of course, there is someone simmering in the hot tub, in which case I may opt for some nice hot broth).

I have never offered the koi the slightest violence, of course. But they are nervous creatures, utterly lacking a Gordon setter's bold joy de vivre, so I took no offence at their initial tendency to skulk on the opposite side of the pond while I was drinking.

Gradually, though, they seemed to grow used to me and paid me less and less attention. That, at least, was the biped's take on their behavior. He could not conceive that they were developing a real affection--nay, admiration--for my person.

Until two mornings ago, when he was privileged to observe all ten of the koiz actually flocking (if that is what fish do) to kiss my shiny black flews while I was engaging in my pre-breakfast hydration.

Lovely creatures, koi, in a scaly sort of way.

I hope I have not done them a disservice by teaching them that the bipeds' domestic mammals are trustworthy, honorable, and charming.

Phoebe is none of those things.

A Fred hOMage

Apparently, I'm not supposed to pee upstairs, either. Who knew?

Bird shadow, bird shadow

Well, Littermates, I believe the great black and tan hunter is starting to look pretty good to the bipeds, who once scorned him for his apparent lack of true "birdiness." Because, you see, whatever else you may say about bird shadows, you cannot deny that they are neat and clean--no muss, no fuss, no messy clean up. Whether you catch them, or whether you don't, you don't get a mouth full of feathers. Or a house full, either.

Whereas, little Miss Phoebe, the indoor/outdoor catch-and-kill hunting phenom, has become quite "birdie" indeed. Two straight consecutive nights in a row, while all sane bipeds and their ever-faithful Gordon setters have slept the sleep of the just, she has ventured out through le catdoor, as she insists on calling it, captured one of our little feathered friends, brought it inside to toy with it (whether alive or dead at that point, we do not know), left the grisly remains on the living room floor amidst a sea of feathers, and then--no doubt with a well satisfied grin on her evil little face--retired to the bedroom, curled up atop the bipedess, and slept the remainder of the night away in dreams of feathered mayhem.

So yours truly is looking like the good pet these days. I'm banking it.

Back by popular demand

Well, the biped's latest birthday has come and gone. As has Flag Day. And here it is the one-th anniversary of the kickoff of the 2008 PupPal Tour. And what are we doing to mark the occasion? Not a thing, Littermates, not an arfin' thing.

I haven't even been in DexCorp 1 in a month of Sundays. Granted, the weather here in Greater Metropolitan Spreckels has been pretty abysmal lately. But that's all the more reason to hit the road and head for more salubrious climes, is it not? Apparently, it is not.

Unless, by hitting the road once means driving the Subaru up to Oregon in a couple of days. And by more salubrious climes one means staying just about as close to the ocean but going much further north. And I don't think I do. Mean either one of those things, I mean.

The biped just turned 58, which, as he never tires of pointing out, is "practically 60." I think his strategy is to get used to being 60 early, so that he'll scarcely notice it when it actually happens.

Meanwhile, I am just over 5 1/2. The biped tells me that makes me somewhere around 38 in human terms. Still in my prime of course, but no longer a pup. He likes to tell me that in another four years--if we're both lucky--I'll be older than he is.

Won't that be just arfing lovely?

PS: Thanks once again to all the great folks who put us up (and put up with us) last summer. You're all welcome here any time (though perhaps not at the same time).

I may be dumb, but I'm not stupid.

Well, Littermates, it has been an excellent day so far.

The biped and I got up at a little before six this morning. The first thing we discovered--to our unanimous amazement, I assure you--was Phoebe, that young hussy, pacing back and forth on the outside windowsill next to the back door. Apparently, she had been locked out all night, owing to a... ahem... wardrobe malfunction. It seems that she had misplaced her magnetic collar somewhere--left it in some Tom's litter box, I shouldn't wonder--and without it, she cannot enter through the cat door!

When the biped opened the back door to let me out--thank you, my good man!--Phoebe rushed right in without so much as pausing to hear my sincere condolences on her misfortune. Cats!

Once the biped and I had taken care of our respective morning duties, we hoped in/on DexCorp 1 and headed for Garland Park. Where at least one of us had a positively delightful morning chasing red-wing blackbird shadows.

Now then, I may be dumb, but I am not stupid. Or have I already mentioned that? No matter--you just cannot be too repetitious when you are dealing with simpletons. Not that I'm saying you are a simpleton. Necessarily.

Anyway, I am fully aware that birds and bird shadows are related phenomena. What with one being both causally and temporally connected to the other and whatnot. And if I do not know precisely which causes which, or which came first, or why either might wish to cross the road... well, I am in very good company, I assure you. Some of your best wheelchair-bound cosmologists admit to not really knowing which way is up. And not even Sir Isaac Newton every succeeded in discovering why the philosopher's chicken crossed the road.

So it is not the case that I am not aware of birds. I have even been known to flush a bird or two from time to time. It is just that I am interested in birds only to the extent that I know birds to be inextricably linked to their shadows. A bird just sitting on the ground, or in a bush, is of interest to me only to the extend that I know that, if I persuade him to take to the air, he will then produce a very chasable shadow. And I love chasing shadows.

So the biped was having a good laugh at my expense this morning (little does he know I’m using his credit card!) because, he says, he had never seen a dog so enjoying being dive bombed by blackbirds. The birds, he says, were attempting to drive me away from their nesting area. And I was loving it! My tail-wagging muscles will be sore for a week! By repeatedly diving upon my very dogson, the blackbirds kept me supplied with a veritable flock of shadows for upwards of half an hour. I must have run a dozen of them to ground.

Birds are so stupid!

If I had my way...

...I would burn this old biped down.

Well, I'm pretty sure my strength was already as natural as any old dog. Any old particularly magnificent Gordon Setter, anyway. There was no need to shave me all. arfing. over.

Yes, that's right, Littermates--I have once again been reduced to rat-tailed Dexter the black and tan coon hound. It's humiliating. It's degrading. It's dedoganizing.

The only positive thing about it--and I forget every year how lovely this feels (that's right, I did say lovely--you wanna make something of it?)--is that the family jewels are once again swaying in the pre-summer breeze. Ah!

Here is an interesting tidbit that you may not have known--certainly I didn't--according to Linda, the PetSmart groomer, if you shave all the hair off a pair as pendulous as mine, they become subject to sunburn. So she left a little on for the shade. Probably a wise precaution, considering that the sun so routinely shines right out of my vent.

Here's your purple heart...

...Now shut the arf up, would you?

Jeez! You take one little step in the wrong direction in response to the on-coming car in the parking lot, thus causing the leash to catch under the biped's left little fingernail, folding said fingernail in half backwards and spilling the tiniest bit of blood you ever saw, and you'd think the pusi(llanimous) bastard was going to soil himself! And, oh, by the way, if he hadn't been delivering me to the tender mercies of the PetSmart groomer, it never would have happened.

Put a bandaid on it when you get home, grow a pair, then come bail me out, Nancy boy!

Who says I'm not playful?

What Phoebe needs to understand... indeed, what she needs to be made to understand is that, when you are a 78-pound Gordon setter who, at his own request, spends most of his days in the great outdoors, you are unlikely to consider the indoors a place to play. The indoors is a place to grab a quick bite and a very long and well deserved nap. The indoors is for quiet time.

Outside, I will happily jump and prance (well, maybe not prance exactly) and cavort and tree any cat wishing to be treed. I will sniff yours, and you may sniff mine, and then we can both run around in circles till we puke.

But I do not come inside to have my head pounced upon. That is my bottom line. I don't even come inside to have my paws licked (though I must say that that was somewhat more endearing than Phoebe's usual attempts to interact with me).

So come on, Phoebe... Let's just step outside, shall we?

Up against the wall, red-wing mother!

I think I may have mentioned once or twice that I am a consummate chaser of bird shadows. And I do not doubt for a moment that I will one day catch one.

I am quite aware, however, that birds are not the only things that cast shadows. Houses and trees and whatnot also cast shadows. Mostly upon the ground.

That makes my job harder. Bird shadows often disappear into house shadows or tree shadows. Particularly when they are hard pressed and feel the hot breath of yours truly down their shadowy little necks.

When I have thus run a bird shadow to ground, it is my fixed habit to stand guard at the exact spot where the bird shadow disappeared, waiting for it to re-emerge. I will stand there until the bird shadow, having caught its shadowy breath, emerges and I can resume the chase, or until the sun goes down, or until I have exhausted my not inconsiderable attention sp...

Hey! Is that a motorcycle going by? I love motorcycles!

But digress. Or perhaps I merely pregress, since I hadn't actually worked myself up to getting started on my real story yet. Be that as it may.

It turns out, you may be surprised to learn, that tree shadows are not always cast upon the ground. In the late afternoon, the shadow of one of our Sycamore trees is cast upon the inner side of the concrete block wall that surrounds the gated family compound here in Beautiful Downtown Spreckels. And yesterday, the red-wing blackbird shadow that I was chasing flew directly into that shadow and lit upon a branch thereof. Whence he taunted me with red-wing-blackbird-shadow song for upwards of a short eternity (conservatively estimated by the biped at two minutes).

And for that entire time, I stood guard over it, my magnificent snout not three inches from the wall. As I believe I have said on any number of occasions, your Gordon setter is a serious sort of dog.

Just two wild and crazy guys

Or: Up the down waterfall

Or: A brace of mallards on the Mesa pond

Or: Yap, yap, yappin' at Dexter's door

Hmmm. I'm thinking I've got way more prospective titles today than actual entry to justify them. Can't be helped, I s'pose.

For nearly five years now, the biped and I have been hiking up to the Mesa pond at Garland Park just about every Saturday morning. And, almost unfailingly, we hike up the Mesa trail and down the (much steeper) Waterfall trail. That is the right and proper way to do the loop. That is the sensible way to do the loop (we Gordons are very big on sensible--you could ask anybody). Every once in a great while--when the biped's knee is giving him the odd twinge, I'm thinking--we go both up and down the Mesa trail. But never, in my experience, have we gone up the Waterfall trail.

Until this morning. Given that the bipedess is in Memphis (Tennessee, not Egypt) this weekend, perhaps the biped felt it was a case of when-the-cat's-away-the-mice-will-play. Perhaps he just wanted to let his hair down (Jeez, I slay myself!). If he was thinking that by hiking the loop backwards he could turn back time to an epoch in which the mesa sported a porta-potty, then he was even sadlier mistaken than he usually is.

But anyway, we two wild and crazy guys went up the down Waterfall trail this morning. And arrived at the Mesa pond to find a brace of mallards thereon. Which is only mildly unusual and hardly worth mentioning--I just wanted to use the word brace.

I didn't even bother to try to run off the duckies. The last time I did, I promptly found myself in water so deep that I was obliged to swim. Which I am very good at of course, but do not greatly enjoy.

Instead, I contented myself with chasing red-wing blackbird shadows on the far side of the pond.

Which endeavor I was engaged in when three dogs and their corresponding bipeds happened by. There was a perfectly polite collie of some sort, a dachshund who was so unobtrusive as almost to escape notice, and a yappy little terrier whose exact parentage I would not care to comment upon.

The moment the terrier saw me across the pond, it commenced to yap incessantly. I thought I would gallop on around and see what it wanted. It yapped viciously until I was perhaps 50 yards away. Then it suddenly discovered an abiding interest in its biped's off-side shoe.

Well, that's all I've got, Littermates. I told you the titles were better than the entry.

A fine figure of a dog

That would be I, of course. Or me, if we are to be idiomatic. But, one way or the other, c'est moi, as Phoebe could no doubt be prevailed upon to admit. If one had a largish stick with which to prevail upon her.

So, yesterday, I went to the vet for some booster shots and my annual physical. They started out with a weigh-in, of course. Turns out I've gained three pounds since I was last weighed. I am now a robust 78 pounds.

I know many of you get a lot of flak from your people, who get a lot of flak from your vets, every time your ribs sink a little deeper into their Crisco-like covering. (I'm not trying to be cruel here, Littermates, it's just that... Well, OK, maybe I am trying to be cruel--just drilling for the nerve, as Charlie Harper would say.) But my vet pronounced me fit and trim and well filled with p!ss and vinegar, as it were. I have merely finally grown into my skeleton, is all.

Is it any wonder I like the folks at the vet? Sure they poke me with needles. And slip the occasional (well lubricated!) thermometer where the sun don't shine--or perhaps from where the sun does shine, now that I think about it. But they unfailingly recognize me for the magnificent beast that I am. And you gotta like that, Littermates.

Nothing personal, Boss...

...just keeping the customers satisfied, satisfied.

Note to self: Write more diary entries in which the biped gets hurt--the fans seem to love it.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep...

...but the porta-potty is gone. HA-ha! Yeah, like I care.

I will say this for the biped: He's been getting me out on a lot of hikes lately. Tuesday and Friday we went to Fort Ord. (And on Friday, he brought along both the bipedess and my water bottle--good breeding precludes my specifying which of the two I value more on a hot dusty trail.)

Then, on Saturday morning, we had our regular hike to the Mesa Pond in Garland Park. The bipedess has gone back to sleeping in. The biped has gone back to not carrying his new camera. The Mesa has gone back to being a facility-free venue. Yessiree, Dog's in his heaven, and all's right with my world.

When we were almost back to the parking lot on Saturday morning, we passed a young couple going in the other direction. Shortly after we had passed each other, the young woman called out a question to us. I of course, with my keen setter hearing, understood the question perfectly well, but I was disinclined either to answer it or to explain it to the biped, who thought he heard:

Is that a mountain lion or a dog?

You could tell by the look on his face that he thought it was kind of a stupid question (don't let your teachers lie to you, kids--there is definitely such a thing as a stupid question), but he is way too polite to say so. So what he said was:

Um... He's a Gordon setter.

Now it was the young woman's turn to look puzzled. Then she said:

No. Your stick thingee there, is that for mountain lions or for dogs?

The scales fell from the biped's eyes as he realized that the young lady had been inquiring, not about me, but about the 120,000-volt stun baton he carries whenever he walks me or hikes with me. He replied cheerily:

Oh, mountain lions, vicious dogs, vicious people... whatever comes along. I haven't had to use it.

Except on himself, he did not say. Twice.

The vodka is good, but the meat is rotten.

Or maybe what I mean is something more along the lines of It was a good plan, but the execution left something to be desired.

Turns out the biped had a pretty slow day at work today. Even after installing the newly arrived peat bag in the pond biofilter and starting up his total-alkalinity-reduction experiment in the erstwhile quarantine tank, it was still only early afternoon.

So he decided to take me for a hike. And, just for a change, he decided to do it at Fort Ord, rather than Garland Park.

It's been quite a while since we've been to Fort Ord. Long enough, apparently, for the biped to forget that the trails there are a lot hotter and drier than at Garland Park. That particular memory lapse--just one among many, of course--caused him not to bring along my water bottle (or his own, for that matter, but who cares about that?).

The temperature is only in the low 60s today, and it's quite breezy. So it's not like either of us was likely to wilt to any dangerous extent. Still, I think the route he chose to take was probably no more than two thirds as long as the route he would have taken, had he had water for me.

So, anyway, I appreciate the mid-week hike and all, but it really was not up to what I wish were his usual standards. But I guess I can cut him some slack and just call it a spring-training hike. He'd better shape up by the time the regular season starts, though, or I may have to trade him in for a Korean hiker--I hear those Koreans train pretty darn hard, even during the off season.

What?

They don't!

Really?

Ahem. Did I say Korean? I’m pretty sure I actually meant Japanese.

His Holiness and I

The biped and I, in common with the Pope (and, presumably, even Cardinal Sin), occasionally have to spit in the woods.

I, myself, do not make a big production out of the matter (there is, sometimes, a fairly large production of matter, of course, what with my being a largish dog, but that is, if you will, another matter altogether). I just stop and assume the position wherever the spirit moves me (if spirit is quite the motive force I am looking for here).

His Holier-than-thou-ness, on the other hand (and, one assumes, the Pope), finds it necessary to drag privacy and availability of facilities and hygienic conditions and whatnot into his considerations. And if all his desiderata are not met, as they sometimes are not, he finds himself distressed.

So he is pleased that the cash-strapped Monterey County Parks Department has seen fit to install a porta-potty near the Mesa Pond in Garland Park--assuming, that is, that you can call something with two wheels and a trailer hitch installed. They have not provided a morning paper, but beggars, I am reliably informed, cannot be choosers.

And now, if you would all please bow your heads and join me in a benediction:

Futuantur si non oblectantur, Littermates.

Wouldn't that be my six dollars, Boss?

I don't want the biped to feel guilty. I just want him to give me the damn money!

It seems the poor, harried loser went into town on some errand or other this afternoon. On the way home, he remembered that I am completely out of my favorite dog shampoo and almost out of my (somewhat less favorite) ear cleaning solution. And--quite uncharacteristically for him, I must tell you--he remembered that before he had irrevocably passed The Feed Trough, purveyor of all things bestial.

So he stops in and he picks up the shampoo and the ear cleaner. He puts them on the counter. The clerk, who seems to be involved in two or three other conversations at the same time, eventually tells the biped that he owes $34.30.

(Let me just say, parenthetically, that that may strike you as some pretty expensive ear cleaning solution. But I am a five year old setter who has never had an ear infection--the ear cleaning solution is a very great bargain. And I'm only on my third bottle of it.)

So, anyway, the biped hands over two twenties, a quarter, and five pennies--$40.30. During a brief hiatus in one of his conversations, the clerk hands the biped a five-dollar bill and a one-dollar bill. The biped gradually gets his keen mathematical mind up to full speed and calculates that $40.30, minus $34.30, is, indeed, six bucks. Satisfied, he folds up the six bucks, puts it in his wallet, and puts his wallet in his pocket. He starts to walk away from the counter with his purchases.

Just then, the clerk says, "Here you go!" and hands him another five and another one. The biped walks out with the second six bucks in his hand, thinking Gee... I guess I must have made a mistake. He's actually in the car before he figures out--for sure--that it is the clerk who has made a mistake. At which point, he says to himself Arf it! The stupid bastard should pay more attention, and he leaves.

Now the biped is feeling sort of guilty and dishonest. And I'm sure he will continue to do so until he gives that six bucks to somebody! And who better to assuage his guilty conscience than I? That's all I’m saying.

Well... I guess it's not quite all I'm saying. I also wanted to mention that tomorrow, Saint Patrick's day, is the senior bipup's 28th birthday. And I'm sure we all wish him many happy returns and whatnot.

Now, Boss... about that six bucks...

Born to be mild

Get your motor runnin'
Head out on the highway
Lookin' for adventure
And whatever comes our way...

Well, yes, up to a point, Lord Copper. I don't know that we were really looking for much in the way of adventure. Certainly, none seemed to come our way. But we did, by Golly, hop into/onto DexCorp 1, get our motor running, and head out on the highway for a very nice little 45 km spin. Aired out the old flews, flight tested the Dumbo ears, that sort of thing.

No women, no cats, no koi, no cameras... just me, the biped, and 750 or so pounds of Russian scrap metal and baling wire. Just the thing for a sunny Tuesday afternoon in the springtime of the year.

And my public! I had almost forgotten how much they love to see me in my ride!

Coming back into Beautiful Downtown Spreckels, on the last non-stop right turn before home, I even let the biped blow off some of his exuberance by flying the car just a smidgen. I was so cool about it, the casual observer might well have thought I didn't even notice. And that, after all, is what we all need in these troubled times, Littermates--a cool head and an extra-large dollop of obliviousness. Is it any wonder I'm your Chairman?

Picture this

I don't think I have to remind you, Littermates, how I feel about innovations. I do not like them. If there is anything in this world more conservative than a small boy, it is a middle-aged Gordon setter.

But the settled way of things has got all topsy-turvy of a March morning. Not only has the biped started allowing the bipedess to accompany us on our Saturday morning hikes--which I had always been led to believe were strictly a boyz-morning-out sort of deal--this immediately past Saturday, he also brought along his spanking new camera, which talks less, I grant you, but seems to slow the proceedings down even more.

What with actually taking pictures of things (106!) and trying to take pictures of things and bitching about failing to take pictures of things--Dexter stands still for no man--the two of them burned so much daylight that, by the time we got back to the car, we had completely missed "Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me," which I rather like, even if it is on National Pubic Radio.

If I know the biped--and, Dog help me, I do--he can be counted upon to lose most of his interest in the camera pretty soon. The question is: Can the bipedess be counted upon to go back to sleeping in on Saturday mornings? It is upon such questions as these, alas, that the peace of a dog's mind depends.

PS: As long as he'd already wasted the time to take them, I let him put a few of the better pictures up on my page. If you want to see a wider selection, you'll have to go hang out with his bipedal buddies on facebook.

Blah!

Correct me if I am wrong--those of you who have, at one time or another (possibly today), been chosen Dog of the Day may feel particularly free to correct me, who, while I may be the best traveled (in a sidecar rig) dog on all Dogster, have nevertheless never been Dog of the Day--but I'm guessing you have no idea how pleasant it is to sleep away the day in a sidecar whilst speeding down the highways and byways of our great nation at a stately 55 miles per hour; how exhilarating it is to stick your magnificent snout up above the lip of the car and snorkel in the exotic scents of, say, Poncacity, Oklahoma; how pleasing it is to one's amor propia to sit up and be admired by all and sundry in some obscure part of nether South Dakota. If that is not too long a sentence.

And I miss it, dammit!

What with all the rain, and the cat, and the fish, for Dog's sake, and the biped's general--let us call a spade a spade here--uselessness we haven't been out in the Ural for so much as a spin in a month of Sundays. Or Saturdays, either.

It's got me in a funk, frankly. I want to be on the road again. Because, you know, the life I love is... well, not so much making music with my friends, I guess. But just being out there. On the way to someplace. Even if it generally turns out to be not much of anyplace.

But the biped says it's not gonna happen. Not this summer, anyway. And, you know, I'm a dog! How many summers does he think I've got left, anyway!

Oh yeah: Congratulations, Lyle! It couldn't have happened to a nicer dog (apart from Spring or Maebe, maybe).

Cleaning up my act

The biped had been pestering me for some time about my shaggy appearance. The bipedess, for some reason, particularly dislikes my appearance when the top of my dogly head gets too curly to suit her--You look like your mother! she says. And, what with all the rain we've been having lately, I must admit I was getting a bit frizzy.

So, OK; I needed a haircut. But what the arf did they think I was going to do about it? Make the phone call myself?

Finally, the biped got around to booking me into the PetSmart grooming saloon yesterday afternoon.

What?

Salon?

Well, that would explain the pawsity of libations, I guess.

Anyway, he made an appointment for me to be groomed by Linda, a groomer very nearly as geriatric as my own bipeds, who is particularly pleased whenever she has the opportunity to groom what she refers to as a real Gordon setter. I, myself, have not run into a lot of imposters, but apparently Linda has.

I like Linda. She gets me. She understands that I am a basically well intentioned sort of dog, but not given to promiscuous NSA intimacy with mere strangers, no matter how damned perky they are.

Unhappily, Linda failed to convey that information to at least one of her fellow groomers, a particularly perky young thing barely out of high school. Said groomer, (understandably) beguiled by my big floppy ears and expressive almond eyes, decided to pop right over to my grooming table and give me a hug and a kiss.

Well, it’s not like I actually bit her or anything--I did not. But I did let her know, in no uncertain terms, that she was not a member of that inner circle who is allowed to kiss His Dextrousity right on the nose any old time she or he feels like it. (In point of fact, that circle consists pretty much entirely of the biped, who (alas) shows very little inclination to kiss me on the nose.)

Apparently, though, there were no hard feelings. Linda, in fact, seemed to think the whole thing was pretty funny. And we scheduled my next appointment on our way out, so I am apparently not dogona non grata at the local PetSmart.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot...

Apparently, some people who frequent this space would rather hear silly cat stories, rendered in a laughable attempt at a French accent, than the true, genuine, authentic, and deeply moving chronicles of yours truly.

And when I say authentic, by the way, I know whereof I speak. Certainly, you know that I myself am a dog of Scottish descent. And I believe I may have mentioned recently that my verra biped is an illegitimate descendant of Lenny the Bruce himself.

What? Oh, yes. Robert the Bruce.

Either way, we're all very proud of the bastard, I'm sure.

But be that as it may or might not, if you are just looking for some mind-numbingly frivolous light entertainment of the Gallic variety, then I am verra much afraid you have come to the wrong place, Lass.

You betcha!

Apparently, I am so damn smart, I speak Norwegian in my sleep. Or so the biped tells me.

It seems he was about half asleep very early this morning when it came to his attention that the bipedess was repeating nei--Norwegian for no--over and over in a tone of voice suggestive of a mild reprimand to a pet or small child. She just kept saying it, at evenly spaced intervals, for the longest time, he tells me: Nei!... nei!... nei!...

To whom, the biped wondered, was she speaking? And why was she speaking Norwegian?

After a while, he noticed that the bipedess' pronunciation of nei was getting a little ragged toward the end, more of a neing... neinnng... neingsxxxxxxxxx... It was at that point that the biped fully awoke and realized (1) that it was I, rather than the bipedess, who was speaking, and (2) that I was not so much saying nei as I was snoring with a slightly herring-tinged accent.

His outspoken praise for my linguistic versatility woke me up, so he had to get up and let me outside. The bipedess had to get up early this morning anyway to teach a class. So we all got a bright and early start on our day. Or dag, as we Norwegians like to say.

Back by popular demand (thank you, James), it's...

...Dr. Dexter, Language Dog!

Actual quote from Friday's "Road Test" column by syndicated automotive journalist Ann M. Job:

Downshift the six-speed manual transmission, and feel the torque jettison the car forward.

At the risk of stepping on the toes of Capt'n Dexter, Salty Nautical Dog, I must tell you that jettisoning things forward is almost always a bad idea. If you are on a sailboat, you should generally jettison things--if you jettison them at all--to leeward (pronounced lurid). On a power boat--"stinkpot" to all you true sailors out there--you can jettison things either to lurid or aft. But, no matter what sort of vessel you're in (including, presumably, the 2009 Honda Civic Si sedan), jettisoning things forward while underway will almost invariably result in a nasty surprise, as said things are blown back in your face.

So, either Ms. Job is no kind of sailor at all, or, she hasn't the foggiest idea what jettison means. I'm willing to give her the benefit of the doubt and go with whichever she finds less embarrassing.

From an on-line koi fanciers forum dealing with the inadvisability of purchasing your koi at PetSmart:

One of the fish I bought at PetSmart was pretty laconic for several days, but he recovered fine later on.

Unless you own a specimen of the illusive and possibly mythical Norwegian Blue, I'm guessing all your koi are pretty laconic pretty much all the time. We've had ours for months now, and not one of them has said a damn thing.

Not even when waterboarded.

Falleth-ing like the gentle rain from heaven... not!

Apparently, I've got more clout with Saint Dexeter than I thought. Or Saint Dexeter has more pull with the National Weather Service. Or something.

Because, no sooner had I complained yesterday about the ridiculously piffling rain we'd been getting, than the heavens opened and let forth a deluge, a downpour, a veritable gully washer. It went on, with varying degrees of intensity, all day and well into the night. I was impressed. Mostly with myself, but still...

I was also a bit worried that my Saturday morning hike might be jeopardized. The forecast called for more rain this morning. Last night, the biped said we'll just have to wait and see. Then, Lo and Behold, this morning dawned clear and beautiful--sparklin' weather, sparklin'!

And, to pile one miracle on top of another, the bipedess actually got up with us at 0-dark-thirty this morning and came along on our hike with us, a thing I'm pretty sure you will find previously unchronicled in the entire chronicles of Saint Dexeter and me, his current representative here on Earth.

Rain, rain...

Rain no doubt has its place. I'm not saying it doesn't. And its place is, I believe, Oregon. Possibly Florida, if you like your rain at body temperature.

And, OK, yes, we could probably even use some in California, I'm told. But this just fries my arf. For two days now, it's been just rainy enough to keep every exterior surface, including our entire yard, wet to the touch, just rainy enough to turn any exposed dirt to sticky slimy mud, without being rainy enough to do anybody any conceivable good. The reservoirs are not filling. The snow pack is not accumulating. There are no entertaining downpours or thunder storms.

Just dreary useless wet.

It's enough to make an otherwise active dog want to spend all day inside lying (not laying, dammit!) by the fire. Except that it's not cold enough to have a fire. It's not even cold enough for the biped to be comfortable wearing a sweatshirt when he walks me. Nor quite warm enough for him to be comfortable in a T-shirt.

This is just way too much of neither one thing nor the other. Let's have some weather, by God! Maybe even a season or two. It would make for a nice change of pace.

The treeing of the great blue heron

I feel that I finally came into my own this morning as a bird dog. I don't point. I don't retrieve. I don't flush (don't you just hate that, ladies?). I don't tend to do much of anything about birds except chase their shadows.

But this morning at Garland Park, there was a great blue heron, just standing there on the far side of the Mesa pond, taunting me with his very existence. For all I knew, that very heron might have been best buddies with the putative snowy egret who may or may not have terrorized my little fishy friends a couple of weeks ago.

Well, I wasn’t having any of it. Enough is enough, and I yam what I yam, and all that. I dashed around the pond at full lope, and scared that great blue bugger right into the top of a nearby tree. Let's just see him and his egret homies bully Koi-Tron and Barry and the Boyz from up there.

snort

California come-uppance

One week ago tomorrow, as the biped's hoity-toity facebook friends will already know, we awoke to find the basement flooded and the house without hot water or heat. The flood was caused by a leaking water heater, and in turn caused the demise of the furnace.

The biped got the basement pumped out, and the plumber got the water heater replaced, that same day. Someone would be around on Friday, we were told, to take a look at the furnace. No problem, the biped said; this is, after all, California, where even the rain is warm. And it was, too. Last week.

But the furnace needed a circuit board that had to be ordered, no doubt from China, who, for a change, wanted its money up front or something. Whatever. The circuit board is only this morning getting installed and the furnace--one hopes--restored to working order.

In the interim, the rain stopped, and the cold set in. All right, we are talking California cold here. I know I won't get a lot of sympathy from my pals in the uninhabitable parts of the country. But still. The outside temperature has gotten down to 32 degrees or below the last couple of nights. The inside temperature this morning was 54 degrees.

Which I mention only because I'm pretty sure my contrak calls for a heated dormitory. If this keeps up, I may have to seek other employment.

Oh, yeah: Phoebe delenda est.

I think I feel a Fred-ism coming on.

BEGIN FREDISM

If I didn’t dribble dry dog food from my bowl in the kitchen, through the TV room, and out into the hall, how would I ever find my way back to the kitchen?

END FREDISM

On another matter entirely:

I think that only the worst sort of cad would suggest that the First Lady was ill served by the designer of her ball gown, or that she looked anything other than svelte in it. Or that she might want to ask the President to have the designer extraordinarily rendered to Paraguay or something.

Sometimes I just slay me.

Ah, yoot! What wouldn't I give to be so vain and gullible again? Well, now that I think about it, nothing, really.

But that is largely upside the point.

I wouldn't like to say that Phoebe is stupid, exactly. She is certainly evil, unprincipled, and duplicitous. But not stupid. Exactly. Merely young. (There is a difference, though I will freely admit it is sometimes difficult to discern.)

I've decided she's got to go. So I told her she is really the queen of France. Upon reflection, she found that quite plausible, apparently. Once she has learned to use the cat door, I have offered to kindly point her toward her kingdom (and give her a nice kick in the arse to get her started, too!).

Now if only I can somehow get the bipeds to speed up their cat-door training program.

Getting the stench of pussy cat out of my- (magnificent) nostrils

We've been having unseasonably pleasant weather here in Greater Metropolitan Spreckels the last few days. Mid afternoon temperatures in the low to mid 70s. Very nice indeed.

Which is not to say it isn't coolish at 6:45 in the morning. Still, with the promise of higher temperatures coming, the biped decided to take DexCorp 1 over to Garland Park for our Saturday morning hike today. He was a little worried, he tells me, that I might be too cold in the open sidecar. But it's only about a 20 minute drive, so he figured I'd survive, one way or the other.

Well, I did not merely survive, I found it positively unintoxicating. I sat up almost the whole way, letting the wind fluff my flews, flap my ears, and blow the odious smell of cat right out of my nostrils. It was a return to the good old days, the right order of things. Just me and the biped on the open road at 0-dark-thirty.

The hike itself was very nice, of course; it always is. And then another bracing ride home. Damn! I’m ready for another road trip!

In other news:

DexCorp is proud to announce that we have so far used well under $1 billion of our federal bailout money for safety improvements to DexCorp 1 and employee retraining/retention programs of an unspecifiable nature. Things may--let us be realistic here, Littermates--get better before they get worse, and then start all over again on the second tranch of our money, but the important thing to remember is that DexCorp will always stand behind our corporate slogan: Better Living Through Duplicity. Thank you.

A whole series of highly egretable events.

First, I find out that Phoebe, the vile beast, is merely trying to use me--Me, the Rev. Chairman Dr. Dexter, DBS--to further her own nepotistic schemes (or do I mean rastafarious?). It's not like I can't read, you know, you stupid, evil... cat you. (Damn, she's cute!)

And then, the nose-slicing, back-stabbing little puff ball scores Diary of the Day on Catster. In her first arfing week, for Dog's sake. Can a black dog get no justice in this tabby cat's world? (Don't bother; it's a retrospeculative question to which I already know the answer all too well, alas.)

And if all that were not enough, some pin-feather-shedding snowy egret has been interfering with my pet koi! The day before yesterday, my bipedal assistant assures me, all nine koi were present at lunch time for their regular feeding.

(Usage Note: The correct phrase is "present or accounted for," not "present and accounted for." If everyone is present, there is no need to account for anyone. If eight koi were present, and you knew the other one was at the dentist, you could then say that they were all present or accounted for. Since they were all, in fact, present, we can just leave it at that.)

Then yesterday, when the biped went out to feed them, there was no sign of them at all. Not so much as a fishy little nose peaking out from under their flat-rock shelter. Then the biped saw a largish white pin feather floating on the water, and the scales fell from his eyes. He was very much afraid that the egret--for it could not have been a heron--had eaten all our little fish buddies.

But last night, after dark, when the pond lights were on, we saw at least eight of them out and about, grazing nervously whilst looking over their metaphysical shoulders as it were.

The biped was hoping they might have calmed down by lunch time today, and he'd be able to get an accurate head count. But no; they are just as scarce today as they were yesterday. Our pond consultant says fish may stay frightened for as much as four weeks after a bird attack.

So now, I don't even get to contemplate (or count) koi while licking the psychic wounds that the felonious little feline has inflicted upon me.

My life is so hard!

What kind of dog does she take me for, anyway?

Phoebe--the precocious little beast!--wants to sleep with me! I explained to her that she is far too young and far too small--even Spiney Norma was more than twice her size when last seen--but she just won't listen to reason. She insists that I should get up and let her into the bipeds' bedroom in the wee small hours one of these nights real soon. Says she will make it worth my while!

But I am an honorable sort of dog and have explained to her that I absolutely will not sleep with her until she weighs at least 25 pounds.

What?

Six or eight pounds, max?

You're sure?

Well, spit! That puts a somewhat different complexion on the thing.

Perhaps I should start focusing my 15-watt laser-like intellect on mastering the technology of the door knob.

And then, of course, I'll need night-vision goggles.

Did you ever notice...

...that the background color on Catster resembles nothing so much as cat vomit?

I'm just sayin'...

What a guy won't do...

...just for a little pussy cat.

When Phoebe was first introduced into our household, an impartial but uninformed observer might have been forgiven for supposing that I harbored some ill intent toward her. I didn't. But someone who didn't know me might have thought so.

I would come into a room. She would run away and hide. I would pursue, and then stake out her hiding place. That sort of thing.

But, over the last week, as she fled more slowly, I pursued more slowly. When she stopped fleeing entirely, I stopped pursuing.

Now, if she lies down, I lie down near her. And just stare at her all moon-eyed. If she walks haughtily away, I do not pursue; rather, I follow. A supplicant.

Sometimes, she will suffer me to touch noses with her. Other times, for no reason at all--no sane reason at all, I tell you--the little vixen hisses and spits at me! It's enough to drive a dog crazy.

But she's just so damn cute!

One big happy family

We are getting used to each other, Phoebe and I.

When I enter the room, she still tends to remember that she has unfinished business inside the entertainment center cabinet or behind the stove. But she doesn't act like it's particularly urgent business. I still tend to make a detour in her general direction. But I'm not in a big hurry, and I'm not all aquiver. It's more of a pro forma sort of thing. If I am remembering my Latin correctly.

She seems like a sensible sort of cat, really. For a kitten, I mean. She is, like me, brave, but not crazy brave. If the shortest distance between her and her hidey-hole of choice involves moving towards me before she can move away, that's what she does. She will advance upon me in a cautious, non-threatening sort of way, hissing like a dewhistled tea kettle. Then she will make her move for cover. I scarcely even respond anymore.

Last night, after the bipedess had gone to bed (to warm it up, she said; as if, the biped said), the biped was watching a documentary of some sort about Tom Petty. I was asleep on the floor, right in front of the entertainment center cabinet, wherein Phoebe was lurking. Presently, she came out the back of the cabinet, marched right around my sleeping head, and hopped into the biped's lap. Where she promptly went to sleep.

Yes, we are all getting quite comfortable with each other. (Or is that one another, Miss Rutherford?)

Wild Thing...

...You make my heart sing.

Well, no. That is probably an exoneration.

But she does make me shake like a dog spittin' peach pits.

Twice yesterday, and once so far today, I have been led into the very presence of the Phoebe. I have been made to lie down and stay. But I have not been made--cannot be made--not to shiver with anticipatory delight. I was so excited yesterday afternoon that I could not even be made to notice the bits of string cheese the biped was trying to give me for being such a good dog. I only had eyes for her.

The biped kept me in a sit-stay until young Phoebe had staged a tactical retreat into the entertainment center cabinet. Then I was allowed to go investigate. I stopped shivering and walked across the room quite calmly. I inserted my magnificent (and not remotely threatening) muzzle into the front of the cabinet.

At that point, a hissing fur ball of the approximate mass and color of the Phoebe disappeared through the open back of the cabinet into the corner, whence she could not be persuaded to re-emerge.

Still, I think we are making progress. I remain moonstruck.

The Beast

The moon, like a flower
In heaven's high bower,
With silent delight
Sits and smiles on the night

-William Blake

The wee beastie has taken up residence. Its name is Phoebe. I have not actually seen it yet. But I have smelled its presence. And its goods and chattels, too. I have been led, leashed, into its very lair and made to lie down all docile-like, that it might meet me if it chose.

But it did not. Choose to meet me, I mean. Rather, it remained in hiding behind the entertainment center.

I have a feeling this is going to be a long courtship... er... catship.

The biped assures me that Phoebe is quite cute--a delectable little morsel. Worth the wait, no doubt.

Well, that's better!

Oregon was a dead bust. Rained the whole time we were there. Never got a hike, barely even a walk. Twelve hours in the car on the way up. Twelve hours in the car on the way down. It would not be overstating the case to say that I had bit of pent up energy that needed running off.

Today dawned clear and bright and beautiful here in Greater Metropolitan Spreckels. I had my own (dry) yard to dash around in and sunshine to bask in. But, as of two o’clock or so, I still had not had a walk or a hike.

Then, at the bipedess's suggestion, the bipeds took me for an afternoon hike at Garland Park, a thing almost unheard of. The weather was perfect for hiking--crystal clear and the temperature in the low sixties.

There were gazillions of other dogs there--something you don't tend to see at 0 dark thirty of a Saturday morning. We even met up with a Belgian Malinois--looked like a cross between a German Shepherd and a Pharaoh hound to me. Very cool looking, in any case.

I'm feeling much better now.

A joke's a joke...

But this is ridiculous.

The whole state is already a damn swamp, and it just keeps raining. We're heading home tomorrow. What a crappy trip!

So what else is new?

Well, here we are in Oregon. It's raining. Hard. Harder. Hardest. The drains backed up this morning, and a plumber had to be called. Silly bipeds. My toilet never overflows.

Plumbers work cheap in Oregon, even on Sundays. That's something.

I have a feeling we'll be back home soon.

Where's Schroedinger when you arfing need him?

I think I may have mentioned to you that the bipedess was contemplating acquiring a kitten. I was given to understand, however, that it was still a fairly hypothetical sort of kitten, the kind of kitten that might, with luck, never actually materialize in this particular universe. Not before we got back from Oregon, anyway.

But, like Rick in Casablanca, I was misinformed.

Range Master and Laura Lark came over last night to share in the Christmas Eve festivities, spend the night, and be here for Christmas morning. Well, one of the Christmas Eve festivities around here is the opening of one gift by each participant.

None of the presents under the tree either smelled or sounded the least bit like a kitten, so I was completely blindsided when the bipedess opened a flattish little present from RM & LL and withdrew therefrom a sort of dossier, if that is the word, providing all the particulars of the kitten that had already been acquired for her from the local humane society! Evidently, said kitten has to have a superfluous part or two removed before she will be ready for actual delivery, so the timing works out just fine.

For the bipedess, maybe.

And, just to add insult to injury, I discovered this morning that the biped had been in on the scam all along. Why else would he have bought the bipedess a SpotBot? Apparently, he got the idea for that little gift item last summer in Allen, TX, when I did just the tiniest bit of marking at Izzy and Maxwell’s house, and Abby whipped out her ever-ready SpotBot to vacate my claim, as it were. Thanks, guys.

A package from Pennsylvania

(No, this is not the "picket to Tittsburgh" joke!)

Two days ago, we received in the mail a large cardboard box from the Senior and Mrs. Bipup in Hatsboro, PA, where they now reside, alas.

Since the box itself was not festively wrapped, the biped immediately deduced that it would be permissible to open it. Which he did.

At first glance, it appeared to be full of biodegradable foam peanuts. Which is all very environmentally responsible and whatnot, but hardly worth shipping coast to coast. Twice (I immediately recognized these as the self-same foam peanuts the biped had used to ship Christmas gifts to Hatsboro a couple of weeks ago--biodegradable and recycled. Doesn't it just warm the cockles of your little heart?)

But just a little rummaging around in the peanuts revealed festively wrapped presents. One each for the biped, the bipedess, the junior bipup (aka Range Master), and his faithful companion, Laura Lark. Well, fine. I was happy for them. Truly. In a ho-hum, what's-in-it-for-me kind of way.

But then, from the very bowels of the box, the biped produced a ginormous candy-cane shaped, multi-hued, rawhide chew stout enough to bludgeon a Jack Russell terrier into some semblance of civility (though that would be wrong, of course). This wondrous Staff of Stuff was in its original store packaging, but was not gift wrapped, so the biped figured that I--given particularly that I am quite unaware of having committed any sins that anybody else might need to be nailed up for--might as well have it right away. So he gave it to me.

I took it with all the awe and reverence such an object inspires. I waited for the biped to avert his eyes. Then I placed it on the seat of honor on my throw pillow on the TV room floor. Where I left it in complete peace until the next morning--yesterday morning, that is.

The thing is, I don't chew things. I just don't. I probably wouldn't have to have my teeth cleaned so damn often if I did. But I don't.

I do recognize an Object of Power when I see it, though. And that candy-cane rawhide chew is clearly an Object of Power.

So, yesterday morning, when the biped made as if to let me outside, I first dashed into the TV room and retrieved my Object. I then strode proudly out the front door, brandishing it like a field marshal's baton. As soon as the biped closed the door behind me, I put the Object down on the porch and went about my business.

The biped tells me I'm an odd sort of dog.

Oh, Merry Christmas, by the way. And if that's not your holiday of choice, please feel perfectly free to go to work tomorrow--I'm not narrow minded.

If they can make edible panties--

and I have it on good authority that they can--you'd think they could make edible curtains. And if edible curtains were widely available in Billings, Montana, then my good friend and erstwhile host, Rajah Q., would not be undergoing all the veterinary indignities he is now being forced to undergo.

So, there's one product idea, free for the filching.

Here's another:

Inedible curtains. You know, like stainless steel chain mail, something along those lines. I mean, if a dog can't digest it, let's fix it so he can't arfing well swallow it, either.

I, myself, in my carefree youth, was known to eat the occasional rock--easy to swallow, very hard to digest. In my opinion, all rocks should be either too big to swallow, or made out of peanut butter (or possibly beef bullion cubes).

But I digress.

My point is, people (and you will note, it is always people, never dogs!) who make things out of such ambivalent materials as fabric, for Dog's sake, should probably be sued until their little sinuses bleed. But in the mean time, let's all spare a thought for poor Rajah, Nali, and Casey.

Westside Snorey

Note to bipedess:

In the unfortunate--and, one hopes, unlikely--event that I am ever shot and lie dying in your arms, do not sing me a show tune. If you do, I will bite you. If it's my last arfing act on earth.

Fields of gold on ice

When I say that I am a conservative sort of dog, I am not making a political statement. I am not a political dog. And neither are you, your people's possible protestations to the contrary notwithstanding. I mean, simply, that I like things how I like them--the right way, the time honored way, the way the memory of dog runneth not to the contrary. Of.

Here is how things are supposed to work on Saturday mornings:

The biped and I are supposed to get up around sixish, leaving the bipedess to sleep in until half past later than you probably think. The biped is supposed to let me out the back door to take care of my twa-lette. While I am thus occupied, he is supposed to get dressed in his dog-hiking outfit. At no later than six-thirty-ish, he is supposed to come around the side of the house, let me into the front yard, and load me into the morning's chosen vehicle, which, this time of year, tends to be the Forester. Then, we are supposed to hot foot it over to Garland Park and have our weekly hike.

Here is what happened last Saturday morning:

Six o'clock came and went. Seven o'clock came and went. Around seven-thirty or so the biped coughed his way out of bed. He did not put on his dog-hiking outfit. He did not arfing well take me for a hike. Ever. At all. Then, in the afternoon, when he might at least have been expected to take me for a walk around town, he and the bipedess went off to see possibly the worst movie ever made about Australia, World War II, and cattle driving, all rolled into one enormously boring three-hour package.

Here is what happened this morning:

The biped--whose bladder, apparently, ain't the organ it once was--got up at five-thirty. He let me out back into the sub-freezing dark. He fiddle-arfed around checking his email and keeping a sharp eye out for the morning paper, whilst I shivered in the back yard. Reflecting upon the fact that we weren't going to leave for Garland Park until at least six-thirty, he decided to let me back into the house.

Well, that was just wrong. It's supposed to be back yard, side yard, car, Garland Park. Not back yard, inside, watch him read the paper, front yard, wait, then car, Garland Park. It was almost enough to make me question my faith in... no, wait... never mind.

But we did go to Garland Park this morning. And I had a great time. It was 32 degrees and clear. The sandy soil was all frozen and crunchy. We had the place pretty much all to ourselves (us and the mountain lions, presumably).

We got up to the Mesa Pond just as the sun came over the hills, so that the biped's shadow--never very long metaphorically--was cast clear across the pond to the far hillside.

The grass on the Mesa was golden in the morning light and sparkly with ice.

Oh, and I managed to get out of the biped's sight for long enough to roll in some really fresh horse spit, without his even noticing it until he was grooming me after the hike.

Quite a satisfactory morning, even if it did get off to a disquieting start.

My work speaks for itself.

I don't like to brag, Littermates, but sometimes I'm so good I amaze even myself.

Earlier this morning, I was in the front room of the biped's office suite, lying at my master's feet, as I am wont to do. Not because I am particularly fond of his feet, mind you, but because his feet, very much like the rest of him, were inside, where it is dry and the temperature is pushing 70, rather than outside, where a torrential rain was falling, and the temperature was in the high 30s.

Then, for reasons that I saw no need to announce immediately, I got up and walked into the back room, where it is still dry, but somewhat less warm. Just as the biped was wondering why I had suddenly wandered off, the awful (dare I say awesome?) truth hit him. Right in both nostrils.

Now, as my Canadian friend, Eli, can attest, I have never had any trouble clearing a room of bipeds. But this one was so rank, I had to leave the room myself. And I'm a dog who likes to eat his own spit, given the opportunity.

Maybe I should audition for American Idol.

From: The Biped

To: Barry T. Koi

Subject: RE: Foodworthiness

Dear Barry,

As I have stopped taking Theraflu at night (at least for the time being), I do not expect to be having any further exchange of emails with you. So please pay attention--I will only be saying this once.

You are a very pretty fish. In a sloppy, inebriated, tranny sort of way--Liza Minelli on a bender does a better job with her lipstick, frankly.

But you are not my chosen one or Best Beloved. You are one $5.99 pond-quality koi in a pond full of $5.99 pond-quality koi. Get over yourself.

Or I will be forced to rat you out to Koi-Tron. And nobody wants to see that.

Sincerely,

He Who controls the garden hose

From the Junk Mail Folder of the Biped’s Fever Dreams

To: Thou Who art perpetually above all surface tension

From: Barry T. (Chosen) Koi

Subject: Foodworthiness

I am the prettiest fish, Lord, and most worthy. I have shiny silver scales and orange lipstick. I have silver eye shadow and black stripy fins. I am the best one, Lord, and most worthy.

My brother, Valdez, is plain, and unworthy.

Laverne and Shirley are mere non-fishities.

Cassy is a big fat slut, unfit to feed herons, Lord. (If you don’t mind my saying so.)

I am the best one, Lord, and send you supplicatory emails of the highest praise. Only I.

Koi-Tron sends no emails to you, Lord. Koi-Tron is a fool! (But you will not tell him, Lord, that I said so? I pray you will not!)

Eric and Wally and Bob look more like sardines than proper koi, Lord. Let them eat planktonic algae, Thy will be done!

So I entreat Thee, Lord, to drop more of Thy beneficent food pellets over Thy humble servant's beauteous barbels.

Pond without end.

Amen.

Whew!

Well, it appears that I will not be sharing my accommodations with a puppy any time soon. It turns out that the breed rescue group in whose clutches this particular litter of Labs finds itself will not place one of their dogs in a home with another dog that is not spayed/neutered under any circumstances. As nearly as I can make out, this is a philosophical, rather than a practical, position. Apparently, my testicles offend them in principle, never mind that, in my experience, I am as likely to get humped by a neutered male (yes, Maxwell, I am talking about you) as I am to hump a spayed female (we'll always have Billings, Nali, Sweetheart).

Anyway, it's a relief to me, really. And I don't think the biped is actually all that disappointed, either, if the truth be told. But, you know, he is the biped. So he's going around muttering about his new theory that breed-specific rescue groups actually promote puppy mills by Hoovering up all the in-demand breeds that might otherwise be found at local shelters and then putting silly obstacle after silly obstacle in the way of anyone who might have the effrontery to try to adopt from them. And, of course, they go to great trouble and expense to Hoover up their chosen breed (this litter of Labs had come all the way from Georgia, I believe), so they demand some fairly stiff adoption fees, even if they do condescend to let you borrow one of their dogs.

But, hey... I don't have to share my digs with any damn puppy, so I'm fine with it.

What?

A kitten?

Sez who?

Spit! I have just been informed that the bipedess is dead set on acquiring a kitten. And I don't think she's talking about one of those feeder kittens, either.

Perhaps it's just a negotiating ploy.

Yesterday afternoon, the bipeds disappeared for a couple of hours. Nothing particularly unusual about that. But when they came back, they positively reeked of puppies! Lab puppies. Seven of them, unless I am very much mistook.

Based on the olfactory information I was able to tease out of their pant legs, they had been off inspecting a litter of seven six-week old Lab puppies, two black and five yellow. They had lavished the most attention on a yellow bitch wearing a pink ribbon around her neck. (Yes, I am that good!)

What I cannot smell out is their exact intentions relative to this little hussy. (Well, yes, of course their intentions are honorable (honorabler than mine, anyway)). But the question is, are they out to replace me, or merely to supplement me? I cannot say that I would be unalterably opposed (though I do expect to remain unaltered!) to the introduction into the household of an emergency backup bitch of some sort. A bench warmer, as it were. Maybe somebody to humor the biped about this whole fetch fetish of his.

But if they think they can replace the Reverend Chairman Dr. Dexter, DBS with some common street urchin of a Lab brat... if they think they can pee on my head and tell me it's raining... well then, we'll just see whose hiking boots get crapped in by whom (and upon whom the deed gets blamed, ho, ho, arfing ho!).

I can only hope I like his tactics half as well.

The biped tells me that I have just been strategically wormed (or is that dewormed?). Either way, it tasted to me like I was getting strategically string-cheese balled, which works for me.

So this is middle age, huh?

I have recently (and deservedly) been taken to task for the ever longer lacunae that have been appearing in my diary. I believe they started to creep in shortly after the successful conclusion of the PupPal Tour last summer and have grown to truly alarming dimensions since the biped blundered onto facebook.

I, myself, have no interest whatsoever in facebook, of course. But I would nevertheless be willing to cut the biped a little slack, if hanging out on facebook were really floating his boat--he has, after all, been a reasonably good companion biped these last five years. But he doesn't even appear to be enjoying himself much, so what, I ax you, is the point?

Well, Dexter, I did just this morning, succeed in making contact with an old high school friend I hadn't seen in almost 20 years.

As I was saying... What's the arfing point? I mean, it's not like they were real close, is it? And tracking down people who have shown no particular interest in tracking you down for 20 years or so could, to those not fully alive to the many benefits of facebook, conceivably look just the tiniest bit like stalking.

So I am going to attempt to reassert myself here.

In the latest news about moi:

1. My leg feels just fine, thanks.

2. Uh...

Well, OK, maybe it is not entirely the biped's fault. Maybe I've lost my edge. Maybe I'm bored spitless. Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk, walk, hike. Drink pond water. Sleep. Repeat. I mean, it's not a long ride in a sidecar rig, is it?

You know who I haven't seen in a long time? Spiny Norma.

And on the seventh day...

...I rested.

And not because the biped was lazy, either (though he is!). But because I appear to have done myself an injury of some sort.

Yesterday morning, we went for our regular hike at Garland Park. I was my usual energetic, athletic self. No indication that anything whatever had happened to me.

But I just lay around for most of the rest of the day. And when I did get up, I found that I did not want to put any weight on my left rear leg. My paw didn't hurt--the biped inspected it pretty thoroughly, and, not only did he not find anything, but I showed no signs of discomfort during the inspection.

Once I get up and move around a bit, I can put weight on my leg and move pretty normally. I'm thinking pulled muscle or sprain or something along those lines.

I was better today, but still a bit gimpy. So the bipeds went off without me to take a walk and just left me home to rest up. And here's the real wonder: I didn't even resent it.

Tomorrow I'll either be better or I'll be heading in to see my old friend Dr. Ponder, I guess.

In the spirit of sharing

I thought you might like a copy of the bipedess' holiday rosé recipe.

You will need:

8 bottles of Pinot Grigio
4 bottles of Syrah
21 diners
1 plastic funnel

Directions:

Have guests open all 12 bottles of wine.

Have guests drink most of the contents of every bottle, being careful to leave several bottles only partially consumed.

Later that evening, use plastic funnel to combine contents of partially consumed bottles.

In a fit of myopic fatigue, combine 1/3 bottle of Syrah with 1/2 bottle of Pinot Grigio.

Produces a pleasing little rosé with the full body of a peanut and a syrahous bad attitude.

Well, thanks. I guess.

Is it customary in your neck of the woods, Littermates, to lock the guest of honor in the back yard all day whilst you belatedly celebrate his birthday? No? Well, I thought it was strange, too. But, apparently there was some concern that I might spill the gravy or eat the Spanish guests' children or something. So I was put out back before the first guests arrived and kept there until most of them had departed.

On the plus side, I did get a lot of interesting food: bird guts, gravy, turkey skin...

While we are on the subject of turkey skin, let me just say, as an aside, that--friendly, easy going, non-food-aggressive dog though I may normally be--you do not want to be in the same room with me and a big hunk of turkey skin. It's mine, you see. All of it. And, even if you are not disputing that point, you had best keep your distance.

...Now then, where was I?

I believe you were finished, Dexter.

Oh.

Well, what do they pack?

From the Monterey County Herald, Thursday, November 27, 2008:

Women make up 77 percent of company shareholders at the Mann Packing Company.

One wonders if some of them at least were not laboring under a misapprehension as to the actual nature of the enterprise.

Blowing it out my vent here, Boss!

My actual birthday was a little over two weeks ago. No local notice whatso-arfing-ever was taken of it at the time--though many of you did send your salutations, and I appreciate it, truly I do. I had begun to think, though, that the bipeds had genuinely forgotten about me.

But it turns out that the celebration simply had to be postponed until such time as the maximum number of celebrants could align their social calendars. And that time would be today, apparently.

Apart from the early rising bipeds themselves, no one is here yet but the senior and Mrs. Bipup, and they are still soundly asleep in the bipup's reconstituted upstairs bedroom. One presumes, at least, that they are asleep--I do not inquire closely into these matters. It's not that I'm discreet; it's just that I'm incurious.

But the dining room is cram packed with place settings for a number of people that I, myself, can only describe as several, but which, the biped assures me, is in actual fact 21.

And I'm sure we'll all have a gay old time when they arrive, too. But I've already got a belly full of soggy kibble, cooked turkey innards, and broth. I am a provisionally happy dog.

On another matter altogether, the biped has been instructed by one of his pals--who claimed, by the way, to be quoting me--he has been instructed, I say, to blow it out his vent. Why, exactly, I do not know--as I've said, I am, after the fashion of my breed, pleasingly incurious. Still, I am more than willing to instruct him on the actual procedure--I may be incurious, but I am always eager to help.

The biped, however, is not cooperating. He won't even go out in the yard with me and try. Maybe this evening when he's all liquored up.

No-account Larry

Like Natalee Holloway, Larry the Loner is officially listed as missing. If I am to be brutally frank with you, though, Littermates, I would have to say that I do not really expect either one of them to turn up.

Not only does koi count after koi count tally only nine fishies, we are now able, the biped and I, to recognize the individual fish and are therefore able to assert with great confidence that Larry the Loner is not being swapped in off the bench, as it were. There simply is no Larry the Loner in the pond. Not in his fleshly form, anyway.

Some time ago, before we had come to know the little lungless wonders by name, the biped spotted a fish floating listlessly just above the bottom of the pond. So listless was this fish, in fact, that the biped decided that he must be dead. When the biped tried to net his little corpus out, however, said fish swam vigorously away. Our current operating theory is that that was Larry the Loner, that he was unwell, and that he has since died and been eaten by his grieving brethren (and sisteren!).

In case you are interested, here is the roster of the nine koi who have not so far been eaten by anything at all:

Koi-Tron

Sterling (formerly Metallica)

Valdez (formerly Oil Spill)

Bob Marley (formerly One-Eyed Bob)

Momma Cass (formerly Cassiopeia—This young lady has gotten so fat she fairly waddles when she swims.)

Eric

Erich (formerly Erik)

Laverne (formerly unnamed)

Shirley (formerly unnamed—Shirley is the current runt, but she seems healthy enough.)

One's blue, and one isn't.

A question has arisen as to whether or not I can tell the difference between a herring and a heron. Well, let me... ah... just say this about that:

Yes I can!

-Rev. Chairman Dr. Dexter, DBS, Secretary Designate of Vacuous Slogans

Never a great blue herring when you really need one!

I have encountered several great blue herrings over the years on my Garland Park hikes. So, 1) I know they're around, and 2) I have, I think, earned their good will by never actually capturing one--and it's not like a couldn't have, mind you!

And if I have ever perhaps scared or even discomfited a great blue herring, I would like to make it up to him by inviting him over for dinner some evening real soon. I understand they're very fond of koi.

While I, frankly and on the other hand, am beginning to find the little interlopers somewhat tiresome. The biped insists on staring at the cold-blooded little bastards to the exclusion of devoting his full attention to me.

Just last night, the biped and I were sitting out on the deck having a drink and enjoying the warm November evening. He was sitting in a deck chair staring into the pond. I was sitting on the deck, just out of his reach, staring at him.

Biped: Dexter, I can't pet you if I can't reach you, you know.

Dexter:

Biped: All right, you little prick! Just sit there and stare. See if I care!

Dexter: [approaches, puts very wet muzzle on biped's knee and presses down while continuing to stare beseechingly]

Biped: What the hell do you want, Dexter? You've just eaten. You've just drunk half the damn pond. You're already outside. What???

Dexter:

Biped: All right! That's it, you little cretin! You're out of here!

At which point, he hustled me off the deck and closed the gate behind me.

So... If you happen to be a great blue herring hankering after a little koi fry, give me a buzz: (831) 555-1212. Just ax for Dexter.

No assembly required

The biped, as at least a minimal human being and an American citizen in reasonably good standing, has a right to assemble. But he does not, generally speaking, like to assemble. He would, in fact, often be willing to pay good money to be excused from assembling. Oh, he can do it, in a pinch. But he'd really rather not, thanks.

So, what's the problem, you may well ax?

Well, apparently, the poor boy feels he's being unconstitutionally discriminated against.

Dexter: But, Boss, don't you have the same right to assemble as everybody else?

Biped: Yes, Dexter, but that's not the point. The point is, I have no use for the right to assemble. So, effectively, gregarious people have one more right than I do, which is just plain wrong.

Dexter: Up to a point, Lord Cop... I mean, I guess that is one way of looking at it, Boss. What's to be done?

Biped: People who feel like I do about assemblies should have the right to disassemble.

Dexter: But, surely, Boss, no one is making you assemble?

Biped: You don't understand, Dexter. I'm not talking about the right not to assemble. I'm talking about the right to disassemble. We want the right to disassemble, and we want it now! By golly!

Dexter: Well, but, Boss, who would you be wanting to disassemble?

Biped: Well, I don't know, Dexter. Maybe nobody. Maybe the neighbor kids, for a start. I'm sure there are lots of people who could use some serious disassembling.

Well, I couldn't argue with him there, really. But I did, anyway.

Dexter: Well, Boss, granted I am not an expert on constitutional law. But I don't think that's how it works. I don't think the fact that you have no use for a particular right entitles you to make up a new right to suit yourself.

Biped: Careful, Dexter! That kind of hateful talk could cost you your job, your reputation, and most of your best friends.

Dexter: You mean those of my best friends who do not believe in discriminating between an honest but contrary opinion and blatant disgregaraphobia?

Biped: Those would be the ones.

Familiarity breeds... methane?

It seems that, no sooner do you give a fish a classy and feminine name than she starts... well... farting in the pond. Not audibly, mind you (except, perhaps, to the other koi). But quite visibly. The biped is contemplating renaming Cassiopeia Toots.

I'm certainly glad I don't fart. Aren't you, Eli?

Waxing mythological

You can add Cassiopeia to the list of named koi. It's kind of pretentious, but One-Eyed Bob and the two Ericks keep her grounded.

Not quite the birthday present I was looking for

I am five years old today. And I am without a date for my party (as if).

My recent playdate, Caylee, with whom I was considering slipping out behind her chaperone's back, has been unceremoniously packed off to her breeder (she is now a two-time looser) on account of an attempted murder she perpetrated Monday evening in what we had all believed was to be her permanent home.

Apparently, she was playing indoor fetch with Felix, when old deaf Mitzie, a mutt roughly the size of a guinea pig, wandered into her path. Mitzie, startled, barked and snapped at Caylee. Whereupon, Caylee attacked Mitzie in earnest, causing several tears and punctures requiring urgent medical attention. Felix is convinced that, had he not intervened in a timely fashion, Caylee would actually have killed Mitzie--this was not, apparently, a mere bitch-barking contest.

Well, it's a damn shame, of course. I like 'em feisty, but not quite that feisty. I mean, I'm no guinea pig of a dog, but I'm not looking for any body piercings, either.

But maybe that's just the way the grrrls are in Portugal. One can only wish her well.

Would Koi-Tron, by any other name, be as evil?

Another question I have recently been axed is this:

Dexter, apart from the infamous Koi-Tron, has your idiot companion biped named any of the other koi?

And the answer, I am somewhat chagrined to report, is Yes, he has.

He has not yet come to recognize every one of them with sufficient accuracy to permit naming, but here is a list of the named ones so far:

Koi-Tron

One-eyed Bob (who, I’m sure you will be pleased to learn, has just as many eyes as the others)

Metallica

Oil Spill

Eric

Erik

Larry the Loner

That leaves three unnamed fish that are predominantly orange, with some white.

Part of the problem with nailing down the last three names, apparently, is that the biped has no idea what Larry the Loner actually looks like.

Larry the Loner is, by definition, that tenth fish that is almost never available to be counted. When he has been counted, it has always been under poor lighting conditions, and the biped has not been able to identify each fish, only count noses, so to speak.

Larry the Loner could look a lot like any of the others except Koi-Tron--the biped is reasonably certain that there is only one Koi-Tron. Probably, Larry the Loner is another goldfish-looking fish, but we won't know for sure until we do.

Ho arfing hum

So, Dexter, I am frequently axed, How did your play date with Caylee go?

Well, the short answer is, it might have gone a lot better but for a certain overprotective chaperone who wouldn't give a dog a moment alone with the fetching young lady.

And then, of course, there is the matter of the lady's age. It turns out that Caylee is not six. She may be seven. Or possibly eight. She and her companion bipeds were being a little coy about the whole subject.

Now, I am not one to object to a delicately grizzled muzzle on a bitch. I may, for all I know, even find it provocative. As Siva and Jima and various other sadly now-deceased bitches can attest--gee, that might not sound so good at the trial, huh?--I am quite fond of older more experienced ladies. I just appreciate a modicum of candor about it, that's all.

Anyway, because of the anxieties of the aforementioned but unnamed chaperone, Caylee and I had very little alone time together. What time we spent in each other's company under observation, we spent mostly studiously ignoring each other. Which is not to say there mayn't have been a certain je ne sais quoi in the air.

Though that could have been the pot roast, I guess.

All spruced up for a play date

Yesterday afternoon, the biped took me to the groomer at the local PetSmart. They've got an oldish (i.e., biped-aged) lady there who actually kind of knows how to do a setter do.

I'm always glad to let my metrosexual side show a bit, but I didn't think anything much of it--figured the biped had just finally got tired of being seen with a dog whose otherwise delicate but furry feets looked like something that belonged on a Dr. Seuss character.

But it turns out that we are having company this evening. The bipeds have invited their friends (pretty much all of them) Peter and Nancy and Felix and Kathy over, ostensibly for dinner, but largely to show off the koi pond. Felix and Kathy, though, are bringing along their newly acquired six-year-old Portuguese water dog bitch, Caylee, to socialize with yours truly.

I am given to understand that Caylee is wicked intelligent and has the attention span of... well, of a Portuguese water dog or a border collie or some such obsessive-compulsive anal-retentive sort of useful breed. Well, I don't know about that. But I'm betting that my studly pheromones alone will render the poor thing all weak in the stifle. And then we'll just see who knows a thing or two about obsessive-compulsive behavior. (Please don't think badly of me, Nali. It's just that I'm here in Beautiful Downtown Spreckels, and you're... well, not.)

Counting carp

Apparently, koi, like crows, can count. Sometimes all the way up to nine. That, at least, is the biped's story.

That's not quite what I said, Dexter. What I said was, I keep counting the koi, and I usually count nine.

Oh. Well, I'm sure we're all pretty proud of you, Boss. I, myself, can't count much past... oh, several. So I'm sure it's quite an accomplishment that...

No, Dexter. I can count past nine. But only if there are more than nine things to count. But I only saw nine koi.

Uh huh. Your point being?

But there are actually ten in the pond. Is what I'm saying.

Is what you're saying then, is that you miscounted them? Well, I must say, Boss, that takes a little of the bloom off the rose, or the guilt off the Lily, or whatever it is. But still... you did, by golly, count all the way up to nine. And I, for one, commend you for it. I think you should probably consider yourself special.

I did not miscount them, Dexter. And yet I know for a fact that there are ten of them in there. It's just that one of them--Larry the Loner, let's call him, for want of a better name--is forever eluding me!

I see. Well, then, Boss... Shall I mix you up a nice gin and tonic?

That would be lovely, Dexter. Thank you.

How many ice cubes would you like in that, Boss?

Several.

Good choice, Boss.

I just wanted to sniff their little ventses!

So, OK, I've been playing along with the biped on this whole Koi-Tron thing. He thinks it's funny. Who am I to point out the manifold errors of his ways?

But, if I am to be entirely frank with you, Littermates, until last night, I had never actually seen Koi-Tron or any of the other denizens of our pond. I frequently drink from the pond. The koi, according to the biped, are frequently in evidence. The koi sometimes--again, according to the biped--see me and scamper away with their little hearts all aflutter--if scamper can properly be used to describe piscine locomotion. But I had theretofore shown not the slightest indication of ever having noticed the slimey little darlings.

But last night, we were all out on the deck, the bipeds and the junior bipup and I, and we had a nice fire going in the outdoor fireplace. It was dark out, and the underwater pond lights were on. These, the biped assures me, are the best circumstances under which to observe the koi--apparently, the outer darkness and the inner light turn the surface of the pond into one of those two-way (or is it one-way?) mirrors you're always seeing in interrogation rooms on Law and Order: Desperate Retreads--that is, we can see in, but the koi can't see out.

So the koi are not spooked if a big black and tan dog approaches the shore of the pond preparatory to sticking his magnificent snout in for a nice cool slurp of pond water. They just continue to mill around right in front of the light, where even a pretty unobservant sort of dog could hardly fail to see them.

Boss! Boss! Boss!, I endeavored to communicate, whilst river dancing with all four legs, There are fishes in our pond! Several of them! They’re all orange and black and silver and yellow and black and pearlescent white! Why haven’t you told me about this before?

The biped just rolls his eyes--I can't see his eyes rolling in the dark, but I can hear them scraping against his eyelids.

I stick my snout way into the water. My front paws are backpeddling at the edge of the deck like Wile E. Coyote right after he realizes he's just run off a cliff.

At that point, the biped--killjoy!--decided to bamish me from the deck (but not forever). I didn't want to eat them, for Dog's sake; I just wanted to give them a friendly sniff, you know, welcome them to the gated family compound.

The biped let me back in later, when the koi had mosied off to a darker corner of their little world.

But we'll meet again, Koi-Tron. Don't think we won't.

Koi-Tron unmasked

Time for a pond update, Littermates.

Shortly after launching his pre-emptive inter-yard-inental ballistic missile to emulsify the neighbor kids, Koi-Tron apparently decided that it would be wise to make himself hard to find until the whole thing blew over, so to speak--it is always wise to take cover when a cloud of emulsified neighbor children is passing over.

He therefore somehow arranged to befoul the whole pond, turning it a lovely and impenetrable pea-soup green. (The biped seems to think that this phenomenon was more a function of the original pond contractor disappearing--much like Koi-tron--without ever providing any water treatments or instructions on the uses thereof. But I know better.) The biped tried to clear up the water with various additives available from the local nursery, which does a sideline in pond stuff. But no joy.

Finally, he called in a pond and waterfall specialist, one Christopher Bell of Alliance Waterscapes. Christopher determined that the pond needed to be completely flushed, that the waterfall needed to be completely rebuilt--on account of the original contractor had done it wrong--and that more plants needed to be added, plus a couple of other adjustments too minor to mention (even assuming I could actually remember them).

Accordingly, Christopher and his crew showed up bright and early Friday morning and proceeded to pump the pond out, capture all the koi and house them in a temporary koi condo, clean every rock and pebble, and completely redo the waterfall. The results are really rather remarkable.

The biped and I had been happy enough with the old waterfall, aesthetically speaking. But the new one is much prettier, much more robust, much more interesting, and--joy of joys--just plain sounds better. These guys are good.

The water is now fresh and clear. Appropriate water treatments have been added. The biped has been instructed--in writing--upon how to proceed to keep the water quality up.

And Koi-Tron can no longer hide. Well, you know, except under the large flagstone provided for that very purpose. Or in any of the hundreds of little caves between the rocks that line the pond. But when he's out in the open water, you can by golly see him, as the biped and I did just this morning, right after our morning hot tub soak.

(Yes, Littermates, it's a tough life here in Beautiful Downtown Spreckels.)

Now if only we can avoid a retaliatory strike by the surviving disgruntled neighbors.

It's pretty much official:

There is no daylight left to save.

The biped and I arrived at Garland Park at about twenty after seven this morning, which is, I think you will agree, far later than what one would ordinarily call O Dark-thirty. But it was dark, by golly.

Which was disconcerting enough, mountain-lion-wise. And then there was the weather: 65 degrees and heavily, tropically overcast. Not a hint of coolness to the air, even before dawn. At the parking lot, the air was pretty still. By the time we got up to the Mesa Pond, there was a pretty vigorous and gusty off-shore breeze.

Earthquake weather, said the biped. Or possibly mounting lion weather--it's hard to say.

Good one, Boss! I said, sidling up to him just a bit.

While we were at the pond, a couple of bipedesses arrived in the company of a tiny terriorist of some sort. The wee beastie insisted on bitch barking me for two or three minutes. I barely gave her the satisfaction of noticing, apart from the subtlest little tickle of a growl, deep down in my studly throat. (That is, in fact, the growl you have to watch out for, Littermates.) Although I had lifted not so much as a dewclaw to harm their little princess, the bipedesses finally decided that, if courtesy was not necessarily the better part of hiking, discretion was, nevertheless, the better part of valor, and they took their little terriorist off with them.

We never did get rained on during our hike. It has rained a bit this afternoon. But still nothing commensurate with the sense of meteorological doom that is in the air.

Something wicked this way comes.

Score!

Filet mignon and potato skins. For dinner last night, and breakfast this morning.

Surely, today must be somebody's birthday?

Lunch wasn't half bad, either.

The bacon cheeseburger was all gone. But the biped put the rest of the Chicken Alfredo in the bottom of my bowl. Then--foolishly, if you want my opinion--he covered it completely in kibble. Which simply meant that I had to move a lot of kibble from the bowl to the floor before I could get at the good stuff. But if that's how he wants to play, it's OK with moi.

I hear that tonight he's taking the bipedess out to dinner at a much snazier restaurant--the Rocky Point Restaurant on the Big Sur coast--for her birthday. One can only hope the servings will be ample.

Now that's what I call breakfast!

Monday was the junior bipup's 24th birthday. The bipeds had undertaken to treat the pup and his main squeeze to dinner out but could not do so on his actual birthday, on account of the bipedess not arriving home from Alaska until late Monday evening.

So they all went out to dinner last night, leaving yours truly all alone in the back yard with nothing but a big bowl of kibble and canned food for company. And they were gone for quite a while, too. I got a bit mopey about it, if you want to know the truth.

But some of them were not able to finish their dinners--perhaps it was guilt working on their appetites?--and they brought home doggie bags--doggie Styrofoam boxes, if we are to be entirely accurate.

Well, I didn't get any of the goods last night, because, the biped "reasoned," I had finished off a pretty big bowl of food in their absence. What the hell else was I supposed to consume?--the Tanq was in the house.

But for breakfast this morning, I had: half of a bacon cheeseburger with lettuce and tomato buried under a heaping helping of kibble, topped off with just a hint--or possibly it was an allegation--of the bipedess's sinfully garlicky Chicken Alfredo.

I forgive them.

Te absolve. Más Chicken Alfredo, por favor! Chop, chop!

Did I mention that sea urchins have five testicles?

Well, according to this morning's newpaper story, they do.

Hm. Five testicles and not a central nervous system among them. Perhaps sea urchins are the very definition of nervana.

Wriggly reflections on a foggy morning

I may, from time to time, have given you the entirely erogenous impression that our local newspaper, The Greater Metropolitan Spreckels Herald and Kitty Litter Liner, is not to be mistaken for a serious source of timely and important information. Certainly not a newspaper with the time, expertise, and depth to tackle hard science in a remotely credible way.

Well, I am dog enough to report that my whole world view has just been shaken (not stirred) to its very foundations for the second time in less than a week.

(The first time was when Ms. Nica Dee, the worldly-wisest womanly role model on all Facebook offered up her well reasoned presidential endorsement. But that is another matter entirely.)

What has shaken me today is the Herald's front-page, above-the fold story on no less pressing a subject than... wait for it... sea urchin sperm. Which is not to be confused, apparently, with fruit-fly sperm, which can be up to 2½ inches long (do I hear a giant collective "Eeeeew!"?) Sea urchin sperm comes in different sizes, evidently. Which is important because... Well, never mind, it just is.

If you're in the vicinity of the inner solar system, vote for sea urchin sperm!

Well, if I'd known he was going to be so pissy about it...

... I'd have puked on his other leg, too.

Yesterday afternoon, the biped had to go into town on some pretext or other. He chose to take DexCorp 1, since we're having such lovely Native-American summer weather here in Greater Metropolitan Spreckels. He chose not to take me. So he put me in the back yard before he left.

I wasn't thrilled. But I was OK with it. Spit does, after all happen. And, speaking of spit, the backyard is relatively well supplied with spit that nobody has quite got around to asking anybody else to clean up yet. So, while I may have been bored, I was not snackless.

Some time later, the biped pulls up in DexCorp 1. After unloading his purchases, he releases me from the backyard. I excitedly follow him through the side yard to the front yard and up the front steps onto the porch. I'm happy to see him. I bounce and spin a lot.

As he opens the front door, the biped tells me Stay, Dexter--he apparently does not want me to follow him into the house. Which is probably just as well, because that last pile I scarfed down is backing up on me a bit. Just as the biped is stepping through the front door with his right foot, I am busy urping onto the back of his left pant leg and the side of his left shoe, and leaving quite a substantial load on the doormat as well.

But here's the funny part: He doesn't arfing notice! Not right away, anyway.

Apparently (I am able to reconstruct this later from anonymous eye-witness accounts)... apparently, I say, he's sitting in front of his computer a couple of minutes later when he notices the distinctive smell, not of dog vomit, but of dog spit in the room. He looks at the soles of each of his shoes and sees nothing. He thinks it must be his imagination. He tries to go about his business.

But no, it is not his imagination; his office reeks of dog spit. He takes his shoes off, so as to get a better view of their bottoms. There is nothing on the bottom of either shoe. But then, finally, he notices a nasty yellowish brown fluid on the side of his left shoe. He figures out that he's been puked upon. Though he still cannot quite account for the interesting aroma of this particular puke.

He rinses his left shoe off in the kitchen sink. Then he makes for the front porch, there to leave his shoes drying in the sun. When he opens the front door, he notices the great pile of dog puke on the doormat.

He utters an oath of some sort, in which my name figures prominently. He takes the door mat out on the lawn and hoses it off.

He goes in the house and puts on a different pair of shoes. He goes back to work. And yet... and yet... there is still the foul odor of dog spit in the room. His shoes are perfectly clean. He sees nothing on the floor to account for the odor.

Then, and only then, does he chance to look at the back of his left pant leg. Turns out that, from the knee down, it's pretty well covered in Dexter puke.

A change of pants and a few more oaths later, the biped and the junior bipup--whom he has invited over for the express purpose--are working manfully to unpack and move eleven hundred pounds of German-engineered concrete outdoor fireplace from its pallet on the front walk to the deck in the back yard.

Fine with me.

But I notice at some point that it's getting kind of late, and I have not been walked. I happen to know that the biped has been invited to Felix's house to play chess a bit later, so there is a limited window of opportunity. Just when I'm thinking the poor boy is going to have to skip dinner to walk me before he has to leave, what does he do but go have dinner!

I hear him tell the bipedess I've had my exercise, and Dexter can arfing well do without this evening, the little prick!

Well, we'll just see who's puking up whose pant leg the next time he needs my help moving concrete fireplaces!

Did I mention we get emails?

I am lonely Russian girl whose late husband was finance minister of Nigeria and left me twenty-eight hot throbbing inches of fine replica Swiss watches on deposit in hot steamy Zurich bank vault (wink, wink). If you will only please to help me withdraw them (oh, baby!), you will have twenty (wife will be very pleased, I am thinking), keeping only eight for my lonely self. Your immediate weight loss and fine time pieces like these is fully guaranteed.

Please reply soonest with bank account number and revealing photo.

Facebook my vent!

Or maybe they should just call it Ventbook. Now there's a site that might be worth joining.

The biped seems to have become involved in some sort of migration from Dogster to Facebook. Just stopped in one day to see what the fuss was all about. Didn't quite see the point. All very silly. Yada, yada, yada.

But before you know it, I'm having trouble getting him to take dictation. Wants to stop in first and see what all his hoity-toity Facebook friends are doing today. Like he'd even have any friends without me as his front man.

I mean, so far he has, I believe, acquired exactly two friends who are not themselves Dogster retreads. The first is a woman he apparently went to high school with. And I say apparently advisedly--he doesn't actually remember going to high school with her, mind you. (Though, in fairness, why in the world would any sane person claim to have gone to high school with the biped unless she had actually had the misfortune to do so?)

His other non-Dogster friend is this young lady, whose primary points of interest appear to be 1) she lives somewhere in the Monterey Bay area and 2) she listed Life of Brian as one of her favorite movies. Oh, and... no, I guess it's just the two points of interest, really.

And a lovely pair they are, I'm sure. But where's the dog in this picture, huh?

Hi-ho, hi-ho...

The biped and I rode to Garland Park this morning in DexCorp 1. We got there at about 7:15, which is about 15 minutes later than usual, on account of how dark the mornings are at this time of year. The parking lot, which should have had maybe two or three cars in it, looked like it was a Sunday afternoon in the summer—not that I would know that personally, mind you, inasmuch as I am never taken to Garland Park on a Sunday afternoon.

Anyhow, the parking lot was packed. The biped was apparently tempted to turn around and go home. But I persuaded him that, having rousted me at 6:00 AM, and having dragged me all this way in an open sidecar through a drizzle, turning around now, without letting me run, would be a real good way to lose his dexter oxter.

We assumed there had to be an event of some kind going on.

We crossed the river and walked by the visitor's center. There were a couple of chemical toilets set up outside the regular restrooms, which, again, suggested an event of some sort. But there were no people around, zero. The biped saw a flyer pinned to a post and went over to read it. It was an announcement about a trail run tomorrow. Which explained the chemical toilets, but did not explain all the cars in the parking lot.

So we set out on our regular hike. And we didn't see anybody at all until we were about half way up to the Mesa pond. At which point, we encountered maybe 40 - 50 people all dressed in firefighters turnouts coming down the trail. The biped asked the leader what was going on, and was told that they were the local junior college's fire academy all out on a drill of some sort. As they passed us, just about every one of them saluted the biped with a cheery, "Good morning, sir."

Other than that, it was a pretty uneventful hike.

Burbank is like a duck.

In that both are inherently funny. You can't go wrong telling a joke that features either a duck or Burbank. Try it. It's inflatable.

So, anyway, the bipedess is leaving for Burbank this evening (she just kills me!). Really, she's leaving here in her car to drive to The Greater Spreckels Metropolitan International Airport (conveniently located in Monterey) to catch a five o'clock flight to--wait for it--San Francisco. Which is approximately 100 miles in exactly the wrong direction. And where she will have to cool her heels for two hours before she can catch her flight to Beautiful Downtown Burbank proper.

See? I don't know about you, but my eyes are still watering. Burbank! Ha, ha, ha!

I wonder if hey serve ducks.

Cashew-ku!

Bless you desu! (ha, ha, ha)

When bipeds eat cashews in the dark,
Some are bound to fall to the deck:
Salty and good, my new friend the cashew

Trust me, in Japanese it rhymes and everything.

I'm Dexter Nova Bright Star, and I approve of cashews.

But wouldn't cybernetic be better, really?

Angelina Jolie, an advocate of adoption, credits partner Brad Pitt with her decision to have biological children.

-Herald wire reports

Unseasonably dark and cold

Well, OK, maybe the dark was seasonable enough, considering that we are still on daylight saving time, with less and less daylight left to save. But the cold definitely wasn't right.

When we left Beautiful Downtown Spreckels this morning, the biped and I, the outside temperature was 49 degrees. Which seemed reasonable enough for six-thirty-ish of an October morning. But, by the time we got to the parking lot at Garland Park, the Mercury had plummeted to 34. And the Subaru wasn’t any warmer, either.

Nevertheless, we had a very nice hike up to the Mesa pond. After we'd been there for a few minutes, an older woman--not necessarily any older than the biped, mind you, just older--and her adult daughter happened along with their two Vizslas. We had met the older woman and the Vizslas once before, but not the daughter. Well, one biped and a couple of Vizslas are very much like another biped and a couple of Vizslas, in my experience. I mostly ignored them all and went about my own business.

Still, I appreciated their distracting the biped for me for so long. I had a much longer romp, with much less supervision, than is the norm.

Since we got home, I've just been lazing around. The bipeds have been to the recycling center to recycle many weeks worth of accumulated cardboard; they've been to the floor covering store to buy mahogany veneer flooring for the senior bipup's erstwhile bedroom; they've moved firewood from the yard to the porch; and the biped has finished the touch-up painting in the aforementioned erstwhile bedroom. And he is, even as we speak, copying CDs and printing them on the new CD printer he had to drive all the way to Placerville to pick up yesterday.

What a couple of losers.

Dr. Dexter the language dog returns.

Or: No plack on this dog's teeth.

Yesterday, I posted a couple of pictures of the Miserable Arfing Cat's final resting place. In the caption for one of them, I mentioned something about her name on the plack. Well, that didn't look right to me from the git-go, but my secretary, idiot that he is, seemed to think it was just fine. He even ran it through Word's spell checker just to reassure me. Word thought it was OK. The biped thought it was OK. So, against my better judgment, I let it go.

When I awoke this morning, there was a little light bulb over my head. Inside it was written the phrase "plaque, you idiot!" I showed it to the biped--I was pretty sure, after all, that the message was intended for him.

He scratched his head and Googled both plack and plaque. Well, you already know, of course--because you (many of you, anyway) are not idiots--that the correct word for our purposes is indeed plaque. What you may not have known--and you can thank Wikipedia for the info--is that plack is in fact a legitimate word, albeit a somewhat obscure one.

A plack, it turns out, is a Scottish coin worth less than a cent. Hence, that old expression:

Not worth a plack in a poet's pocket.

I'll bet you've always wondered where that expression came from, haven't you?

No need to thank me. Just doing my job.

You're very kind.

Schrodinger's cat no longer

Katie, the miserable arfing cat of so many of my diary entries, is no more. She left here last night in a pet carrier--the very pet carrier, as it happens, that was my first crate when I was a mere slip of a Gordon setter puppy, and she was already a grumpy old cat. She came home in a cardboard box with a little arrangement of dried flowers taped to the lid.

Someone better versed in physics than I might have supposed that, as long as the box remained closed, she was simultaneously both alive and dead or neither or something. But it smelled to me, frankly, as if that particular particle had already left the station, as it were, and the outcome was known, if you take my meaning. This morning, the bipeds opened the box and confirmed the awful truth.

One would like to think she has gone up on the roof. But, if she has, she has chosen a curious route. I would have thought the easiest way for a cat to get up on the roof around here would be to go out an upstairs window. But Katie has descended under a flagstone in one of the bipedess’s smaller flower beds.

Katie was, as nearly as anybody can figure, about 15. She had been in declining health for some time--failing kidneys and whatnot. She hadn't eaten or drunk much in the last couple of days. Last night, the bipedess noticed that she--Katie, that is--had some sort of abscess on her jaw--she looked a bit like a Disney version of Tigger, if I may be forgiven a moment of levity.

The bipeds put her in the pet carrier and took her off to the Ryan Ranch emergency vet. I am not privy to the details of the discussion that took place there. But the result of it was apparently a decision that Katie's time had come. Hence the trip home in the box.

I cannot say that I was ever over fond of the grumpy little beast--I can personally tell you that, if she thought her spit didn’t stink, she was sadly mistaken--nevertheless, sknnnnnnnnnx!, I suspect I will miss her.

We're having our first storm of the season here today, by the way. It's not exactly as if the heavens have opened to mark Katie's passing. It's really more of an April-showers sort of rain, really. But it did lend some ambiance to the burial.

It's a good thing I'm really only a dog and don't have a clue, lest this whole episode sour me on my own vet visits, which I quite like.

It's a lock.

Though not quite the sort of lock I have been dreaming of ever since my second birthday when my maker Wendy--hallowed be her name--pronounced me "breedable" (which is, I believe, a lot like sponge-worthy, but without the damn sponge). Anyway, it's not that kind of lock, alas.

Rather, it is a very small padlock that now attaches my tags (the third or fourth iteration thereof) to my collar. Apparently, the biped got tired of having to replace my tags every year or so because yet another attachment device had failed and left them rattling around somewhere in Greater Metropolitan Spreckels or ganz Lincoln or some other Dog-forsaken outpost of what the bipeds are pleased to call civilization.

So he went to a locksmith in Oldtown Salinas--which is way quainter and somewhat less prone to gang-related shootings than Newtown Salinas--and bought the smallest padlock they had. The hasp was still a little too fat for the holes in my tags, but that was nothing that grit, determination, and a drill press couldn't take care of.

The biped assures me that snug-fitting collars with padlocks on them are all the rage these days. Or will be, with a trend setter like me in the avant garde, as it were.

And a naked woman on the cover wouldn't hurt, either.

No self-help book about why you should buy my self-help book would be complete without a brief synopsis of the evolution of the universe from the big bang forward, followed by a pocket history of western civilization, with particular attention to the patriarcho-oppressive nature of Judeo-Christian society from the fourth century of the so-called Common Era to the present day (Tuesday, I believe).

But let's face it, Littermates, even assuming I could filch all that stuff off the internet, it would still be a major pain in the arf to toss it all together in a big perfect-bound pile of book padding. So let's just take all that as read and cut to the case, shall we?

I'm an expert on something or other. You're not. I want your money. I'm betting I don't need a gun to get you to hand it over. OK?

Dr. Dexter's secrets of great financial success

I am not the kind of charlatan, Littermates, who would advise you to seek financial success through hard work (e.g., Horatio Alger) or the joys of compound interest (e.g., Catbert). Those are both recipes for frustration, failure, and, ultimately, a well deserved sense of self loathing.

No, Littermates, I am a charlatan of an entirely different color. Or possibly a chameleon--I can never keep those two straight.

Nevertheless, and none of the foregoing not withstanding, I can inphallicly create the kind of warm, caring, and neutering envelopment in which you will be able to express your ingrate financial success more fully than you ever dreamed possible.

As long as you insist on perpetuating the old locker-room myth that defines financial success as being able--and possibly even willing--to pay all your bills, meet your various financial obligations and fiduciary responsibilities, and still have a couple of bucks left over at the end of the month to treat your sweetie to dinner and a movie--as long, in short, as you buy into "society’s" oppressive pressure to be financially "normal," you will never achieve the kind of self-actuating, affirming, full-body financial success that you've paid good money to come to this seminar and hear about.

No. What you must do, Littermates, is to redefine both financial and success.

Let's start with financial. In fact, Littermates, we in the helping industry don't even like to use the term financial, starting, as it does, with F-I-N-A and ending, ominously, with L, thus implying that there may be something final about something or other--we're not sure what--whereas, I'm pretty sure we can keep stringing you along pretty much indefinitely. We in the industry prefer to use the term snuggly, and it has nothing to do with money. Snuggly, rather, eludes to that warm fuzzy feeling you get when you first realize that all your debts are unsecured and that you don't have any wages to garnish.

But what about "success?" Combining, as it does, elephants of both suck and excess, "success" would appear to be one of those polyandrogenous noncarbarundum words that is at once both antithetical to its own internal contradictions and inappropriate in polite society. And who, Littermates, would even want to "achieve" that.

So, in closing, I would just like to reassure you, Littermates, that--always assuming your seminar checks clear--you have already achieved all the financial success I have any reason to care about.

Thank you.

Oregon, the land that time forgot

Just before he left for the day, the renter told the biped, "Oh, by the way, the water softener guy said we're using an awful lot of salt. And that usually means that there's a water leak somewhere. But I haven't been able to find any leaks." The biped said he would keep an eye/ear out for leaks--he figured that if the leak were coming from the palatial family double-wide, we should be hearing the pipes whining or something, which we were not.

About fifteen minutes later, the biped was sitting out on the deck having a can of Tab, and I was running around loose, within the confines of the spiffy fencing we had put in a year or two ago. At that particular moment, I was gallumpfing through a very satisfactory patch of very deep, very wet mud along the northwest corner of the deck. The biped heard me splashing.

Splashing? thought he. Oregon has been dry as a bone all summer. Dexter shouldn't be doing no stinking splashing in Oregon in September! He took a look over the railing and could see that a considerable amount of water was flowing out of the space between the double-wide and an adjacent concrete shed of unknown provenance.

He climbed down under the deck to take a look. Water was bubbling right up out of the ground. He went and found a shovel and starting digging through the thoroughly saturated ground. It quickly became apparent that the water was flowing out from under the foundation of the concrete shed.

Given that today is Saturday, and that we are leaving tomorrow morning, he despaired of getting anybody to come have a look before we leave. He nevertheless called a local plumber and left a message on the guy's machine. Not ten minutes later, the plumber he had called called back, saying that he couldn't do anything about it today, but referrring the biped to another plumber who could.

So the biped called the second plumber. He came right out, dug until he found the offending pipe--which ran under the shed to a hose bib on the other side--cut it, and capped it. So now, of course, that one hose bib doesn't work, but the leak has been stemmed. All for a cost that wouldn't have got a Monterey County plumber to return your phone call.

Rural Oregon, the biped says, is remarkably like the America he grew up in.

Oregon Trail

This afternoon, the biped and I are heading up to the palatial family double-wide in Cottage Grove Oregon. Apparently, the biped would like to satisfy himself that the place is still there, since it's been almost a year since we've seen it.

The bipedess will be staying behind to enjoy a restful weekend at home. As restful, at least, as any weekend is likely to be with the California International Air Show going on at the Salinas Airport, not three miles away. I, personally, am rather fond of low-flying military aircraft, the bipeds, less so.

The biped, in particular, would just as soon be out of town this weekend, as it will be the fifth anniversary of the demise of my unfortunate predecessor, Bill.

Whatever. I'm up for a road trip on just about any pretext.

Owing to the length of the drive--and to the biped's desire that we should actually get there--we will be taking the Subaru rather than DexCorp 1. I can live with that. I think my sidecar-monkey credentials are pretty well established.

Party animals

Well if you spent all night darting around the pond, grazing here and there and everywhere, and playing tag with your fellow koi, I guess you might spend most of your daylight hours recuperating under a flat rock, too. Maybe you wouldn't like the bags under your eyes to be seen in the harsh light of a September morn.

Last night, the biped built a fire in the chiminea (see "There aren't any koi in there, are there?" picture). Then he and the bipedess and I all spent some quality time out on the deck drinking beer, wine, and pond water, respectively, and watching the koi do their thing.

I am not much for counting things, myself--that is one of the many functions for which I retain the bipeds. But the biped assures me that he counted at least nine of the ten putative koi last night. He may, he tells me, have seen the tenth, but counting apparently gets tricky when it involves moving targets. (I believe, by the way, that if he can count all the way to nine, he is tied with your average crow in mathematical accomplishments--Way to go, Boss!)

I personally saw Koi-Tron lurking in the depths trying to blend in. He's not keen on being tracked. Which is understandable, when you consider what a mess his fish-emulsion-tipped IYBM made of the neighbor's back yard yesterday.

When the fire died down, the bipeds and I fell back upon the comforts of the great indoors. Dog only knows how long the koi kept the party going.

Koi-Tron, Evil Pond Master

Last night, the biped and I went out on the back deck to have a beer and contemplate the koi. I got to do my share of contemplating, I guess, but I didn't get a drop of the beer, alas.

Anyway, the koi were out and about and making themselves available for contemplation. We saw seven of the ten koi who are reputed to be in the pond all out in a little school grazing the slime off the rocks. We have never seen all ten at once, but we haven't found any little koi floating belly up, either, so we are operating on the assumption that all ten of them are alive and well in there somewhere.

As nearly as I have been able to ascertain, all of the koi but one are some combination of goldfish orange, silver, and black. A couple of them mostly just look like goldfish. Most of them are kind of blotchy, their colors distributed pretty asymmetrically.

But one is quite different. He is yellow and black and silver. His soft underbelly (mmmmm, underbelly!) is silver. His back is all black, except for a row of yellow dots right where his spine would be, if he weren’t a fish. His face bears a combination of yellow and black markings that have the effect of producing a sort of evil glowering expression that is at once menacing and vaguely mechanical looking. He is perfectly symmetrical. He is Koi-Tron, Evil Pond Master. We expect him to transform at any moment into something or other--perhaps a mini stealth submarine capable of launching inter-yard-inental ballistic missiles. He's one scary son of a fitch.

I'm not sure that Koi-Tron is really any more evil than the other koi. I have the distinct impression that koi, as a species, are not quite up to the moral standards of, say, dogs, which are themselves--let us be frank here, Littermates--nothing to write home about. Still, the little bastard definitely looks the part. And as we all know, in ponds as in politics, appearances are everything. (Assuming you also have a pithy and utterly uninterpretable slogan, of course--Well, yes, I s'pose we could....)

A most remarkable thing...

...happened this morning as we were on our way to Garland Park. We were in DexCorp 1, climbing Laureles Grade, when--and I know you're going to find this hard to believe--we caught up with someone! It's twoo! It's twoo! And actually it was two someones who seemed to be in convoy: two pickup trucks, each pulling a multiple-horse horse trailer. So, OK, they weren't Maseratis, exakly, but still...

Going down the Carmel Valley side of Laureles Grade, they were even slower than going up the Salinas Valley side. The lead truck was literally burning up its brakes. The right front one, at least--smoke was just pouring out of that sucker. I can't say I cared for the smell. Even the biped seemed to notice it.

But, once we hit Carmel Valley Rd., they turned left, and we turned right, so I am not in a position to tell you whether or not anyone actually burst into flames. If they hadn't already--and they hadn't--they probably didn't.

So, anyway, we had a nice hike--ho hum--and a nice ride home.

It's been a warm overcast morning here. The pavement was damp when we got up this morning. And it's smelled all morning as if rain were imminent. The newspaper says cloudy this morning but mostly sunny the rest of the day. Nothing about any rain. We'll see.

I actually saw one of the koi this morning. I don't know whether they're becoming less shy as they get acclimated, or if they just shun sunshine--this is our first overcast day since they arrived. Mostly, we just see them after dark, when the pond lights are on.

Now I'm a believer

Yesterday afternoon, while the biped and I were out for our daily preprandial stroll, the UPS man (did you ever notice it's never a UPS woman? somebody might want to look into that), the UPS man, I say, sneaked (or is that snake?) into the gated family compound and left a largish box on the porch.

Turns out the box contained my new Buddy Bed memory-foam bed. The biped removed the contents of the box, took the mattress and the cover out of their separate hygienic plastic bags, and put the mattress inside the cover, thus completing assembly of my Buddy Bed.

He put the Buddy Bed down in place of my old bed. He put the cover of the old bed on top of the Buddy Bed for a few hours to impart some dog stink to the new bed.

Then, in the evening, as bedtime was approaching, he introduced me to my new bed. I was suspicious, of course--you know how I feel about innovations. Even though it smelled a little like me, it still didn't smell right. It is the same length as my old bed, and a couple of inches wider. But, mostly, it is much taller. My old bed was only about an inch thick. The Buddy Bed is all of five inches thick.

The biped induced me to walk upon it. The sheer height of the thing made me dizzy. At length, I consented to lie down (that is, in other words, I lay down). But I refused to relax. And I would not roll over for a belly scratch.

The biped relented for the moment and let me go back to the TV room.

When bedtime actually arrived, however, I was herded into the bedroom. I didn't have to sleep on the Buddy Bed, of course--there's plenty of floor to choose from. But I decided to give it a try. I stepped up onto it gingerly. And I proceeded to turn around and around maybe 25 times--the biped was rolling his eyes and fretting that he might have made a colossal mistake. Finally, I lay down.

And the next thing I knew, it was morning! Never got up to readjust my position even once during the night. The biped let me out to attend to my twa-lette. Then I came right back in and headed for another forty winks on the Buddy Bed.

I am sold, Littermates.

Sarah Le Carre

Say what you will about Sarah Palin, the governess by-golly knows how to buy a vote. None of this nonsense about lowering tax rates on people who already don't actually pay any taxes, or creating jobs making solar powered carbon sequestering biodegradable wind widgets. No. When Sarah Palin wants your vote, she sends you a substantial check.

At least if you have a vote as important as the bipedess's apparently is she does. I can think of no other way to interpret this week's events. In Monday's mail, the bipedess received a check from the State of Alaska bearing the governess's own signature. In keeping with my fixed and immutable policy of providing no actual useful or verifiable information in this diary, I am not at liberty to tell you the exact amount of the check. Suffice it to say that, although it would not have bought you a new Lexus, it would have covered several Vespas, with money left over for a helmet (or beer, if you live in Texas).

Now, there was no note included with the check specifically asking for the bipedess's vote. That would just be stupid. And God, I have it on the very Highest Authority, did not create any stupid Palins. But if somebody sent you a check for that kind of money, just out of the blue, wouldn't you assume she wanted something? Yeah, me too.

Uh, Dexter?

Yeah, Boss?

I believe you are leaving out some crucial information that may have a bearing on the discussion at hand.

Yeah, Boss? Your point?

Well, you may recall that back in July you and I were out doing some advance scouting for DexCorp’s planned invasion of... that is, we were out on the PupPal Tour?

Yeah?

Well, during much of that same time, the bipedess was in Alaska teaching the locals to become court interpreters. Or teaching the locals to teach the even more locals to become court interpreters. Or something like that. I can never quite keep it straight.

Yes?

Well, don't you see? Whatever it was she was doing, it was useful valuable stuff that she was doing at the behest of the State of Alaska.

So?

So they just now got around to paying her for it. That's what the check was for. Payment for services rendered.

Well, it still sounds like a vast right-wing conspiracy to me, Boss.

No need to be koi, Roi.

But, if you're a two-inch long goldfish with a blotchy complexion, being koi is the only way you're going to get a couple of chumps--I'm not naming any names, here--to pay five bucks apiece for you instead of the 25 or 30 cents you could pull down as a feeder fish. Plus, if you're koi, there is at least a reasonably good chance that you won't get eaten any time soon. Which is generally a good thing. At least when taken literally.

I am on about koi because the bipedess recently came into a small slice of a modest inheritance from a great great aunt of some sort--Shore, and she were a great old gal, she were!. For reasons known only to herself and Dog, she has chosen to spend the loot, not on upgrading the family motorcycle fleet, but on (yawn!) home improvements.

The first of which was some landscaping in the north-east corner of the back yard of our tasteful walled family compound here in Beautiful Downtown Spreckels. The most prominent feature of said landscaping is a koi pond that is maybe 15 feet long by 5 – 10 feet wide by two feet deep. With a backlit cascading waterfall, no less. The pond is surrounded on 1 ½ sides (kind of like Poncho Villa) by the deck that was already there. The other... uh.. 2 ½ sides are now landscaped with drought-resistant low-maintenance plants and drip irrigation.

Well, la-ti-arfing-da, sez I. What I want to know is, where's a dog supposed to spit?

A veritable cornucopia of mail!

We seem to have hit the jackpot mail-wise today, Littermates.

First up, there was a greeting card from Lyle's bosses.

(I should mention here that we received in yesterday's mail, from those self-same bosses, a CD full of certain-to-be-famous-making photos of yours truly taken whilst the biped and I were in Richland in July. The greeting card was sort of a follow-up.)

Anyway, the greeting card was a very nice gesture by any standard. But the truly remarkable thing about it was the photo of Lyle on the front. It is a photo that does not appear on his Dogster page--I checked. And a very revealing photo it is, too. It could explain a lot of things--crankiness, itchiness, possibly even geniousity. For it is a photo, not so much of Lyle, the dog, as of Lyle, the vaguely dog-like marine mammal of the family pinniped!

I mean, you'd be cranky and itchy, too, if you were a pinniped forced to live so far from the sea. I'm not sure it would make you any smarter, but stranger tales have no doubt been made up on the spot by lesser dogs than me (or is that I?).

So, anyway, there was that.

And then, too, we received a package from Finlay's folks in Belle Plaine, Minnesota. It contained, in addition to a book the biped had left in Belle Plaine, a little bag of jelly beans purporting to be Minnesota Mosquito Bites, a Tick-Magnet t-shirt for the biped, and an official Minnesota Blood Donor t-shirt, also for the biped. The biped is debating whether or not to tempt fate by wearing the Tick-Magnet t-shirt on our hike tomorrow. He will probably risk it because this is pretty much the low season for ticks around here.

As for me, I really don't need an official Chick-Magnet t-shirt to make clear who is what around here. Most of my lady friends can't read anyway. Nor, I'm very much afraid, can the ticks, more's the pity.

I am not spoiled!

Not so's you'd notice, anyway. Certainly not spoiled rotten.

I think you all know by now, Littermates, that the biped is not the sort of fellow to dote on a mere dog. If he just ordered an expensive-ish memory-foam bed for me, you may be sure that he has ulterior motives. (I believe, by the way, that the ulterior portion of a thing is somewhere betwixt its interior and exterior portions. Or possibly underneath. It is also possible, of course, that I am not entirely clear on the concept.)

It seems that the biped is so impressed with the ability of his and the bipedess' new Tempurpedic™ bed to render the two of them more or less comatose all night, that he would like me to have the benefit of one, too. Not because he is all that concerned about my comfort, mind you, but because he is concerned about my habit, three or four times a night, of standing up, turning around and around and around and around--with or without turning on the TV--jangling my tags, and then flopping myself back down with a great sigh and a greater thump. He figures if a little memory foam will put me out for the count, then it will have been a very good investment in his good night's sleep.

Let's all raise a glass to enlightened self interest. But not right before bed time, of course.

Late Night, with the Reverend Chairman Dr. O'Dexter

It was late, very late. So late it was early. I couldn't get back to sleep. I had Lyle's haunting Pinecone Song stuck in my head. So I decided to turn on the TV in the bipeds' bedroom.

It was not what you could call quality programming, though, just static and a gentle hissing sound--no one had ever taken me aside and 'splained on me that the TV in the bedroom won't display any actual programming (not even reality shows) unless the satellite box in the TV room is turned on. So much for my plans to watch Masterpiece Theatre or possibly Nova.

I did get a little amusement out of it, though. Apparently, the light and the hiss from the set gradually dragged each of the bipeds up from catatonia into semi consciousness. Each of them apparently thought the other had got up early and was taking a shower--with their new Tempurpedic™ bed it is very easy, they tell me, not to notice when somebody gets in or out, which, I suppose, is a handy feature in a bed, expecially if it sees a lot of traffic (ha, ha). But I digress.

At some point, the two of them happened to roll over, each toward the middle of the bed, and they bumped into each other. Which immediately raised either of two questions: 1) If she/he is still in bed with me, who the hell is in the shower? And 2) If she/he is in the shower, who the hell is in bed with me? Not to mention C) If nobody's in the shower, what the hell is that noise? and D) The shower doesn't generally light up the bedroom, anyway, does it? So just what in hell is going on here?

By which time, of course, they were nearly enough awake to figure the whole thing out and unplug the TV.

All and all, it was no Conan O’Brian Show, but if one learns nothing else living with a pair of dullards, one learns to take one's amusements where one finds them.

It's a good thing I never know what day it is.

Otherwise, I would have been even more upset than I was yesterday morning when the biped got up very early, put me outside, made obvious preparations to take DexCorp 1 out--all things he would typically do in preparation for taking me for my regular Saturday morning hike--then unceremoniously rode off, leaving me cooling my paw pads in the back yard. I knew I didn't like it. But I didn't know that yesterday was, in cold clinical fact, Saturday. Though I am now informed that it was.

Apparently, the reason the biped went slinking off with my ride, all of a Saturday morning, was that he needed to take it up to TriQuest in Santa Clara to resolve an issue with the rear brake. It was not so much, he tells me, that the brake was not working, as that it was working all the time, which, I gather, is not an altogether desireable feature in an automotive brake. He had, he has now explained to me, completely disabled the rear brake the day before--that would have been Friday--so as to be able to ride the 100+ kilometers to TriQuest without completely cooking the brake and the final drive. So he only had the front brake and the sidecar brake to work with. But, when you're as slow as he is to begin with, you do not really need all that much mechanical slowing down.

So he made it up to TriQuest without mishap--she likes to sleep in on Saturdays, and wasn't interested anyway. And Ski was actually able to get right to work on the problem, too. He did have to take an hour or so off in the middle of the job to sell a Ural Retro to a distinguished looking gentleman of Italian descent who came in with a couple of associates who may or may not have had bulges under their jackets--Gosh, it was warm yesterday!--which may or may not have been merely their pectoral muscles.

And while I may have rued the delay, the biped himself was uncharacteristically patient about the whole thing because he was awaiting a visit from Georgie and her peeps and three—count ‘em, three—siblings. It seems that Georgie's dad, Tom, recently purchased a Ural from Ski and was having it serviced a little earlier in the week. He and his beautiful wife Nancy were enjoying a little R & R (with all four dogs!) in Santa Cruz before heading home to Sacramento. So they stopped in at TriQuest on their way home to say hi to the biped. Seems to me like a lot of trouble to go to, but hey, there's no accounting for taste.

Apparently, everyone had a satisfactory visit. DexCorp 1 got its rear brake expertly fixed--works better than it ever did, the biped says. And I got a walk around town when the biped got home in the afternoon.

And this morning--that would be Sunday, I am informed--the biped and I took DexCorp 1 over to Garland Park for our hike. It is a spectacularly beautiful day here for motorcycle riding. Though Garland Park was a little warmer, even at 7:00 AM, than either of us might have wished. Both the bugs--I think there were a lot more than two, Boss!--and an unusual number of early-morning tourists seemed to like it well enough, though.

I had a lovely roll in some wonderfully fresh horse spit. That's going to earn me a bath here in a few minutes, I believe. But, if you've got to bathe, you couldn't pick a better day for it.

Why you should pay attention in Engerish class

When the biped was growing up in the 50s and 60s (of the last century, Littermates!), politicians enjoyed a good deal more privacy than they do today. The Press, even when it was aware of these gentlemen's foibles, tended not to report on them, lest the public lose confidence in its leaders.

It was never reported during his lifetime, for instance, that John F. Kennedy was high as a kite on pain killers during pretty much his entire presidency. And, if Lyndon Johnson was dwamatically better endowed than Ho Chi Minh... well, you had to wait and hear it from Lyndon himself (you didn't have to wait long, apparently). The Press wasn't going to rat him out, and Ho was suspiciously silent on the subject.

So closely guarded were politicians' secrets that it was not until last week that we discovered that Charles DeGaulle, widely believed during his lifetime to have been an elderly and obnoxious Frenchman, was, in fact, a young transvestite. It was fashion reporter Lamont Jones of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette who dropped this particular bombshell in a story about Michelle Obama's taste in dresses (delicious!).

Actually, it was a photo caption that gave the game away:

Some have likened Michelle Obama's style to that of Jacqueline Kennedy, shown here in 1961 with Charles DeGaulle, who was younger than the typical first lady and radically departed from how her predecessors dressed. (emphasis added)

At the time, the biped assures me, virtually no one knew A) that Jacqueline Kennedy was a typical first lady, or 2) that she was older than Charles DeGaulle. Though it was fairly obvious even then, the biped says, that DeGaulle's style of dress departed radically from that of Jackie's predecessors. To the naïve electorate of the time, however, it hardly seemed relevant.

So, the lesson to be learned here, Littermates, is that, if you don't pay close attention to your Engerish teacher, you may be condemned to lead your adult life as a fashion reporter for the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.

As long as you're up...

...do you suppose you could remodel the kitchen?

That is the biped's completely fair and unbiased characterization of what he feels are the bipedess's almost incessant requests for him to, you know, do something.

But, if we are going to be entirely fair here--and why wouldn’t we be?--we would have to admit that the bipedess hasn't actually asked the biped about remodeling the kitchen for years now. Not since the unfortunate episode of remodeling the bathroom. Not since the biped, not to put too fine a point on it, told her that, if she wanted to have the arfing kitchen remodeled, she was just going to have to wait for him to arfing die first. Because the only way the arfing kitchen was going to get arfing remodeled was over his dead arfing body. Or words to that effect.

Well, fair enough.

But the bipedess has suddenly decided that the senior bipup's erstwhile bedroom, which had institutional-blue walls and purple wall-to-wall carpeting for the entire 11 years the bipup occupied it, is now the second guest room--yeah, like they ever have even one guest!--and, as such, needs to be repainted and recarpeted before Thanksgiving.

For why? For because the self-same senior bipup and his recently acquired wife are going to be visiting for Thanksgiving, and the bipedess has apparently decided that 11 years and 3 days of that hideous color scheme would just be too much for the young man's constitution to take. And, if I weren't color blind, I might well agree with her.

But what women routinely fail to realize--and this is probably as true of nation building as it is of household improvements--is that it's always more trouble than you think. Generally, way more trouble. Especially if you live in a 98-year-old house (or a 98-day-old nation, one assumes).

The biped tried to explain to her that there was just no point in repainting the room unless you first knocked several large holes in the walls so that you could put the crappy-looking add-on surface-mount wiring inside the walls where it belonged, and a large hole in the ceiling so you could install some wood blocking that would give you something to screw the crappy fallen-down add-on heat register into instead of the 98-year-old plaster that the idiot furnace installers tried to screw it into 20 years ago (when, to be fair, the plaster was only 78 years old). And then, of course, you'd have to patch all those holes. And only then could you even begin to paint anything.

He even brought his friend Peter in to back him up on all this. (Before Peter was a lawyer, he was a contractor, before which he was a fireman, before which he was a carpenter, so he could reasonably be expected to talk up the complications of just about any job.)

Peter said of the surface-mount wiring: It's too much trouble to put it in the walls; just paint over it.

Peter said of the heat register: Well, yeah, you could tear open the ceiling and put in blocking and do it right. Or you could glue the damn thing to the ceiling and let the next guy worry about it.

To repay Peter for his helpfulness to the cause, the biped promptly defeated him at go, for only the third time ever. So that was sort of a moral victory, I guess.

On the practical side, however, the biped has now agreed to do some necessary plaster patching and then to paint the room. For her part, the bipedess will make some calls and get somebody to do the recarpeting. (She has to make the calls because her Spanish is a lot better than the biped's.)

Or it could have been caramel knowledge, I suppose.

Though I prefer candied apples, myself.

(And this space will absolutely not tolerate any maraschino cherry jokes, as they are in very poor taste.)

Biblically, I'm guessing

Let him who is without stones mask the first sin.

-Orchiectomy, 11:12

Associated Press, September 2nd, 2008:

"The campaign said it was not disclosing the father's full name or age or how he and Bristol knew each other."

Let's review

Today is not my birthday. Today is Dextmas. My birthday and Dextmas are 13 entirely different things. My birthday is November 11, if you must know and insist on marking it down on your calendar before you forget. Dextmas, on the other hand, is... well, Dextmas.

And then there is the small matter of bones.

I may be, as various people whom I will not name may or may not have suggested, an inveterate liar. But I am not, I assure you, an invertebrate liar.

And yet, I seem to be utterly without bones.

Surely, Littermates, you do not want your Chairman to become a mere puddle of his former self?

So... if you're looking for an inexpensive Dextmas present...

Dextmas is coming,

You're getting kind of fat,
Please put a Greenie™
In this dog's (entirely figurative) hat.

If you haven't got a Greenie™,
A half Greenie™ will have to do, I guess,
If you haven't got a half Greenie™,
Then what the hell good are you, anyway?

Remember, Littermates, tomorrow is Dextmas. The first Dextmas of the rest of you lives. Let's make this one memorable, shall we?

Guilty pleasures

I don't know why, exactly, but the biped absolutely detests people who carry on cell phone conversations in public. Seems to think it is the very height of ill manners for some reason. Wants to take away their phones, throw them to the ground, and jump up and down on them, he says. (And you may make your own guess as to the referent of the two thems in the preceding sentence.)

The biped does, of course, recognize the utility of cell phones as emergency communications devices. Which is why he brought along his Fred Flintstone phone on the PupPal Tour--not that he expected a Russian motorcycle to break down, you understand, but still... you never know.

Well, as it turns out, it was his steam-powered equivalent of two tin cans and a piece of string that stopped working somewhere between Albuquerque, NM and Allen, TX. Actually, only the battery stopped working, but, since the fall of Elbownia, you just can't get batteries for that particular model anymore, so, for all intents and purposes, he was without a working cell phone.

And stayed without one until we got to Lincoln, Nebraska, where Star's mom kindly chauffeured him to a Verizon store to see about getting a new one. The upshot is, he now owns a cell phone that actually fits in his pocket and does not surreptitiously turn itself on while it's in there. So he actually carries it routinely now, along with his Swiss Army knife and his key ring.

So, this morning, we took our regular hike up to the Mesa Pond at Garland Park. And, as usual, we were the only ones there at 7:30 in the morning. Doing some quick calculations right in his very head, the biped figured out that it must be approximately 10:30 in the morning (of what day, he did not say) in Philadelphia, PA, where the senior bipup now resides. And he hadn't talked to the senior bipup in some time.

He looked all around, making sure that I was the only other living creature in sight. Then he slipped his cell phone out of his pocket, opened it up right there under Dog's own blue sky, and called the senior bipup!

Whom, as it turns out, he succeeded in waking up, even at 10:30 of whatever morning it might have been in Philadelphia.

When the biped gets all wild and crazy like this, there's just no telling where it may end. Why, I wouldn't put it past him to attempt to text a pizza order. I wouldn't put the attempt past him. But I wouldn't get my mouth all fixed for pizza, either.

The Dorg giveth and the Dorg taketh away.

Unhappily, the biped's newfound... ahem... agility has already been rendered erstwhile. Apparently, in his frantic efforts to avoid being run over by the UPS truck, he pulled something and is now no more flexible than a mere mortal man.

And if the chump thinks I'm taking up the slack, he's got another think coming--in the first place, we're not that kind of buddies, and in the second place, I've got my own business to attend to.

Just looking out for Number 2

Despite the occasional temper tantrum on his part, or act of willful disobedience on mine, the biped and I are best buds, always looking out for each other. Like the time I told you about a couple of weeks ago when I tried to score a new (to him) pair of socks for him out at Garland Park. Or the time he... Um... Well, there was that time that...

Well, anyway, while I am always alive to his sartorial well being, he is always most concerned with my physical safety and well being. Which brings me to the point of this morning’s entry:

In yesterday's mail we received a care package from Kirby's peeps in New Mexico. It contained lots of swell stuff: a New Mexico T-shirt for the biped, a beautiful silver and turquoise spider pin for the bipedess, some genuine New Mexican chilly spices for everybody--everybody but me, that is.

But, first and foremost, it contained a lovely big bag of dog treats for me--and I must stress the for me part of that last sentence.

Now, this was a cellophane bag with "PETCO" written right on it, imprinted all over with little paw prints. There was very little doubt in my mind who the intended recipient was. The treats inside were in a variety of sizes, shapes, and colors. Some looked quite traditional: bones shapes, little heart shapes, that kind of thing. Others were in the shape of pretzels, but were clearly made out of dog-treat material, not real-pretzel material.

But many of the treats were shaped like human-style cookies, some Orio style (pale, though, not chocolate), some chocolate-chip style. And these apparently gave the biped pause (if not paws, ha, ha). Because they looked so like people food.

He took one of the Orio-style cookies out of the bag and smelled it, fully expecting it to smell like a dog treat. But it didn't. It smelled like a cookie. He gave it to me. I took it very gingerly. It was, after all, an innovation, and you know how I tend to feel about innovations. But it turned out to be quite a good innovation, and I ended up scarfing it right down.

But the biped remained concerned about those chocolate-chip cookies. Surely, they could not be real chocolate-chip cookies. Everybody knows chocolate is bad for dogs. But perhaps there had been some potentially-tragic mistake. He decided to make the supreme sacrifice for my well being and taste one of the cookies himself.

It tasted like a chocolate-chip cookie! He ate the rest of it to make sure. Then he ate two more. The third one, he said, began to taste a little bit doggy. It was good, though.

Well, anyway, he decided that all the remaining treats in the bag were, in fact, perfectly fit for canine consumption. So if there are any more of those chocolate-chip ones hiding down in the bottom of the bag somewhere, I may get one today.

Happily, eating dog treats does not seem to have done the biped any harm. If anything, they may have increased his flexibility--he's lying in the street licking himself even as we speak.

On the beach

Is how I'm feeling since the biped took my ride up to TriQuest Saturday and left it there to be serviced.

(And please allow me to observe, parenthetically, that, when you leave DexCorp 1 at TriQuest to be serviced, it actually gets serviced. Which, you may recall, tends not to be the case when you leave poor Dexter at Sundowners Kennels hoping to get serviced.)

We'd actually been putting very few miles on DexCorp 1 since we got home, anyway. Nevertheless, I liked seeing it parked there in the driveway under its canopy, exuding dormant power and the somewhat oily scent of potential adventure. I mean, we might have hopped in at any moment and gone off cruising for bitches. We seldom did. But we might have.

Now there's just an empty spot in the driveway with a stupid blue canopy over it. Nobody's cruising for anybody until the biped goes back to Santa Clara next Saturday and retrieves my ride.

Unless, of course, you happen to know of any fine bitches who gots the hots for a grey Subaru Forrester. No? I didn't think so.

The twilight years

In November, I will be five. And my science and technology advisor--all your major executive types have people for that sort of thing--tells me that five is very nearly half way to ten, which turns out to be the lower end of the average life expectancy range for a Gordon setter. So it would not be untrue to say, if you must, that I am no longer young. My muzzle might be expected to start grizzling any year now.

But fear not, Littermates, I am not contemplating mortality. Certainly not my own, at any rate. I am contemplating, rather, the fact that I should now be moving into my peak earning years. My income should be ratcheting up at a rate far outpacing inflation, allowing me to put a little something aside for my golden months. But, no matter what percentage rate or multiplier you apply--according to my percentage rate and multiplier advisor--inflation-adjusted constant-dollar squat times whatever is still squat. And squat is just exakly what I get paid for all my efforts around here.

Well, yeah, OK, I do get room and board. And I would even allow as how the room portion of that deal is pretty good--though you could get better board at a used-lumber yard. But that is beside (and a little behind) the point. Bill Gates doesn't work for room and board. Bad Vlad Putin doesn't work for room and board. Russel Crowe--who, I am pretty sure, will be playing me in the movie version of The PupPal Tour, Part I--doesn't work for room and board--not even if you let him throw telephones at you. So why, I ax you, should your very Chairman, DexCorp's representative here on earth, the living voice of The Frisbetarian Mother Church of Greater Metropolitan Spreckels, be working for two squares and a warm spot on the bedroom floor? I tell you, Littermates, it just ain't right!

Although, to be fair--and you know how I hate to be fair--I did get two hikes this weekend, and a roll in a lovely big pile of horse spit. When was the last time Vladimir Putin could say that?

One morning in the life of Dexter Dexterovich

I sleep in the bipeds' room, on the floor. Whichever one of them gets up first in the morning--usually, but not always, the biped--lets me out the back door to take care of my morning ablutions. A few minutes later, the biped lets me back in and points out that my breakfast is ready for me in the kitchen. I give my bowl a sniff in passing, but almost never deign to eat just then. Instead, I go take a nap in the TV room (ablutions can be so tiring!).

The bipeds have their breakfast. The biped takes a shower. He goes into the bedroom to get dressed. When he is precisely half dressed, I come rushing in, acting very agitated. "Do you want to go out front, Dexter," says the biped. I dial up my state of agitation a couple of notches in the clear affirmative. The biped sighs, deciding he is close enough to decent to walk into the living room and let me out the front door. So off to the living room he goes.

Just then, I remember that I have not eaten my breakfast! I run quickly into the kitchen and start to chow down while the biped is standing patiently by the front door. He gets tired of waiting for me, goes back to the bedroom, and resumes dressing.

Just about the time he is getting ready to put his second sock on, I finish breakfast and come tearing into the bedroom, very, very eager to be let out into the front yard. "Dexter," the biped says, "you are an idiot!"

And yet, he is the idiot who walks into the living room with one sock on and one sock off and lets me out the front door.

Cap and Trade

Now I am not saying, Littermates, that you have ever killed anyone. In fact, if I had to guess, I would guess that you have not. And, of course, it's really none of my business, anyway, being a private matter between you and your victim(s).

But if you've ever killed anybody, and you feel kind of bad about it, or if you'd like to kill somebody, and you'd prefer not to feel bad about it, the DexCorp Charitable Trust & Chairman's Personal Slush Fund (hereinafter known as "The Trust") has the perfect option for you:

For every hundred dollars you donate to The Trust, The Trust will purchase one not-at-all-defective factory-second mosquito bed net from a landfill-free, women-owned, sustainable sweat shop in East Jebus and send that bed net to someplace with a very high rate of malaria. Where, if used--and that's hardly your problem, is it?--that bed net will almost certainly save one or more lives that would otherwise have been lost to malaria.

So, figuring conservatively, $100.00 per actual or proposed victim gets you completely off the hook, moralistically speaking. In the aggregate, you will be saving more people than you are killing. And who could possibly object to that?

Certainly not the dear departed.

You say bird's nest; I say...

Well, you can call it a bird's nest if you like. But it looks more like a giant toilet seat to me. And a somewhat warped one at that.

The Teflon Chairman

It's so nice to go for a hike the very day after a grooming. On the one hand, I get an opportunity to roll around in lots of good stink to counter any lingering effects of the groomer's bad stink. On the other hand, I become very like Ronald Reagan or Bill Clinton, in that virtually nothing sticks to me. One quick press conference at the end of the hike, a passing pontification on the meaning of is, and I'm clean as a whistle. (And I did not, by the way, have sex with that... that... female dog, Ms. Nalinski. Hey, I'm not saying I didn't try, but... Look! Isn't that a vast right-wing conspiracy?)

Toward the end of our hike this morning, I plunged bodily off the trail into a significant depth of leaves and forest litter, hot on the trail of... a pair of socks. I don't know why there were two well used black socks lying three or four feet from the trail, all de-bipedalized, but there were. I was all for taking them away with us--finders keepers, losers weepers, I always say. And, you know, I like to remove litter from the trails and all. And I figured the more pairs of socks he had, the less often the biped would have to do the laundry--I'm always thinking of him. But the biped was, in fact, very insistent that I leave them.

It could be a crime scene, Dexter. And those socks could be evidence. We should leave them just the way we found them.

So, you're saying you're going to wake up a ranger and report this pair of socks? Is that the plan, Boss?

Well, no. Not exactly. But I'm sure somebody will report them later on today. And by that time, I'd just as soon we were long gone and not in possession of any forensic evidence, if you don't mind, Dexter.

Your civic spiritedness is an inspiration to us all, Boss.

Thank you, Dexter.

So we went on our way, back to the parking lot, leaving those tantalizing socks just lying there in the leaf litter.

The bipedess is on some sort of overnighter business trip, and she took the Subaru with her, so we had to chose between the Miata and DexCorp 1 this morning. We chose DexCorp 1, which I, personally, had not been in since we returned from the PupPal Tour. But I'm telling you, Littermates, riding in a side car rig is just like... well, riding in a sidecar rig--once you learn, you never forget.

And a very refreshing ride it was, too.

Slicker'n snot on a glass doorknob

The biped took me to the groomer at PetSmart this morning. We both like the PetSmart groomers a lot better than my previous groomer.

PetSmart charges more, and they do not, in the biped's ever-humble opinion, do a particularly good job. But what they do, they do in half the time. But besides a good job, the other things they don't do are worth the price of admission:

They do not trim my tail in such a way as to make me look like a hybrid of a wildebeest and a poodle.

They do not complain to the biped when he picks me up, or lie about how many fleas, ticks, tapeworms and foxtails I supposedly had. 1) I've never had fleas. 2) I've never had more than two or three ticks at any given time, not the eight or ten the groomer tried to claim once. 3) If the vet can't find any sign of a tape worm with a gloved hand and a tube of KY jelly, I don't really think it was wiggling its ears at the groomer while she expressed my anal glands. 4) You're a groomer; we're paying you to remove foxtails, for Dog's sake! (I must add, parenthetically, that the PetSmart groomer, far from having any fanciful complaints, went out of her way this afternoon to tell the biped what a good dog I was.)

And they (the PetSmart groomers) do not put some silly, sissified Hitler-Jugend bandana around my neck when they're through with me. Which I definitely appreciate, particularly in view of the fact that I have recently beend likened--I will not say by whom--to the biker in The Village People!

So anyway, I am feeling very slick and shiny and al fresco again. Better stand back when I'm spinning, or you may get a black eye.

One saint, twelve red-letter days

Have I ever mentioned to you, Littermates, that Saint Dexeter was born on a Monday? Well, he was. You could look it up in the Book of Frisbee. Except that the team of squabbling scholars who currently have custody of the fragments of the Book of Frisbee (also known as the Red Pee Scrolls) aren't about to let you get your grimy little paws on it--most of you do have surprisingly small paws, you know.

So... You will just have to take my word for the fact that Saint Dexeter was born on a Monday. Which, in and of itself, is mildly unusual, but hardly miraculous. The miraculous part is this: It turns out that Saint Dexeter was actually born on the first Monday of every month! Thus, once the Frisbetarian Crusader Kingdom of Boise is well and truly established, we will be able to spit-can all those other silly dead-biped federal holidays and just celebrate Dextmas once a month. Won't that be convenient?

I also wanted to mention in passing that I do not now claim, nor have I ever claimed to be Saint Dexeter reincarnate. I am merely His humble representative here on earth. Which is not to say I don't have expenses, if you take my meaning.

Taking out the tabloid trash

Let me be perfectly clear about this, Littermates, I will not dignify with a response any questions or allegations having to do with whether the biped has any intention of paying Korean genetic scientists $53,000 and change to clone me after I go up on the roof. It's such a ridiculous idea that it is not even worthy of comment, and you should all just be ashamed of yourselves.

But, perhaps more to the point, legalistically speaking, I catalepticly deny that, thirty years ago, the biped ever stalked and kidnapped a Frisbetarian missionary or attached said hypothetical (but female) missionary to a bedstead in a honeymoon cottage in England with mink lined handcuffs or forced the aforesaid mythical missionary to be his love slave. It never happened*.

And anybody who says it did is looking at a ten million dollar libel suit. Is that clear?

If you have any further questions, please direct them to Christie, Willis & Willis, attorneys at law (except for “Christie,” who is really the muscle of the firm).

Thank you very much.

Now, if you will excuse me, I believe I hear the UPS truck. That will no doubt be Dexters Two through Six, all of whom will be played by Michael Keaton in the movie version of this rollicking (but entirely fictional) tail.

*quite like that

Accept no substitutes

It appears, Littermates, that there is a Dexter indogonator out there on the roads of the intermountain west somewhere.

Yesterday, as the biped and I were walking along the eastern block of Third St., here in Beautiful Downtown Spreckels, we were button holed (or pigeon dropped, or whatever the expression is) by a fellow who lives on that block with his motorcycle and his dog, and possibly a wife for all I know. We don't know this fellow’s name--nor does he know the biped's, as it turns out, but he knows mine, so all's right with the world--but he looks a little like that actor who played Jimmy James on News Radio, if that's of any help to you.

Anyway, this Jimmy James lookalike asked us how long we'd been home from our trip--apparently somebody noticed we were gone. We told him. He asked us if we had been in Montana toward the very end of the trip. We told him that, although we had been in Montana, that had been back around July 4th through July 9th, you know, approximately. Whereupon he said that it could not have been us, then.

Evidently, Mr. James-alike and his family had just returned from a vacation in Montana. He claims that, on or about July 22nd, he saw a Ural just like ours, driven by a guy who looked something like the biped, with a largish dog in the sidecar.

Can you believe it, Littermates? There’s some idiot and his biped out there pretending to be us. Why anyone would want to pretend to be the biped is beyond me, frankly, but it's the principle of the thing that matters. That and the book rights, of course.

So, if this dog-and-phony show should roll into your town offering a display of signs and wonders, I can only suggest that you stone them before they get a chance to beguile you with their silver-tounged lies. Throw stones first and ask questions later, I always say.

The wisdom of the ancients

If the flea hangs around long enough,
sooner or later he'll see the dog's balls.

-ancient Etruscan proverb

And yet, for all their prodigious wisdom, the Etruscans have faded utterly from the pages of history. What can one say, Littermates, but sic transit gloria mundi?

And possibly arfs gratia arfis.

Tick-tock, Mr. Kubrick

What a cunning collection of linguists we have here on Dogster, droogs! Yesterday's entry had not been posted for five minutes before Izzy was first in with the information that ochin harasho is Russian for very good, or very fine, or very nice... something along those lines. And she was followed not long after by Kiko, Kirby, Midnight Star, Charlie, and Skye, all of whom knew it was Russian and either knew what it meant off the tops of their little canine heads or rapidly researched it and found out what it meant.

But none of those doggies, alas, saw the connection to the body of yesterday's entry.

Only Abby was able to do that. So she is the big winner of... Um... Well, of nothing but this very mention, actually. Still, that is a high honor, is it not, droogs?

Oh, what is the connection, you ax? It was the role of Alex in Stanley Kubrick's 1971 film of Anthony Bugess's 1962 book A Clockwork Orange that first propelled Malcom McDowell--you remember him from yesterday’s entry, surely?--to the kind of international stardom that now allows him to get bit parts as creeps on TV shows. And, in A Clockwork Orange, Alex and his droogs frequently describe things they like as harasho. And, being Cockneys, the way they pronounce it is pretty much indistinguishable from the way they would pronounce horror show. It's very deep, droogs. Take my word for it.

Here's a link to the Wikipedia article on A Clockwork Orange.

Ochin harasho

The other evening, the bipeds were watching an old episode of Law and Order: Criminal Intent. Malcom McDowell guest starred as an evil billionaire (is there any other kind on TV?). When it began to ocurr to the detectives that Malcom's character had an unpleasant personality trait or two, one of them said, "Well, I guess people don't give you billions of dollars for being a nice guy, do they?"

Now, it immediately crossed my mind that that question, rhetorical though it was, had built into it a whole laundry list of left-wing Hollywood anti-free-market-capitalism pinko fellow-traveller downright Commie nut-case assumptions. What crossed the biped's mind--to the extent that one can make that determination based on what comes out of his mouth--was this:

“Apparently, people don't give you billions of dollars for being kind of difficult to get along with, either, or I'd be rich."

The bipedess let that one hang in the air for perhaps half a beat too long, and then said, "But deep down inside, you're a nice guy."

Well, I can't quarrel with that, I suppose. Still... You'd think he'd be at least superficially loaded, wouldn't you?

PS: The first one to figure out the significance of today's title gets an honorable mention in this very diary. Courtesy of Proctor & Gamble, a wholly owned subsidiary of DexCorp.

Nearer, My Dog, to Thee

In religious matters, the biped tends to be--how shall I put this delicately?--a skeptic. And I am pretty sure I am using the term skeptic euphonistically here. But I have discovered documentary evidence that should shake him (or at the very least, jiggle him) to his very core.

This is from the obituary page of this morning's Monterey County Herald (you could look it up):

Terry King Gillot, age 59, went to be with his Lord Saturday, July 19, 2008 in Little Rock, Arkansas.

So here we have firm written evidence, not only for the existence of Him whose name cannot be pronounced because there are no vowels in it, but of His very presence among us. Among those of us who live in Arkansas, anyway. The questions is (well, a question is) does He actually live in Little Rock, or is He on tour?

Sounds like a schism to me, Littermates.

Unclear on the concept?

The biped keeps checking my Dogster page several times a day. Apparently, to see if I have yet written a new diary entry. It seems that he is not altogether happy with my recent output--we are speaking here of my literary output; there's never been much of anything wrong with my bodily output. Its quantity, he seems to feel, is minimal at best, and its quality... well, its quality has recently been distinctly whiney, according to him.

And I'm pretty sure he's got a point. Possibly two.

On the other hand, I'm not altogether sure he understands how this thing works.

There is a reason...

...the prophet is without honor in his own land. The prophet--if you will foregive my saying so--is a boob. And the locals all know it.

Still... you might think one of the neighbors would say Hi, or Welcome back!, or How was your trip? But no.

You'd think we never left. Or--and now we are getting into Twilight Zone territory--that we never came back. Spooky.

You shouldn’t have!

In matters of gift giving, it is the thought that counts. I understand that.

Sadly, the prevailing thought seems to be, "Dexter, you stink!" And, while any number of things may be further from the truth, that is, nevertheless, a sentiment I refrain from embracing (turn, turn, turn).

And besides, didn't Proctor & Gamble get into trouble some years ago for being a pack of Dogless Satanists? Not that I would want to spread unfunded rumors, mind you.

Lord of these lands all over

Did you notice, Littermates, that the gypsy rover was no gypsy at all? Rather, he was a young aristocrat out slumming and picking up women? So the footloose and fancy-free young lady got all the romance of running off with a gypsy rover, and she got a house with more wine and servants than her father could ever have provided, anyway. Pretty sweet deal, all around.

So remember, ladies, if a handsome young vagabond Gordon setter should come rolling into town in a bug-besplattered sidecar, arooo-ing his little heart out for you, you should definitely run off with him. Because he will almost undoubtedly turn out to be the CEO, CFO, COO, and majority shareholder of some multi-notional corporation like, oh, for instance, DexCorp. And you will live, if not necessarily happily, at least well provided for everafter. Otherwise, romance might wear pretty thin pretty quick--like the first time you find yourself actually sleeping in the morning dew.

But, anyway, all I really wanted to tell you today is that I got a very nice hike at Garland Park yesterday afternoon with the bipeds. Given a choice, I prefer early-morning hikes, when it is easier to maintain the fiction that I am, in fact, "Lord of these lands all over." But an afternoon hike beats the snot out of a leashed walk any day of the week, so I'm a reasonably happy dog. (Though this fall weather we're having does make me restless--road trip, anyone?)

A gypsy rover came over the hill...

...into the valley shady;
He whistled and he sang til the green wood rang,
And he won the heart of a lady.

She left her father's castle gate, she left her own true lover;
She left her servants and her estate
To follow her gypsy rover.

Ah-dee-doo-ah-dee-doo-dah-day,
Ah-dee-doo-ah-dee- day-dee,
He whistled and he sang til the green woods rang
And he won the heart of a lady.

Her father mounted his fastest steed,
And searched the valley all over;
He sought his daughter at great speed
And the whistling gypsy rover.

At last he came to a mansion fine, down by the river Claydee,
And there was music and there was wine
For the gypsy and his lady.

Ah-dee-doo-ah-dee-doo-dah-day,
Ah-dee-doo-ah-dee-d ay-dee,
He whistled and he sang til the green woods rang
And he won the heart of a lady.

"He is no gypsy, my father," she cried,
"But Lord of these lands all over,
And I shall stay til my dying day
With my whistling gypsy rover."

Ah-dee-doo-ah-dee-doo-dah-day,
Ah-dee-doo-ah-dee -day-dee,
He whistled and he sang til the green woods rang
And he won the heart of a lady.

Well, yeah, this hearth and home stuff is all very nice, Littermates. For a while. Say, maybe, a week. But my paw pads are getting itchy. There are ladies out there with hearts yet to be won. And, while I cannot, in fact, whistle, I am an excellent singer. Excellent singer.

The biped is being something of a stick in the mud about the whole thing, though. Apparently, he has done all the lady-heart winning he really cares to do in one life time. What a chump!

Zazzle dazzle and caption contest

I am not easily amazed, Littermates, but I confess myself amazed at the moment.

On Wednesday, the biped submitted an on-line order to Zazzle for some PupPal Tour commemorative T-shirts to be sent out as thank-you gifts to those of you as put us up (and put up with us) during the course of the recently concluded DexCorp 2008 PupPal Tour. Yesterday (Thursday) he received an email from Zazzle saying the order had been processed. This morning, he received another email saying the order had been shipped, UPS Ground, for delivery in 4 - 7 working days. So we were thinking we would get the shirts maybe by the end of next week.

Earlier this afternoon, the biped was sitting out on the front porch reading and scratching my butt, when a UPS truck pulled up in front of the house. Certainly he had not ordered anything that should be getting delivered today, thought the biped--I do very little thinking when my butt is being scratched. And the bipedess has been out of town for nearly a month, so it seemed unlikely that she had ordered anything for delivery today. So he was leaning toward the theory that the junior bipup must have ordered some (presumably firearm-ralated) item.

But no, it was our Zazzle T-shirts! Now, we are impressed with Zazzle. But we are arfing amazed about UPS. I mean, we had always had the impression that those guys would deliberately hold onto stuff to make sure you didn't get it any sooner than advertised, thus encouraging you to spring for the more expensive service. But perhaps we have been too cynical, Littermates. Even so, it makes me wonder just where Zazzle is physically located. Must be very close.

So, anyway, he got the shirts mailed out to all our hosts this afternoon--you should be seeing them early to mid next week, we're thinking.

As it happens--well it was by design, really--we have three T-shirts left over, one each in Medium, X-Large, and XX-Large (the biped himself has already snarfed the left-over Large). We are willing to part with one of them to the person who supplies the best caption for my current main picture. All entries will be judged on an entirely subjective and idiosyncratic basis, and Fred is not allowed to enter because his people are already receiving shirts. That also applies to the rest of you who participated directly in the PupPal Tour. I only single Fred out for particular mention because I have a sneaking suspicion he'd win if we let him play. And besides, we don't have any shirts in Small Horse size.

Geographical Rorshach

Looking at the revised map of the PupPal Tour, I cannot help but see a gloved fist. The cuff of the glove runs from Belle Plaine, MN in the north to Allen, TX in the south. The knuckles undulate along the west coast. And the thumb... well, the short, squat, beefy thumb appears to be stuck up poor Canada's bum. Or, to put it in less anatomical terms, our route proclaims a cheery "Thumbs up, Canada!" I can't help it. I just calls 'em as I sees 'em.

We are still waking up two or three times a night, the biped and I, wondering what motel or unfamiliar house we're in and whether or not it's time to get up and pack DexCorp 1. Then we realize we're home, and all we've got to do is get back to work. I'm already back on duty, patrolling the yard for bird shadows and barking at kids on skateboards. The biped is taking his sweet time, though. Hasn't even looked yet at any of the business-related mail and helpful notes from the bipedess piled up on his desk. Says he doesn't plan on letting the customers (if there still are any) know he's here until Monday. At the earliest.

If the locals are organizing a welcome home parade, they're doing a good job keeping us in the dark about it.

Day 37 (the last day), July 21st, Spreckels,- California, (home)

Starting Odometer Reading today: 17,468 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 17,648 km

Distance Traveled Today: 180 km

Distance all to-arfing-gether: 10,035 km OR 6221.7 miles

Let's just call it a PupPal Tour then, shall we?

Well, Littermates, here we are, back in beautiful downtown Spreckels. It smells very much like home, even if there is a bit of smoke in the air. At least one of the cats seems to have survived in our absence, but you can't have everything, I suppose.

Thank you to everyone who put us up and helped us out and rooted for us. I shall no doubt have more to say about that soon. Right now, though, I have to watch the biped start getting caught up on various things.

Day 36, July 20th, Martinez, California

Starting Odometer Reading today: 17,169 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 17,468 km

Distance Traveled Today: 299 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 9855 km

The air cleared up quite a bit as we came south on I-5 this morning, so that was good. I-505 was quite nice. I-80, though is in criminally bad repair. And we were riding into a 20 mph head wind off an enormous fog bank. That, and the short stretch of I-680 that followed may just have been the most miserable 30 miles of the whole trip. But it was mercifully short.

When we first hit town, we dropped in on the biped's old friends R & R F. Their daughter Allison came by with her daughter, Emily Danger Von H. Also on hand was R & R's terrier mutt, Gary.

We are spending the night at the home of the biped's other old Martinez friend, Joane Q.--she of the shared steak sandwich.

And tomorrow, Dog willing. we shall be home.

Smoke gets in my eyes.

One can only hope—for the sake of my kibble supply, if nothing else—that the biped's business has fared better in our absence than the state in general has.

I mean, I'm pretty sure I delegated somebody to look after the place while we were gone. Sure, you go away for five weeks, you're going to have to expect some slacking off in the house keeping department. But this is arfing ridiculous.

We were still 50 miles or more north of the state line this afternoon when the otherwise blue sky started to turn white with the smoke of California burning. And we are not talking about a few cigarette burns in the shag carpeting, either, Littermates. The whole arfing state appears to be on fire—not that you can see any actual flames through the unDogly pall of smoke. Oregon must feel like it's living next door to a guy who likes to rev the engine of his oil-burning 67 Buick all day long.

And the smoke is not just in the sky; it is right down at ground level, too. It's like driving through fog. Only fog doesn't smell like cigar smoke and burn your eyes. It is just the sort of atmosphere you would really just as soon not be riding through on a motorcycle.

It's not as if efforts are not being made, or course. The parking lot of our Motel 6 is chockablock with fire trucks from all over the western United States. So your Chairman Himself personally is in very little danger of going up in smoke during the night.

Nevertheless... I intend to have a word with the tenants, once we are safely home.

Day 35, July 19th, Motel 6, Redding, California

Starting Odometer Reading today: 16,596 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 17169 km

Distance Traveled Today: 573 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 9556 km

A new superfund site

(No, Lyle... superfund.)

Those of you who live in the great state of New York—or the Umpire State, as the incognoscenti call it—may well be of the opinion that Albany cooks up any number of concoctions more noxious than cat urine. I, personally, have no position on that—I just hope poor Elliot got your money's worth is all.

But I am not here to discuss Albany, New York with you this evening, Littermates, but rather Albany, Oregon. Where I'm pretty sure a cat urine refinery has recently suffered a catastrophic expulsion or patty melt down or something. About a mile of I-5 through Albany was so thoroughly contaminated with purified essence of cat urine this morning that I was momentarily afraid that the biped would pass out. And, while his conscious driving is nothing to write home about—although I guess that's just what I've been doing for the past five weeks--I am reasonably sure that it is better than his unconscious driving—you'd have to check with one of his high school buddies to be certain, though.

Anyway, something clearly needs to be done. And I know just what: Take the funds earmarked for cleaning up the Hanford nuclear site in Washington and spend the money instead on cleaning up the cat urine spill in Albany. Why? you ax. Because Albany is a lot closer to Beautiful Downtown Spreckels than Hanford is, that's why. And besides, Lyle lives practically right next to Hanford—it is probably Hanford, in fact, that is primarily responsible for Lyle's supergeniousity—and I'm sure he can come up with a low-cost solution involving chicken jerky and bubble gum. Or not. After all, a little bit of radiation never hurt anybody. That I know.

Now if you will excuse me, our pizza has just been delivered. I may have more to say later about how sadly neglected California's air quality seems to have been during my absence.

Day 34, July 18th, Robbins Roost, Salem, Oregon

Starting Odometer Reading today: 16,527 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 16,596 km

Distance Traveled Today: 69 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 8983 km

We met up with Pam, Sergei, and Dani at a dog park in Tigard this morning. (That would be Sergei the Pomeranian mix, not Sergei the Russian motorcycle mechanic.) Then we all went to lunch at a local brew pub. Very pleasant.

Then we had a grueling 69-kilometer ride to Salem for a stopover with Alee Robbins and her three dogs Gus, Farley, and the venomous little lap dog, Sparky.

Apparently, starting tomorrow, the biped intends to get serious—he would like to be home in three days. Could be four.

Day 33, July 17th, Tigard, Oregon

Starting Odometer Reading today: 16,135 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 16,527 km

Distance Traveled Today: 392 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 8912 km

Since leaving Richland this morning (and leaving Lyle to get back to whatever important super genius stuff we interrupted), every mile traveled has at last been a mile closer to home. That is, if you discount however many miles we consumed in more or less circumnavigating Mount Hood on a Forest Service gravel road, and I am very much inclined to do so.

We met with Vernon Wade, the biped's erstwhile sidecar instructor, for an early lunch in Hood River. When the biped explained to Vernon that, far from being pressed for time today, we actually had time to burn—our prospective hosts being at work until after five, Vernon suggested the little detour around Mount Hood. It was certainly scenic. And it certainly helped take some of that extra time off our hands. I must say I found it a bit difficult to sleep through, though, what with all the pot holes and wash boarding. And the biped seems to think both his wrists are broken. But, frankly, I'm pretty sure he's malingering.

Be that as it may, we are now safely ensconced in Tigard, the original home of the Beast Men of Oregon. Which is not, of course, to say that there are any actual Beast Men here in the home of James and Luwanna C. where we are staying this evening. Though I must say that their cat, Homer, is something of a beast. And I'm pretty sure he's not even a super genius.

I may have more for you later, Littermates—stay tuned.

Hiding his light under a bushel

Evidently, your average super genius—if that is not an oxymoron—is a bit on the touchy side, at least if Lyle is anything to go by. I'm getting along quite well with the girls—and even being polite about it so far—but Lyle doesn't seem to care for me much. Too many genius pheromones in one room, I guess. Or perhaps I'm interrupting an important cogitation of some sort.

But I must say, if Lyle is performing any sort of super genius cogitations, he is doing it so smoothly that one certainly does not seem to see the gears turning, as it were. If one did not know better, one could easily imagine that nothing at all was going on behind those big brown eyes. It's really a startlingly effective illusion.

Meanwhile, I, myself am considering giving up the life of the mind in favor of a career in modeling. I had my first big photo shoot with Mike this morning, and everyone agrees that I'm a natural. I never really wanted to be a bird dog, anyway.

Day 31, July 15th, Richland, Washington

Starting Odometer Reading today: 15,792 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 16,135

Distance Traveled Today: 343 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 8520 km

On the road again

Turns out the crack team of Russian mechanics consisted only of Sergei himself. But, when you consider that Sergei is almost undoubtedly the best Ural mechanic in North America, that is no bad thing. And he devoted his attention exclusively to DexCorp 1 for the entire four hours or so it took to get everything all squared away.

The first thing Sergei discovered when he removed the rear wheel was that one of the springs that causes the brake shoes to retract after use was broken. That probably caused the rear brake to drag, not enough for the biped to notice, but enough to generate a fair amount of heat, which was then transmitted to the final drive, causing pressure and blowing the seal—for those of you, like Star, who care about this sort of thing.

When Sergei was all done reassembling my ride, he pronounced DexCorp 1 “good motorcycle.”

Marymoor Dog Park

Fascinating as all of that mechanical stuff no doubt was, we did not actually have to sit through most of it. Thanks to Magnuson, we knew that there was an excellent dog park quite near where we were. Thanks so Jason Rae, the Director of Operations at Ural, we found out that the Sammamish River trail, which leads to Marymoor Park, runs right behind the Ural building. So the biped and I set out on a 2 ½ hour walking adventure, only about half an hour of which was actually at the dog park. Nevertheless, we got our exercise today. And it is a very cool park.

Dexter drives on deeper into Washington

We were prepared for the possibility of spending another night in the Kirkland/Redmond area. But Sergei had us out the door by about 2:45, so we decided to go ahead and make a run southeast to Richland, were we are now comfortably installed at the casa de Lyle, Spring, and Maebe. We have been out for walk together. We are, for the most part, ignoring one another quite amicably. When I know more, so will you, Littermates.

Day 30, July 14th, Kirkland, Washington

Starting Odometer Reading today: 15,339 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 15,792 km

Distance Traveled Today: 453 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 8177 km

Another pretty ride

Well, today was very nearly as scenic as yesterday, once we clawed our way up out of Kamloops, which is not a bad sort of place, really, but is not very scenic and smells a little like an old station wagon full of damp cardboard that's been sitting in the sun all day.

We apparently saved ourselves about 77 km by taking Highway 5, the Coquihalla toll road, south from just outside of Kamloops to the point where it rejoins the Trans Can near Hope—which is, I believe, where Hilary Clinton once came under sniper fire from Sir Edmund Hilary. It was very pretty and kind of cold and uphill for arfing ever. There was a $5.00 toll, but that is substantially less than 77 km worth of gas would cost, so I can't complain. About that, I mean.

I must confess that the thrill of merely riding in the Command Module has begun to fade a bit, and I find myself missing both home and my pup pals between stops. On the one hand, I would like to be home. On the other, I would kind of like to have stayed with my last pal a little longer. (Even if he was hell bent on disemboweling me.) I've been acting a bit subdued since we left Calgary.

Nihon-jin to the rescue

Just outside of Hope, BC--without, as opposed to within Hope—we stopped for lunch at a roadside rest stop. When we had finished our lunch, and the biped was just about to pack up, a whole bus load of Japanese tourists came rolling in. Since I was tethered to a picnic table more or less between them and the restrooms, they could hardly help but notice me.

And they were gathering around and making quite a fuss over me—guess you don't see a lot of Gordon setters in Japan—even before they realized that DexCorp 1 was my ride.

Well, they went positively bat spit over me when, at the biped's polite request, I hopped into the Command Module, and he put my Doggles on me. To judge by all the camera phones they whipped out, you'd have thought they'd stumbled onto a celebrity wedding featuring that potato that looked so much like Elvis and one of those water-stain Virgin Marys.

So, anyway, that cheered me up quite a bit. And, in the interest of furthering good international relations—remember, these people drive on the wrong side of the road all the time—I refrained from growling at a single one of them.

Just a shadow of my former self

So, here we are at the Baymont Inn in Kirkland, WA, waiting to take DexCorp 1 into Ural North American in Redmond bright and early tomorrow morning. We reserved the room by phone from Calgary. The biped was very clear that he had a dog with him, and they said that was fine—it would just cost a bit more, was all.

So we get here, after a pretty long and tiring day on the road, and the biped goes in to check in. One of the things they want him to sign is their pet policy. He almost, but not quite, made the mistake of actually reading the arfing thing. If he had, he would have come across the previously undisclosed fact that the Baymont Inn does not accept dogs over 40 bs. But he didn't, so everything is copa-septic, right, Fred?

Day 29, July 13th, Kamloops, British Columbia, Canada

Distance in and around Calgary: 117 km

Starting Odometer Reading today: 14,727 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 15,339 km

Distance Traveled Today: 612 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 7724 km

Spectacular...

I'm pretty sure that, if I hadn't slept through most of it, I would be able to report unequivocally that today's ride was far and away the most scenic of the trip so far. It was certainly the longest. We rode through Banff, Yoho, and Glacier National parks. And, although we didn't aret for anything but gas, and didn't see much in the way of animal savages (French for wildlife), we did learn that the French word for lake is lac, so it was an educational as well as scenic day.

But windy

In one of Martin Cruz Smith's recent novels, there is a scene in which the protagonist, Arkady, is trying to decide which of several used motorcycles to buy from a shady mechanic. One of them is a Ural. The mechanic says, “If you want to go fast on a Ural, drive it off a cliff.” Which seems like sound advice, I grant you. But, after today, I'm just not sure it would work. Not in a headwind, anyway.

Several times this afternoon, we were driving into headwinds such that the biped was having difficulty maintaining 50 mph downhill!

Losing the thread

I don't know how many of you have been trying to keep track of our progress on the route map on my page. Even though we had made several small deviations from the planned route before today, the scale of the map is such that you could hardly have told the difference even if we had corrected the map, which we are currently in no position to do, anyway. But today's little excursion has got us pretty far away from that length of red yarn.

Calgary is no longer the apex of our blitzkrieg spear thrust into the soft underbelly of Canada. Rather, our line of advance now proceeds more or less due westward from Calgary to Kamloops, at a point generally north/northeast of Nowhere At All, Washington.

Wester than west... Or: It's earlier than you think. Or: There's no time zone like the present.

Ah! Pacific Daylight Time. Feels like we're almost home.

Constructive criticism

Being the well traveled, diplomatic, cosmopolitan sort of dog I am, I know full well how annoying foreign countries can be. And how annoying snotty foreign travelers in one's own country can be. I have always therefore taken the position that, if it is absolutely necessary for a stranger in a strange land to offer up some sort of criticism, that criticism should be constructive in nature and couched only in the most positive terms.

Unless, of course, the country is France, in which case, all bets are off. But we are speaking here of British Columbia, the California of Canada, which is only almost a whole nother country. Nevertheless.

If I were pressed to offer any advice to my British Columbian friends, it would be this:

I truly believe that you could drive even better than you already drive, that you could cause even fewer senseless head-ons on the Trans Canada Highway than you already cause, if you would just, oh, say, once a week, get your collective heads out of your collective arses.

The mere fact that we have traveled over 7500 kilometers through California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Iowa, Minnesota, South Dakota, Montana, and Alberta without ever seeing driving even approaching the level of rank stupidity we have seen repeatedly today in British Columbia does not for a moment cause us to think British Columbians are morons. Far from it. If any of those other people had their heads half as far up there arses as you do, I'll bet they'd scarcely be able to drive at all.

Still. You might want to consider pulling it out once in a while. That's all I'm saying.

The biped waxes mechanical.

This morning, the biped and I went for a very nice motorcycle ride with Eli's people, Janet and Ken. Unhappily—I know I was crushed—Janet and Ken each has her/his own motorcycle, but not a sidecar between them. Thus, poor Cujo... er... Eli was unable to come along.

While we were riding, Janet noticed that neither the brake light nor the tail light on the motorcycle portion of DexCorp 1 was working, though the lights on the Command Module were OK. The biped found this news disquieting, but he figured we could get to Redmond on one tail light and one brake light.

But, later in the same ride, Janet noticed that the lights on the Command Module were no longer working either.

Well, now the biped was bummed. He could not contemplate riding 1000 km with no brake lights at all. And here it was Saturday morning, with a deadline looming for heading off to the Calgary Stampede. And then, tomorrow, of course, is Sunday, and our revised schedule absolutely required that we get on the road first thing. What to do?

Well, for a start, he decided to open up the tail-light housing to see what he could see. But he was not particularly optimistic—he is not known for his mechanical/electrical prowess.

But, once he had the lens off, what should he find but a little screw rolling around. It was a screw that should have been securing a ground wire to the taillight bulb. The plastic into which the screw should have been threaded was melted, and the screw could not be put back.

So, a loose screw causes arcing, which melts it's surroundings, causing the screw to fall out entirely, causing the taillight to fail, and--and this is the biped's brilliant epiphany—causing a fuse to blow, which accounts for the failure of the lights on the Command Module. That was his hypothesis, anyway.

He found the blown fuse. Ken had a matching fuse in his collection. The biped drilled a new hole through the melted plastic, so that he could thread the little screw back in. At that point, everything worked except the brake light on the Command Module. Further investigation revealed a broken filament in the bulb. Ken had a matching bulb in his collection!

So, we're good to go in the morning.

And some of us—by which I mean not me—had a very fine time this afternoon at the Calgary stampede, while others of us—that would be me—cooled their heels in the back yard for several hours.

A diversion, yes; diverting... we'll see

The biped has made another one of those executive decisions he is so fond of ramming down my throat. It seems that he is growing weary of topping up the final drive with gear oil every morning and having said oil splashed all over the rear rim and tire all day. And he is vaguely worried that his commitment to a timely resolution of the problem might some day be called into question for warranty purposes. So... we shall be heading west on the Trans Can bright and early Sunday morning on the first leg of a two-day run to Ural North America in Redmond, Washington, where DexCorp 1 will be worked on by a crack team of genuine Russian mechanics who may not speak English but who know their Urals like the backs of their Kalashnikovs.

Presumably, Sergei and the boys will turn DexCorp 1 around in one day (if they value their visas, anyway), and we will do one longish day southeast to Richland, at which point we will be back on the original itinerary. Not only that, we should be pretty much back on the original schedule, too, having picked up the odd day, here and there. Look for us in Richand on the 16th, insulate.

On another subject entirely: Eli and I are great pals at the dog park. And they've got some great dog parks here in Calgary. I shall try to prevail upon the biped to get a picture or two before we go. The boy only gets canicidal around hearth and home. If we had more time... a lot more time... But we don't.

It must have been something I et, eh?

During the course of this little adventure, I have found a variety of ways to embarrass the biped at virtually every stop, from being inappropriately unfriendly toward other dogs (Star, Fred), to being inappropriately friendly toward other dogs (Finlay, Nali), to a spot of carpet marking (Allen, TX; Paullina, IA; Belle Plaine, MN).

But here in Calgary, Eli almost succeeded in putting me off my game. If I wanted to be inappropriately unfriendly toward Eli, I would have to make myself heard above Eli's snapping and snarling and absolutely demented barking. Can't be done. If I wanted to be inappropriately friendly, I would first have to get within a country kilometer of the boy without getting disemboweled. I'm not liking my chances of that. I could mark the place up a bit, I suppose. But even there, Eli has somewhat stolen my thunder—the very day before I arrived, the poor boy (under extenuating circumstances, I will admit) crapped in the basement rec room. I mean, how embarrassing is a little marking on my part going to be?

Last night, however, I was back on form in my embarrass-the-biped program. While all the people were sitting around the dining room table being sociable, and even occasionally praising my exemplary behavior and rugged good looks, I fumigated the place, not once, but repeatedly. The biped, who has developed a tolerance of sorts over the years, scarcely noticed at first. The others tried bravely to pretend not to notice for a while. But then the ladies' eyes started to water, and there was a great collective cry of “oh, Dexter!” (I was actually hoping that they would blame the biped directly—which would have been just that much more embarrassing for him—but my work—if you will forgive me for saying so myself—is just inimitable and, thus, unmistakable.)

I got thrown out of the house three times. Let's just see Eli match that!

Day 26, July 10th, Calgary, Alberta, Canada

Starting Odometer Reading: 14,492 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 14,610 km

Distance Traveled Today: 118 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 6995 km

So here was the plan, as of yesterday afternoon: We pushed ourselves a little to get all the way from Great Falls to Vulcan, less than 120 km from Calgary. Then we would get to sleep in this morning, pack up in a very leisurely fashion, and mosey on down to the Starship Enterprise, there to meet up with Eli's humanoid, Janet, and such entourage as she might have chosen to bring along. Janet would be prevailed upon to take lots of cool pictures of the biped and me and DexCorp 1 in front of various Vulcan tourist monstrosities. The biped would purchase ghastly post cards. Then Janet would lead us all on a grand procession into Calgary.

That was the plan. What we failed to take into account was that this is summer in Alberta, which could easily pass for winter in California, except that it's way less predictable.

Last night's weather forecast said that there would probably be rain in the morning and tht it would get nothing but worse as the day wore on. Janet and the biped agreed that there was really no point in her or anybody else coming to Vulcan, and that the biped and I would be well advised to get as early a start as possible. Thus it was that we were up a little before five and on the road, breakfastless and entourageless, at six-fifteen.

You might think that the Starship Enterprise would be on Galactic Savings time and therefore open for the purchase of hideous postcards. Alas, it was not. Sorry, Charlotte.

We rolled into Calgary, dry but under a huge cloud, at about seven-thirty. Eli immediately tried to kill me, of course. But we have since reached a compromise: He now tries to kill me only if I am in his house or yard. At the dog park we're buds. I don't see anybody humping anybody in the foreseeable future.

Day 25, July 9th, Vulcan, Alberta, Canada

Starting Odometer Reading: 14,113 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 14,492 km

Distance Traveled Today: 379 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 6877 km

Alberta: The final frontier

These are the voyages of the Ural Patrol, DexCorp 1. Our five-day mission: to explore the attic, eh?, to make friends with the neighbors then, to go bodily where no dog has gone since Tuesday.

So here we are in Vulcan, a tiny little town in Alberta that has decided to make the most—the very most of the coincidence that it shares its name with a species of green-blooded, offensively logical aliens, of whom Leonard Nimoy is the best known example. This is Trekkie heaven, right here on the rolling prairies of Alberta, Alberta... where you been so long?

There are two motels and a hotel in Vulcan. One of the motels looks pretty disreputable. The other one looks far worse. We tried the disreputable motel first. They were full up. Wednesday night in Vulcan. Go figure.

So we tried the hotel, which at least has the virtue of being “downtown,” rather than right out on Highway 23. The Vulcan Hotel is upstairs from a bar. It is the kind of place where you can get a room with or without a bathroom—we splurged and went for with. And yet, it is much nicer than the fleabag motel we stayed in last night in Mediocre-at-Best Falls. And it has wi-fi. (The Montana place said they had free wi-fi. By which they meant, if you set your laptop up real close to the window, you could just about steal the signal from the Big Sky Bagel Bakery across the street. I spit you not.)

Tomorrow morning, we will be meeting Eli's people (but not Eli himself, I think) at the Vulcan Starship Enterprise Visitor's Center (whoops centre). There will then be some sort of royal procession into Calgary. I believe something may have been said about barbecue and beer Friday evening.

I'm glad we're getting really close to the point on the map where we can head south again—I don't know how much more of this uphill stuff DexCorp 1 could have stood. But, after Calgary, we can ride the brakes all the way home, it looks like.

Note to self: Get Charlotte a really cheesy post card at the Starship Enterprise tomorrow.

Day 24, July 8th, Great Falls, Montana

Starting Odometer Reading: 13,784 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 14,113 km

Distance Traveled Today: 329 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 6498 km

Well, we have been in Great Falls for well over an hour now. I've been out for a walk. I've marked out some territory. I've taken a good dump—I ask you, is there any other kind? But I have yet to see so much as a pratfall, let alone a great fall.

Granted, it's a largish place, and maybe all the best falling occurs in some other part of town. Granted also that I am feeling a bit lovelorn at the moment, and may not be as keen an observer as I otherwise might be.

Still, I'm failing to see how this place got its name. I mean, how can it even begin to compete with a place like, say, Calgary, where visiting mad Australians routinely break multiple bones overbalancing whilst tying their shoe laces? That's a hard act to follow.

If I were Montana, I think I'd just stick to that whole Big Sky thing, and leave the falling down to them as does it best, eh, mate?

Poor Nali. She was obviously distraught to see me ride off this morning. It means very little to me, of course. I mean, bitches come and bitches go, and a traveling dog like myself tends to have one in every port. It's just that, you know, I feel bad for Nali, is all. And then it is a long lonely way to the nearest ocean. Snnnnxxxx! Hang on—I seem to have something in my eye...

... There, that's better. Anyway, best of luck to you, kid. Thanks for the hospitality. And remember—we'll always have Billings.

July 7th, Billings, Montana

Starting Odometer Reading: 13,644 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 13,784 km

Distance Traveled Today: 140 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 6169 km

The 140 kilometers we're showing as traveled today is really just the biped riding to Roberts and back to get DexCorp 1 serviced. We end the day right where we started it, and I haven't so much as been out of the yard. But we thought we'd better report those kilometers as traveled today, lest they show up all erroneously in tomorrow's figures.

Anyway, DexCorp 1 was serviced today, and everything is OK, except that the final drive is leaking gear oil like crazy, which is suggestive of a bad seal. Bob of Bob's Motorwerks does not have the wherewithal to replace said seal. So the plan is we carry gear oil, check the final drive level everyday, and top it up as necessary, at least until Salem, Oregon. The biped believes—and I am inclined to agree—that, if we can get to Salem that way, we can get home that way. we shall see.

The biped and DexCorp 1 only got back from Roberts about an hour ago, by which time it would already have been pretty late to start for Great Falls. But we could not do so in any case, because we had to wait for the mail.

And why would we have had to wait for the mail, you might well ax. Because I somehow managed to lose my rabies tag in Lincoln. And those perfidious Canadians would not have let me in without it. So the biped called the bipedess, who called my vet, who provided a new tag and certificate. But the bipedess, who is, despite her many fine qualities, sometimes a bit penny wise and pound foolish, sent it to us here in Billings by Priority Mail, rather than Express Mail or FedEx. With the result that I did not have it around my hot little neck until about ten minutes ago.

But we are now ready to set out on the morrow. It's been a lovely stay—that Nali is such a sweet young thing—but I am itching to get back on the road. Hopefully, when you next hear from me, I will be in Great Falls, Montana.

July 6th, Billings Montana: The Beartooth Pass

So, last night, Casey took the biped out to dinner at a local steakhouse, leaving Rajah, Nali, and me home on our own. I got no steak and no gin and tonic, and if I got anything else, I am far too much the gentleman to say so. Publicly (wink, wink).

In any case, nobody was missing any body parts or blood when Casey and the well fed biped got back, so let's just assume we all got along, OK?

Today was a horse of a somewhat different color, however—we all got in on the fun. We three dogs all piled into the back of Casey's car, and she drove us all (and the parasitical biped, of course) through the town of Red Lodge, up the Beartooth pass into Wyoming, where we stopped and had a nice little hike down toward (but not quite to) Gardener Lake. All at something over 10,000 feet. I confess, I was a bit puffed before we were through.

But that did not stop me from being unusually photogenic. (And if you think it's just the Rocky Mountains in the background—and perhaps the skills of a professional photographer—that make the pictures... well, you're entitled to an opinion, but that's not it.)

This afternoon, several of Casey's pals and their dogs are coming over to socialize. The biped says he expects me to be on my best behavior. Well, I can't very well be held accountable for his expectations, now can I?

Tomorrow morning, the biped will be leaving early in the AM on DexCorp 1 to retrace today's drive as far as the town of Roberts, there to have DexCorp 1 serviced at Bob's Motorwerks. Bob (a BMW specialist) has apparently never actually worked on a Ural, but he comes highly recommended.

July 5th, Billings, Montana: Nali and Rajah

Nali

Nali is a very good-hearted little dog, and we are getting on famously. She likes to play. She likes attention.

I could not go so far as to say that she likes to be mounted. In fact, I am pretty sure, if the truth be told, she does not. But--and this is the important part—she seems almost entirely to lack that snippy visceral objection to being mounted that so characterizes many dogs (and bitches!). I mean, I think she'd really rather play some other game, but, as long as I am showering her with attention—and believe me I am showering her with attention—she is mostly content.

Every so often, she will let me know in no uncertain terms that enough is at least enough. And I respect her wishes, I do. Sometimes for upwards of 30 seconds at a stretch.

Rajah

Rajah is a perfect gentleman. Very cosmopolitan. Very aren't-you-glad-we-live-in-these-modern-times-when-polyandry -can-be-openly-discussed.

He objects to my mounting his main squeeze only when she objects, at which times he comes bravely to her defense, and he and I get into it a little. Otherwise, his is the very essence of civilized behavior.

Day 20, July 4th, Billings, Montana

Starting Odometer Reading: 13,143 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 13,644 km

Distance Traveled Today: 501 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 6029 km

Back in the West, Back in the Hot

It was cool this morning in Sturgis, almost cold. The biped was wearing his motorcycle jacket, as he has been since Lincoln. I was not wearing my cool-down jacket, which likewise had not been necessary since Lincoln.

But, just north of Broadus, Montana, the temperature seemed to jump from about 75 to about 95 in the space of a couple of miles. So we stopped and adjusted out attire accordingly.

It was over 100 by the time we got to Billings. Which would have been uncomfortable enough if the biped had not proceeded to get lost in downtown Billings for an hour or so. In his defense, I have to point out that, in Billings, North First Ave. and South First Ave. are not, as they would be in a less advanced metropolis, opposite ends of the same street. The are, rather, two entirely different and parallel streets on opposite sides of the railroad tracks. It's great fun if you're from out of town.

But we did get here. And it was well worth the wait. Rajah and Nali have both been perfect hosts, and I've hardly growled at either of them. Casey has already taken multiple lovely pictures of me, at least one of which should be up on my page any minute now.

The mid-west is a very nice area of the country, and we thoroughly enjoyed meeting our various pals there. But I have to say it is nice to be back in the actual west. I kind of missed it. The west seems to start at the very western edge of South Dakota. It is less tidy than the mid-west, less scrupulously polite. Less farmed, more grazed and mined. Drier. More nearly home.

Day 19, July 3rd, Sturgis, South Dakota

Starting Odometer Reading: 12,697 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 13,143 km

Distance Traveled Today: 456 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 5528 km

Deviant Dexter

No, it's not what you think, honest. I was merely leading up to the news that we deviated from our itinerary today.

We had intended to overnight in Eagle Butte—which I intended, amusingly, to refer to as Eagle Butt. But the biped checked the map at Blunt and decided to make a run for Sturgis instead. With the result that we are staying in a motel that is way more expensive than the one in Eagle Butt (ha, ha) and has Ethernet. Hence, I am not incommunicado after all.

Not that I have a great deal to communicate, though.

Eli apparently took my pleas about the north wind to heart: We had very little wind of any description today, and what we did have was out of the southeast, which suited us just fine. If this keeps up, I suppose we will have to buy that bridge from Janet when we get to Calgary. But Janet is a bone fide real estate agent, so I'm sure it's a very desirable bridge—nice views, good school district... that sort of thing.

We plan to get all the way to Billings tomorrow. It will make for a long day, but better that than two short days that, being days spent in Montana, are bound to seem long, anyway.

I'll be in touch, Littermates.

Day 18, July 2nd, Huron, South Dakota

Starting Odometer Reading: 12,311 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 12,697 km

Distance Traveled Today: 386 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 5072 km (over half way!)

Bird dog redux

Before I bring you up to date on events since my last entry, Littermates, I wanted to tell you one more thing about our little nature hike yesterday morning. While the biped was busy collecting ticks—six and counting--I flushed a peasant, a big cock peasant with a bright green head. And if the biped neglected to bring along his shotgun, that is hardly my fault, is it?

Quarky Dexter

So, OK, maybe I am a bit quarky. But I am not one of your Nancy-boy bottom quarks (not that there's anything wrong with that). I strive to be a top quark. Failing that, I will cop to strange. The problem that arose yesterday evening is that young Finlay is apparently equally disinclined to take the bottom quark role. And yet I was so smitten when he growled at me that I just couldn't seem to leave the poor boy alone.

Well, he went off like a super hero with an unlimited special-effects budget: zooming around the room bouncing off of all six structural surfaces, leaving his teeth snapping in mid air while his body continued its travels, ham stringing me, ripping out my jugular, and putting me back together good as new before I even realized I'd been mortally wounded. I just stood there air humping to beat the band and wondering where my cute little boy toy had gone.

This morning, we both just pretended that it had never happened.

A blustery day

We hit the road again at about 9:00 this morning, after Kristy had fixed the biped an excellent breakfast and packed him two lunches, dinner, dessert, and a midnight snack—I'm pretty sure I was supposed to get at least a couple of those Milano chocolate-mint cookies, though (far chance!).

Road work completely screwed up the first part of our Google directions this morning.

The biped spotted three women who appeared to be taking a morning coffee break outside of an office building. I was sitting up wearing my Doggles and a debonair smile at the time, so the biped was pretty sure we would be well received if we stopped and asked for directions. And so we were.

After taking pictures of us—well, let's face it, of me--the three sirens gave us excellent directions—much better than Google's, never mind the road work.

A little while later, while we were sitting at a stop light, the biped looked in the mirror, and what should he see immediately behind us but a guy on a Ural Retro—our very first Ural encounter on the road.

Then we made our turn west and began the rather frightening journey toward Huron in earnest.

The wind has been howling out of the north all day—a right cross wind for us. And if there is anything more entertaining in a sidecar rig, Littermates, than a diminishing-radius, downhill, negative-camber right turn, it is a diminishing-radius, downhill, negative-camber right turn in a gusty right cross wind. Too bad I slept through it all—I'm sure it was great fun for the biped.

But here's a little idea for those of you in Canada—and I could be referring to you, Eli—if you are sincere about wanting us to visit, you might want to rein in those howling north winds for a bit. Just a thought.

Looks like we may be without wi-fi tomorrow, Littermates. So please do not be alarmed if you do not hear from us for a couple of days.

Turning the corner II:

Just take a left at Minneapolis and follow the red yarn.

Actually, we're a good 40 miles south of Minneapolis and will not be passing through it. But if I said we were turning left at Belle Plaine, very few people would know what I was talking about.

We'll be making our big left tomorrow morning.

Actually, Dexter, we'll be heading south out of Belle Plaine, so the turn west will actually be a right.

Oh, shut the arf up, would you? Actually.

As I was saying, we shall be leaving the great state of Minnesota (Minnesota being a local native-American word for Would you like mosquitoes or ticks with that, Sir?) tomorrow morning.

We had an outing to the local nature preserve this morning. And I guess the biped came away with a little more eight-legged nature than he was altogether comfortable with preserving personally. With the result that all of his clothes are now in the wash, and he is lounging around in his ridiculous boxer-style swimming trunks.

I had a swell time, though. We even spotted a bald eagle. The biped has been trying to tell me it was really just a particularly large mosquito, but I'm pretty sure I don't believe him. I mean, that thing could have carried cute little Arya off all by itself—which I want to go on record as saying I would regard as a shame—whereas I think it would take at least eight of the local mosquitoes to do the job (and the little bastards want union scale, too).

The biped used his new cell phone to call ahead to Huron, South Dakota to make a reservation at a Super 8 motel with wifi this morning, so you should be hearing all about tomorrow's ride tomorrow.

Our next major stop is in Billings, Montana with Rajah Q. and Nali. Look for us there on July 5th, Littermates.

Day 16, June 30th, Belle Plaine, Minnesota

Starting Odometer Reading: 12,022 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 12,311 km

Distance Traveled Today: 289

Distance Traveled So Far: 4686 km

Tasmanian Finlay

We arrived in Belle Plaine at the Casa de Finlay (yeah, sure!) at a little after noon today. I was almost immediately enveloped in a galloping whirlwind of some sort. I was afraid it might be one of those tornadoes one hears so much about these days. But the biped assured me it was just Finlay in a welcoming sort of mood. Which may, in fact, be true—when the dust cleared, Finlay was intermittently in evidence. And, while I may have been somewhat gruff in my initial confusion, I was certainly politer to him than to either Star or the hypothetical Fred.

Finlay acquired a new baby sister saluki just yesterday. Her name, if I am hearing correctly, is Arya, and she is, at a mere seven weeks, both immensely plucky and immensely cute. I hate her, of course. It appears that I have gone almost directly from being a cute puppy myself to being a grumpy old dog. Ask me about her in a couple of years, though—the kid's got promise.

Stay tuned, Littermates.

Day 15, June 29th, Mill Creek State Park, Paullina, IA:- Bug Central

Starting Odometer Reading: 11,737 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 12,022 km

Distance Traveled Today: 285

Distance Traveled So Far: 4397 km

Missing Star

The biped says I behaved very badly toward Midnight Star. And I suppose I did. But it was not mere mindless cruelty, I assure you.

When we first arrived on Thursday, I will admit that I found her a bit... I don't know... off putting, I suppose. But by Friday afternoon, I found myself quite taken with her. I just didn't want to let on, for fear that she would laugh at and/or reject me.

And by Saturday? Well, I was smitten, really. And what's more, I began to have the sense that my feelings, if I let them be known, just might be reciprocated. But I mean... where was it going to go? Nowhere is where. Star's heart belongs to Mac the Thundering Slobber Dog, and she is in Lincoln to stay. Whereas I am a traveling dog. And when I settle down, it will be back in California. No, it just wasn't going to happen. And, that being the case, the wisest and kindest path seemed to be to ignore her when I could, and growl at her when I couldn't.

It was definitely time to move on. You know—just like Ricky Nelson (though without the flaming plane crash, please). I hope some day she'll understand.

I do miss her, though. Those jaws!... to die in!

Wabbit season

It appears, Littermates, that, as a bird dog, I have simply been in the wrong line of work. It turns out that I am really a damn fine wabbit hound. And I might never have known if I had not visited Lincoln at the very height of wabbit season. They are everywhere! And I am on them like stink on spit. Or like dog on stink on spit, to be more precise (if somewhat less ideometric). And quick though the little lapidaries may be, I have a hunch that they are a lot more catchable than bird shadows, bird shadows.

Fred

So here we are in Paullina, Iowa, putative home of the illusive (and possibly mythical) Fred.

And I wish to return to the general subject of ignoring other dogs. Sometimes you do it because you don't want to break their little hearts. Sometimes you do it because you're pretty sure you've got the DTs.

Like, for instance, if you drive up in front of a lovely and perfectly plausible house in Paullina and you are suddenly accosted by a small (but not very small) grey horse. What is a small grey horse doing in a residential neighborhood of Paulina, you ask yourself. And, moreover, why is he failing to go away when you bark at him? Well, the only plausible explanation is that he does not really exist. And I, for one, am ignoring him until he admits it. The alternative is just too disturbing.

June 30th: well, Fred may be real, after all. Certainly, his people, M & E (who, we have reason to believe are not real fond of being identified on the internet) are quite real. And quite generous and excellent hosts (even if the biped did get all the hot dogs). In their honor, the biped is wearing his new Iowa T-shirt all day today.

Mr. Bright Star goes to Lincoln

Well, I was already in Lincoln, of course. But this morning I was transported in the Dogmobile in a motorcade down O Street (right after N; right before P, Dewayne) to the very capital of Corn Huskerdom. And my page now displays photographic proof of that fact, in case any of you thought I was really lounging the summer away in sybaritic luxury in Spreckels and just making this stuff up.

And on the way home from my reception at the capital, we stopped for a very nice run at one of the local dog parks. Can you believe, Littermates, that I had never before been to a dog park? Shameful, I calls it. Now that I am a more cosmopolitan sort of dog, I shall be insisting upon more such outings.

We've had a lovely stay in Lincoln. But it's time to move on. Bright and early tomorrow morning, we shall be heading north to face the unknown wilds of Iowa and the Fred therein.

I'll always remember the little people.

No, not leprechauns, Littermates, you! You know who you are. Your names are right on the tip of my magnificent (and highly photogenic) tongue. I won't get all stuck up (or at least not all stuck upper) now that I'm about to be famous. I will still acknowledge you politely on the street and instruct my bodyguards to let you through. You know... if you're on the list.

You will be able to tell your offspring that you knew me before the Lincoln Journal Winnie (or was that the Lincoln Journal Star?) of Sunday, June 29th 2008 hit the streets.

The Journal Tim sent an ace team of news persons over this afternoon to get the story of my heroic and heartwarming PupPal Tour. One of them kept the biped occupied with a bunch of frivolous questions obviously designed primarily to keep him out of frame while the other took about a gazillion pictures of moi.

I expect to be the toast of Nebraska by Monday. Can PupPal Tour, the Movie be far behind?

Fireflies!

Apparently, they have so many bugs here in Nebraska that they have their own hazard/landing lights. It's amazing!

We just went out for a walk with Winnie and Star and Tim and Harry and Lisa. First, we saw tons--probably metric tons—of rabbits scampering all over the neighborhood. Then I started seeing little green flashes of light all over the place. Fireflies, says the biped. Lightening bugs, says Lisa. Amazing, sez I. They've got some really cool special effects in this place.

Tim and I are becoming great pals. Winnie is aloof, but not unfriendly. And Star is not unfriendly, either. Rather, it is I who am behaving badly toward her. I don't know what it is, exactly. I think I find her a little intimidating, even though she has in no way tried to intimidate me. I'm getting better, though. I certainly wouldn't want to have to admit that she may just be too much female for me.

Day 12, June 26th, Lincoln, NE, the short-attention-span- state?

Starting Odometer Reading: 11,606 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 11,727 km

Distance Traveled Today: 121

Distance Traveled So Far: 4112 km

If your town has consecutive streets named A Street, B Street, Mohawk Street, and C Street, you just may be a Corn Husker. (Or possibly a Bahston clam chowdah head, as Ben informs me.)

If you're going to have a theme, stick to it, is all I'm saying. The alphabet isn't much of a theme, I grant you, but it does have the virtue of being a classic. You know where it starts; you know where it ends. You don't have to rack your brain trying to come up with one more letter.

Oh, oh! I know one: Mohawk!

“Mohawk” is not a letter, Dewayne.

I thought we were doing haircuts.

Nope. Letters.

How about “mullet”?

Anyway, here we are in Lincoln, hanging out on the front porch of Midnight Star, Winnie, and Tim's house waiting for the people to come home for lunch.

We came close to getting here without being rained on this morning. But, since motorcycle travel is neither horseshoes nor hand grenades, close does not count—we got drenched the last couple of miles.

It's a nice day for sitting on the porch talking to you, though.

Day 11, Addendum

The rolling hills of southern Oklahoma are very beautiful. Except for the extreme redness of the soil, which kind of creeps me out. Every cut looks like a bleeding wound, and every scrape a rash. The rivers all run red. One expects frogs from the sky at any moment.

Farther north, Oklahoma flattens out and stops bleeding, and blends seamlessly into Kansas, which stopped bleeding a long time ago.

That great southerly tail wind we had yesterday yielded the best mileage of the trip so far: a whopping 27.17 MPG on one tank.

In Herington, KS yesterday, we passed the world's tidiest junk yard. At first, I thought an extraordinarily large number of people had parked their cars extraordinarily neatly in an extraordinarily well tended park to attend an event of some sort. But I didn't see any actual people.

And then I noticed that a lot of them seemed to be driving cars with no wheels.

Day 11, June 25th, Marysville, Kansas: US 77, where are- you?

Starting Odometer Reading: 11,036 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 11,606 km

Distance Traveled Today: 570 km (353 miles!)

Distance Traveled So Far: 3991 km

It's been a long, long day, Littermates. The original plan was to camp at El Dorado State Park in El Dorado, KS. But it was only about 1:00 PM when we got to El Dorado, and there was an outrageous south wind—great for going on, not so great for setting up a tent. So on we went.

And on and on and on. Tried one motel somewhere in the middle of East Jebus, but they didn't allow pets over 13 lbs. If the cut-off had been 50 lbs., I'd have sucked in my gut and lied by 25 lbs. But we didn't figure anybody was going to mistake me for a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel. Not after they saw my feet—thanks, Kirby! So on we went.

Tried a Motel Styx at Junction City, but they were full up.

Headed on up US 77 toward Marysville, many miles away. Just when Marysville should, in fact, have been about 40 miles away, 77 was suddenly closed, and we were shunted onto a 25 mile detour.

But we finally arrived here in Marysville, got us a motel room with wifi, and ordered up a pizza delivery. So, Dog's in his heaven, and all's right with Kansas.

This morning, we passed through Ponca City, which is simultaneously in Oklahoma and the Ponca Nation. Now, I would be the preantepenulltimate dog in the world, Littermates, to try to tell Oklahomans in general, and Poncas in particular what they should or should not name their cities/nations. But I just happen to think that both of those place names would sound more interesting and—let's be honest here—less silly if they were spelled solid:

Poncacity and Poncanation

Then they'd sound like words you could use in sentences:

The supercilious son of a bitch had the unmitigated poncacity to question my dispositions!

The continuing poncanation of American youth will inevitably end in disaster.

I had some other stuff I was going to tell you, but I'm just too damn tired. I'll check in with you tomorrow from Lincoln.

Day 10, June 24th, Shawnee, Oklahoma: Turning the- corner

Starting Odometer Reading: 10,729 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 11,036 km

Distance Traveled Today: 307 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 3421 km

I have been pleasantly surprised to find that some of my more sophisticated pals—and I think you know who you are, Fred—really appreciate a good Uranus joke now and then—and it's not like you hear one every day, either. And, of course, just about everyone likes a tried and true “you just might be a redneck” joke. But now, Littermates, your very Chairman, working without a net or performance-enhancing substances of any kind, will attempt before your very eyes to combine the two genres into a single comedic entity:

If Uranus is in Texas, but you can't find it with both hands...

Thank you. Thank you very much.

Now then.

No sooner had we left Albuquerque than young Kirby was telling all and sundry that I have big feet. Well, I have two responses to that. The first is:

Yeah. That's right.

The second is to tell my own tales out of school, as it were, about my more recent host, Maxwell. We will say nothing about the weight (or lack thereof) of Maxwell's entirely figurative loafers. It's really none of my business, and besides, you have no idea what I'm talking about, do you? I will say, however, that Max has a serious Ziplock (tm) sandwich bag problem. When presented with such a bag, he shreds it, immediately and without regard to its contents.

Which is how it came to pass that the biped found our laptop power supply, USB memory sticks, and assorted cables scattered on the living room rug this morning in Allen. Happily, Maxwell had not chewed, eaten, or otherwise damaged anything but the sandwich bag. It did give the biped quite a start, though.

And there was the little matter of my having done a bit of indoor territorial marking yesterday evening at Max's house. So it's not like he was altogether unprovoked. Still, I think the poor boy has a baggy-abuse problem. Rehab may be required.

As to the corner mentioned in the title of today's entry: We took a sharp left at Allen this morning and headed north. We're about a third of the way home.

The biped put my new cool-down coat on me this morning and kept me wet all day. Very nice! I've got half a mind to go back to Arizona and show it who's who now, Mr. Rainbow Shades. Thanks again to my benefactors.

Day 9, June 23st, Allen, Texas

Starting Odometer Reading: 10,569 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 10,729 km

Distance Traveled Today: 160 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 3114 km

The biped claims to have had a hard day today. Claims to have spent the whole day traveling to and from Storm Seller Motorcycles in Grand Prairie and waiting around there to have DexCorp 1 serviced. My heart arfing bleeds. He didn't spent the day fending off overtures from Maxwell.

Anyway, he did get the bike serviced, so we are all ready to head north tomorrow morning.

Oh, and I got a present today--a cool-down vest. Apparently, it was the brain child of Pricilla's mom, who conveyed it to Kirby's mom and Maxwell and Izzy's mom. I'm not entirely clear on who paid for it, and it didn't seem polite to ax. But I am grateful to everybody involved. It has my name embroidered on it and everything. Abbey (Max and Izzy's mom) said they tried to get one in camo, but that was not one of the choices. So she ordered it in the "manliest" colors availablle: blue and white. Looks good to me.

On with the tour!

Day 8, June 22st, Allen, Texas

Starting Odometer Reading: 10,418 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 10,569 km

Distance Traveled Today: 151 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 2954 km

I don't know how many of you are King of the Hill fans, Littermates. Those of you who are will know that Hank Hill sells propane and propane-related accessories in Arlen, Texas.

I could not help but think of Hank Hill this morning when we passed Panky Propane in Jacksboro, Texas. I ax you, Littermates, if you had the fortune—good or bad I will not presume to say—to bear the last name “Panky,” could you, in good conscience, fail to name your first-born son Hank? No, me neither.

Be that as it may, we are now safely installed in Allen at Casa de Izzy and Max.

Once they decided it wasn't strictly necessary to disembowel me, everything went just fine. Tomorrow the three of us will get to hang out together all day while the biped takes DexCorp 1 to Grand Prairie to be serviced, and Abbey goes to work. What could possibly go wrong?

Continuing Education 101: In Albuquerque, I learned to open a screen door. Here in Allen, I have already learned to use the doggy door—what a concept! I shall arrive home a very much more worldly dog.

PupPal Tour, Day 7, June 21st, Jacksboro, Texas

Starting Odometer Reading: 9965 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 10,418 km

Distance Traveled Today: 453 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 2783 km

Mr. Weather Dexter

Dexter: Tell me again about the thunder storms, Boss.

The Biped: Well, Dexter, such storms tend to be brief and violent...

Dexter: And they happen when?

The Biped: Well, usually in the late afternoon, but...

Dexter: Say, Boss, what time have you got? Right now, I mean.

The Biped: You know damn well it's a little after seven, Dexter.

Dexter: And that would be in the AM, would it?

The Biped: Yes, Dexter.

Dexter: And would you say this was a thunder storm we're enjoying at the moment?

The Biped: Good Dog! I hope so!

Dexter: Because?

The Biped: Because if it isn't, it's the end of the arfing world! Did you see that Dairy Queen float by!?

Dexter: So maybe tomorrow morning we could sleep in a bit?

The Biped: Certainly, Dexter. If there is a tomorrow.

Dexter: Don't worry, Boss. I've got friends.


Earth to Texas

You no doubt already know that Texas is a big place. Everybody knows that. But did you know that Texas is so big that Earth itself fits easily within its borders?

That's right, Littermates, Earth is in Texas. I know; I've seen the sign.

Now, we did not actually pass through Earth, Texas, for fear of creating some sort of whiff in the space/time jumbotron or something—believe me, you do not want to have to deal with alternate parallel bipeds—but the sign said it was there, and in Texas, you are required to observe (and presumably believe) road signs—it's the law.

And I guess it's not so surprising, really. I'm sure there's easily room here for Mars and a couple of Venuses, not to mention the obligatory Jupiter.

And if you're looking for Uranus, who knows? You might could find that in Texas, too. (Though you may need to use both hands.)


A brief history of Texas

In addition to having lots of room for biblical storms and foreign planets and such, Texas also apparently has plenty of room for a rich and intriguing history. At least if the number of roadside historical markers are anything to go by. Unfortunately, all such markers are placed—whether by state law, I do not know—only on the left side of the roads. So we haven't actually learned much about Texas history so far, I'm afraid. Though I do seem to remember a car rental company.

Day 6, Supplemental: You-reek-a!

A big old park, a fetid pond,
a real dead fish,
and birds beside me singing in Muleshoe;
and Muleshoe were paradise enow!

The Biped: About that dead fish, Dexter... I'm afraid we're going to have to get you into the shower.

Dexter: That's OK, Boss. You know what they say: 'Tis better to have rolled and washed than never to have rolled at all.

PupPal Tour, Days 5 & 6

Day 5, June 19th, at the home of Kirbo the Turbo in Albuquerque, New Mexico

Starting Odometer Reading: 9062 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 9580 km

Distance Traveled Today: 518 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 1945 km

Piney fresh Dexter through a green and pleasant land

Our ride this morning from Payson, Arizona to Quemado, New Mexico was delightful. Through mountain pine forests that smelled almost as good as the stuff that comes out of an aerosol can (not that the bipeds would use such device, mind you). The biped actually had to put his jacket back on, it was so cool. And the route was simple and straightforward, and we made good time. So much so that we reached Quemado—which did not seem at all burned, as nearly as I could tell—shortly before noon and were wondering what we were going to do with ourselves for the rest of the day.

We were, in fact, sitting at a picnic table wondering just that right next to a road sign that said “Albuquerque 145.”

Well, we were feeling pretty fresh, so we decided to go for it. By the time we got here, we were a bit wilted—it's warmish in Albuquerque—but it's all worked out very well. We've been getting the red carpet treatment from Kirby, his siblings, Goliath and Candy, and his peeps, Paula and Bryan. I had to warn Kirby off my food bowl once, but, other than that, we've all got on famously. Kirby has a whole half acre of fenced and mostly shady yard to run around in. And, believe me, I was ready for some off-leash time!

(I think the biped might have been ready for those couple of two or three beers, too.)

And we've picked up a day on our schedule, which may come in handy in Texas, what with DexCorp 1 being due for its 10,000 km service.

Crazy or barking mad?

There's run-of-the-mill crazy (the biped seeps to mind), and then there's barking mad. Like oh,say, for example the German fellow the biped and I ran into at a gas station in Show Low, Arizona this morning. The fellow was riding a powder blue Vespa motor scooter almost as loaded down as DexCorp 1. He apparently bought the Vespa in Vietnam, spent many months riding it around Indochina, and then had it and himself shipped to California. He is currently en route to the Grand Canyon, at the rate of approximately 80 miles a day.

I think the biped's got his work cut out for him, if he wants to win any crazy biker contests.

Day 6, June 20th, Mule Shoe, Texas

Starting Odometer Reading: 9580 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 9965 km

Distance Traveled Today: 385 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 2330 km

Had a surprisingly pleasant and not too hot day today. DexCorp 1 seems to suffer from a touch of altitude sickness at much over 5000 ft., so the long, long uphill pull out of Albuquerque on I-40 this morning was a bit of an adventure. But now that we're back down out of the stratosphere, everything seems to be fine.

How about some random thoughts and observations?

There's a nice little park in Fort Sumner, New Mexico. In that park there's a sign that reads “Park closes at 9:00 PM, except for overnight camping.” This park has no rest rooms. Which leads me to a couple of conclusions:

1.If you get caught there after nine, you're in for the night.

2.If you're not a dog, you're likely to be uncomfortable.

If the tallest building in your town is the grain elevator... well, you know the rest.

Progress, Texas: Well, Maybe. But not so's you'd notice. Or

Progress, Texas: You wou'na wanted to see it before.

The very greenest grass in this part of the world seems to be in the cemeteries. If the dead aren't sprouting, it's not for lack of water. Perhaps they're planted too deep.

I thought sniffing other creature's butts was basically a dog thing. But apparently, DexCorp 1 is wild to smell the hind end of every truck that passes us. Every time one zips past us and pulls back in front of us, DexCorp's pulse immediately rises, and he surges forward in a desperate attempt to get his pedestrian slicer where the sun don't shine. The biped says it's called drafting, but I don't care what you call it, it seems a bit perverse to me. So I like it, of course.

PupPal Tour, Day 4

Day Four, Payson, Arizona: Dexter on ice

Starting Odometer Reading: 8607 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 9062 km

Distance Traveled Today: 455 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 1427 km

The biped is beginning to get this hot-weather-travel-with-the-dog thing down to a science.

This morning, we got up at a quarter to four in the AM. We had our camp all struck and were on the road by 5:15. That's the first thing: get a very early start. Unless you are the sort who likes to drive at night, in which case, you should get a very late start. But the biped says he's getting too old for late-night motorcycle driving, so we go with early.

In the early morning, when the sun is low in the sky and not inclined to shine on me or my hardware, the biped lets me ride with the tonneau rolled up. As the sun gets higher, and the day gets warmer, he sprays me down, scatters a bunch of ice in the Command Module, and deploys the tonneau. Every time we stop, I get water to drink, cold water on my head, and a couple more hands full of ice to rest my magnificent belly on. And I don't get out unless there's shade handy.

So today, though another long day, was much more bearable than yesterday. Payson, where we are now, is at 5000 ft, so it's really not half bad here.

The plan called for another camp out tonight. But we knew how worried you all must be about us, so we made the supreme sacrifice and checked into a Best Western with wifi instead. The fact that Google Maps, the Arizona Transportation Department, and the biped, working in concert, had so screwed up our route that we had been on the road for eight arfing hours to make 288 miles had nothing to do with it. No, indeed.

PupPal Tour, Days 1 through 3

Day One, Oceano, California: Carmel by the Sea it ain't

Starting Odometer Reading: 7635 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 7886 km

Distance Traveled Today: 251 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 251 km

Nelson showed up this morning right on time, and we got rolling at just after 9:00. Nelson rode the first 40 miles or so with us and took a whole bunch of stills and short videos. Some of them look pretty good on the camera's lcd, but we haven't seen them on the computer yet. The biped is saving that for tomorrow evening when we're in a motel room, and he can actually see the screen, which he apparently cannot right now.

We're at the campground at Oceano, which turns out to be the delightfully sleazy sort of beach community that the biped thought no longer existed. It's cool and overcast--coastal--which actually feels quite nice after a hot day's ride.

There is no doubt more I could tell you about our first day out, but I sense that the biped is about to go blind or crazy or both, squinting at the lcd in the daylght glare. So I guess I will give him (and you) a little break.

Later that same evening:

OK. The lighting's a little better now. We've just returned from our second short walk. This place really is Trailer Trash by the Sea (not that there's anything wrong with that!)

In between our walks, I entertained myself chasing the many bird shadows here—to the extent possible while tethered to DexCorp 1 with a 25' lead. Not a bad afternoon's work.

Oh, we discovered something interesting this afternoon: Either Google Maps has been short changing their metric customers--sorry,Canada--or our odometer isn't quite right. We scrupulously followed 271 km worth of Google directions today, but DexCorp 1 says we've only gone 251 km. Which, if I'm counting my dewclaws correctly, works out to about a 7% discrepancy. So, we are actually going a little farther and a little faster than the speedometer/odometer says. And our gas mileage, while undeniably awful, isn't quite as undeniably awful as it looks.

Well, Littermates, tomorrow is another day, and we should probably be getting ready for bed.

See yous.

Day Two, Lancaster, California: Things start to heat up

Starting Odometer Reading: 7886 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 8155 km

Distance Traveled Today: 269 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 520 km

We don't have a thermometer with us, and we haven't been passing a lot of banks--though I'm sure we could, by Dog (unless we had a headwind, of course)--so I can't tell you exactly what range of temperatures we've traversed today. But my guess is low 50s this morning in Oceano to mid 90s this afternoon here in Lancaster. And I'm pretty sure it's still getting hotter outside here--it was only a little after 1:00 PM when we arrived; it's about 3:00 now.

Happily, we are in an air conditioned motel room, which is nice. But it is an air conditioned hotel room without the internet connection that the web site promised, which is less nice. So I'm afraid you won't be hearing from us just yet. Or seeing any of the swell pix/videos we've just finished having a look at on the eeePC.

Our room is on the ground floor, with a parking space right in front, so moving in was easy, and we can keep an eye on DexCorp 1.

When we first arrived, the biped thought that the unloading process would go most smoothly if he tethered me to the Command Module and put down a bowl of water for me while he unpacked. He thought that would be less restrictive, and therefore kinder, than leaving me actually in the Command Module. But, before he could even get my water bowl put down, I was tap dancing like Gene Kelly and crowding him out of my way so that I could hop back into the side car. Yes, Littermates, that pavement was hot. Realizing his mistake, the biped let me into the room and just dealt with having to open and close the door on each trip.

So far, people have been remarkably incurious about our little adventure.

This morning, as we were getting ready to get under way, the park ranger in charge of periodically cleaning the restrooms at the Oceano Camp Ground struck up a conversation by asking the biped what kind of motorcycle DexCorp 1 was. Which seemed mildly promising. Until the old fellow proceeded directly from that question to bending all four of our ears for fully 30 minutes about a midget miniature (yes midget and miniature) horse he used to have. Twenty-two inches high at the shoulder, it was, and 102 lbs. Used to ride in the cab of his truck with him and could whinny in twelve languages—or something like that; I'd pretty much stopped paying attention by that time. I mean, I'm sure it was all very poignant, from a certain point of view. His. Not mine. And this trip is, you must bear in mind, all about me, right?

Oh, well.

Day Three, Parker, Arizona: Long Day's Journey into Hot

Starting Odometer Reading: 8155 km

Ending Odometer Reading: 8607 km

Distance Traveled Today: 452 km

Distance Traveled So Far: 972 km

Here's another astronomy tip for you would-be navigators out there: If it's eight o'clock in the morning, and your shadow is in front of you, you're probably heading west. Which is fine. Unless you're in Southern California, and you're trying to get to Arizona. In that case, you would probably rather be heading east. To his credit, it only took the biped about 25 kilometers to figure that out this morning. So that was one strike against today.

But before we get to strike two, let's have a blue-collar comedy interlude:

If the speed limit through your town on Main St. is 55 mph, you just might be a redneck.

OK. We are now at Buckskin Mountain State Park, about 20 km outside of Parker. This is our destination for the day. When I was dictating earlier, it was from a fairly crappy municipal park in Parker proper. It was crappy, but it boasted a bunch of picnic tables uder a big roof, which provided more shade than we had seen all day. And we were desperate for shade. The only difference between us was that I knew it and he didn't.

We left Lancaster at about 6:30 this morning. And, apart from that little mix-up near Victorville, things were going fine until about 10:30 or 11:00. At which point it started to get really hot. So hot that the ring bolts and snap shackle of my restraint system were beginning to make me antsy. The biped didn't know quite what was up, but he knew something was. And he had to stop in any case to transfer fuel from one of the Jerry cans to the gas tank.

Once we stopped it became immediately apparent how miserably uncomfortable I was. The biped got the fuel transfered. Then he atomized me and everything I could come in contact with... piled some ice from the ice chest on my restraint hardware. Then covered the Command Module with the tonneau, and got back on the road as quickly as possible. We were still about an hour out of Parker at that point. And an unpleasant hour it was, too.

When we spotted a park with green grass and shade about 20 minutes short of our ultimate destination for the day, we decided to take a prolonged rest in the shade. Which, the biped soon realized, he needed almost as much as I did.

So let's just say that everything between the gas stop and the rest stop was strike two.

Now we are at a very nice campground right on the banks of the Colorado River. In which the biped persuaded me not merely to wade, which I was more than happy to do, but to swim, as well, which makes me distinctly nervous.

I believe the biped plans to start even earlier tomorrow morning and to schedule a md-day rest into the program.

Right now, I believe I will send him off in seaarch of the wifi hotspot that the park ranger hinted may be lurking around here somewhere.

Later: Evidently, she was misinformed.

Another day incommunicado. Spit!

Ya empezamos.

OK.

The biped cleaned and shined DexCorp 1 this morning (removing the residue of yesterday's nuclear-winter-style ash fall from the various local wildfires).

The little get-together this afternoon went off well.

We're all packed except for those items that cannot be packed until tomorrow morning.

Nelson Balcar, a friend of the biped's, a commercial airline pilot, and an attendee at today's soiree has kindly offered to see us off tomorrow morning. He'll be coming over at 9:00 on his BMW and will ride the first few miles down River Rd. with us, taking pictures with the biped’s digital camera as we go. Hopefully, that will result in some nice shots we can post for you when next we find ourselves at a wi-fi hot spot.

I plan to insist that the biped take good notes and make daily journal entries, but I'm sure that we won't be able to post them daily--I'm thinking two or three times a week, probably. Stay tuned to this space for updates.

And, to my most sponge-worthy pals… See you soon!

And many happy returns, I’m sure

Today--yes, Littermates, Friday the arfing 13th--is the 57th anniversary of the biped's nativity. Tomorrow, Flag Day, the bipedess is throwing him/us a Birthday/How-can-I-miss-you-if-you-won't-go-away? party. And then Sunday, Father's Day, we are so off.

And it's a good thing that our itinerary does not include (one hopes) Paradise. Because, according to this morning's paper, All roads to Paradise are closed. Yes, Littermates, that is an actual headline from the morning Herald. Any of you who might have been planning on crossing over any time soon will no doubt be relieved to learn that the Paradise in question is a very small town in Butte County in Northern California, where yet another wildfire is giving the locals fits.

Firelight II

The wildfire in Los Padres National Forest that I mentioned yesterday is burning about 50 miles south of here. Since our coastal winds tend to be from the West/Northwest, we did not expect to see any smoke from said fire until we were well on our way south on Sunday. Imagine our surprise, then, when the local sky started getting all smoky yesterday evening. It was a meteorological conundrum or sorts.

Until we found out that yet another wildfire had somehow got itself started yesterday in the Santa Cruz mountains, which are mostly north and somewhat west of here, across Monterey Bay. Today, the smoke from that fire is so diffused across the sky that you don't really see it distinctly as smoke. Rather, the world seems bathed in that golden autumn haze that the biped is so fond of. But then, it isn't his house in Bonny Doon that's on fire, is it?

Anyway, I'm thinking we need to negotiate some sort of exchange with Iowa: a few cubic counties of their excess rain in exchange for a couple of metric mega-bushels of our abso-arfing-lutely no tornadoes ever weather. We'll even throw in a small beach and a box car load of anatomical implants in various shapes and sizes, if that'll seal the deal.

Shake?

Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat...

...nor gloom of night stays these courageous couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.

Given the season and our chosen route, I am not much concerned about snow--though Calgary may yet surprise me, I suppose.

Rain does appear to be something of an issue, though, particularly in Iowa. Living in California, one tends to forget that summer is the rainy season in many less fortunate parts of the continent. But, by doing most of our riding early in the day, we hope to avoid the worst of the thunder storms, which, as I understand it, tend to be afternoon phenomena. As does the worst of the heat, too, you betcha.

Gloom of night is definitely going to stay us, though. The biped really does not like riding DexCorp 1 at night--apparently, he likes to see the downhill, negative-camber right turns coming a good way off.

Swift, of course, is a relative term. I'm guessing we could just about outdistance a Persian on horseback, but it would be a close-run thing.

But what even the Persian postal couriers apparently did not have to deal with were wildfires in California and tornadoes in Nebraska (the latter, I believe, are God’s way of punishing Nebraskans for having erected the penis of the prairie, by the way).

It now looks as if our very first day’s ride may have to be rerouted somewhat because of a wildfire burning out of control in the Los Padres National Forest. Happily, however, alternate routes are available to get us to the same campground in Oceano, so I do not foresee any delay or difficulty (what could possibly go wrong?).

Atomic Dexter

Apparently, I just can't let the guy out of my sight.

The bipeds go off to Tucson for a couple of days to deliver my former staff car to the Senior and Mrs. Bipup, and when they get back he's suddenly got a big bug up his vent to vaporize me!

Atomize

Whatever.

It seems the biped noticed that it's hot in Arizona at this time of year. He began to worry about my comfort on the upcoming PupPal Tour, even shorn of my formerly luxuriant coat. DexCorp 1, for all its many fine qualities, does not have AC, after all.

The biped seems to think that I will be more comfortable if he atomizes me every once in a while. First it was strategic worming, now it's atomizing. He seems to have nuclear destruction on the brain, perhaps as a result of all the strontium 90 he absorbed during his misspent cold-war yoot.

I'm not a nucular psychiatrist or anything, but getting atomized doesn't sound like a very cooling experience to me.

It has nothing to do with "nucular psychiatry," Dexter. What I want to do is take along an atomizer, which is just a little spray bottle full of water. When you look like you're overheating, I can spritz you with atomized water. Give you some access to the kind of evaporative cooling normally only available to those of us who sweat. That's all.

Oh.

Well, I still don't see why it has to be atomic water.

Sigh. Don't worry your pretty little head about it, Dexter.

Air Dexter

Yesterday afternoon, when the biped and I returned home from our walk, we discovered the neighbors' geriatric setter cross, Morgan, running lose, as she often is. We thought we might invite her into the yard for some quality play time. As it turns out, however, there was no need--as soon as the biped opened the front gate, Morgan dashed in ahead of us. Somewhere in the confusion, I forgot to claim my daily post-walk Greenie.

But Morgan was way more interesting than a Greenie--I mean, unless you're a Sidney Greenstreet/Marlon Brando kind of guy. Which I am not.

Morgan and I dashed around and around and had a fine time for upwards of half an hour before she started getting seriously snippy about my polite inquiries as to the state of her... cycle. Well, I think the poor thing must suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder or something, because she just was not interested in that facet of our relationship.

Though, if I am to be entirely honest (and what are the chances?), I suppose I would have to admit that her attitude might have had something to do with my... well, I don't know how else to say it... my clumsiness. (I blame the biped for not doing a better job of seeing to my early socialization.) Apparently, your more mature female is not favorably impressed by a good old-fashioned air humping, no matter how vigorously it is undertaken.

So, ultimately, of course, the biped had to see Morgan safely into her own back yard. I think he assured her that I would call. Somehow, though, I just don't see that happening.

I hear Tucson is lovely in early June.

Too bad I won't get to see it.

Well, the good news is the bipeds have finally contrived to get rid of the accursed Jaguar--the Senior and Mrs. Bipup have graciously agreed to take it off their hands, free of charge. The only proviso is that the bipeds must deliver the Jaguar to the senior bipup in Tucson this coming weekend. And, of course, they have to get home from Tucson, too. So they will be driving, not one, but two, cars to Tucson on Saturday and returning in one of them on Sunday.

None of which would be any fur off my vent, except that I don't get to go along. I will be left home, in the back yard, dependent upon the tender mercies of the junior bipup (aka Range Master!) to see that I am fed Saturday and Sunday afternoons. And, while the kid may be some sort of super hero, he is not one of my biggest fans, so I do not look for a lot of obsequious catering to my every whim. Maybe he'll bring Laura Lark and the mystery Pomeranian with him. That could be fun.

Or not. Who knows?

As long as the biped is home in plenty of time to set out again the following weekend on the PupPal Tour, I'll get over my disappointment at missing the Tucson trip.

Time for a Dexterian intifada?

I trust you will believe me, Littermates, when I tell you that I am not a Philistinian sort of dog. I like to encourage a degree of creativity and artistic expression among my minions. But, at some point, one has to say enough is more than enough. And I fear that point is nearly upon us, Littermates.

As long-time readers will know, my Little Dexter Attack Deterence System (LDADS) was long ago broken by the biped in the act of defending me from a ferocious canine attacker. It was after that episode that the biped decided to abjure mere sticks and upgrade to a 120,000 volt stun baton. Which was no doubt a wise decision, but it left poor Little Dexter with no useful--nor or even ornamental--role to play.

Yesterday, all out of the blue--or, more accurately, out of the soupy grey matter within his geriatric cranium--the biped realized what a great hood ornament Little Dexter would make for the Command Module of DexCorp 1. This afternoon, after getting his orders out, and without so much as a by your leave in my direction, he went out to OSH, bought a metric bolt of the appropriate size, and affixed Little Dexter to the Command Module, as you can see in the two pictures above.

Now, I'm not saying it doesn't look cool--far from it and quite the contrary, in fact. But if we don't get this show on the road pretty quick, he's going to have DexCorp 1 so loaded down with gewgaws, that it won’t make it out of the driveway.

Time to stop decorating and start driving, sez I.

Is that a Pomeranian in your pocket?

Or are you happy to see me?

Well, she was happy to see me, of course. I mean, who wouldn't be?

But there was a faint whiff of Pomeranian about her.

That is of no consequence, however--the Dog thy Dexter is a forgiving Dexter, even unto Pomeranians. And Ms. Lark seemed very nice indeed. At least, as nearly as I could tell from the back yard, where I was obliged to spend most of the evening. Even that outrage, however, was adequately atoned for by an offering of potato skins and tri-tip drippings.

So, hey, I'm on board.

Range Master! and his doughty companion, Laura Lark

This evening, we shall be entertaining--at least, I hope they will find us entertaining--the junior bipup and his new main squeeze (his previous main squeeze having turned out, for reasons unknown to me, to be not quite the keeper we had supposed, the biped and I). Discreet as I am, I would not ordinarily be giving out the young lady's name at so early a stage of the proceedings. But I'm afraid that Laura Lark is just too good a name to keep under one's hat.

It is too good a name, in fact, for anyone other than the plucky female sidekick of a super hero of some sort.

Happily, the junior bipup just about fills the bill. As I know I have told you before, he is, in plain fact, the current range master of the Luguna Seca firing range. So... Range Master! is born. You must picture someone a bit shorter than average, perhaps a bit stouter than average, with a Nicholas II beard, dressed more or less like a park ranger, wearing high lace-up boots and a slouch hat, with a WWI-era Mauser slung over his shoulder and an M-1911 in a belt holster. So far, that simply describes the range master. Add a small cape, and maybe a large R on the front of the park-ranger shirt, perhaps even a Lone Ranger/Zorro-style mask, and I'm thinking you've got Range Master! By day, a mild-mannered civil servant. By night, a mild-mannered off-duty civil servant and nemesis of would-be evil doers with a pretty good gun collection and a spanking-new girlfriend (I do not assert, mind you, that any actual spanking is going on).

It remains to be seen, however, whether Ms. Lark displays a proper appreciation for Russian sidecar rigs and Gordon setters.

Whirligig Dexter

Well, I'm sure my sudden lack of fur is going to stand me in good stead once the biped and I reach warmer climes. Unhappily, it's 55 degrees and drizzling in Greater Metropolitan Spreckels this morning. I begin to understand the biped's impatience with continued cool weather.

We went for our regular Saturday morning hike this morning. And I enjoyed it, of course--I always enjoy it. But I wasn't interested in spending much time at the pond--gave it one quick lap, and then I was ready to get on with the hike. So, while our hike this morning was--from the biped's perspective, at least--the same distance as always, it was of remarkably short duration. We were back home disturbing the bipedess's beauty rest by 8:30 this morning.

On an only tangentially related subject, I don't know if I have ever mentioned to you, Littermates, that I tend to spin around quite a bit when I am excitedly waiting to be let out. Well, I do. And, what with the effects of centrifugal force on a pendulum--or, indeed, upon anything pendulous--the bipeds seem to think I cut quite an amusing figure these days.

Well, if you got 'em, flaunt 'em, is all I can say.

What?! I can't clank, clank hear you! clank

Once again, Littermates, I have been shorn of my beautiful locks, have only the strength of a natural dog, and resemble a black and tan coon hound with a suspiciously rat-like tail. But, by golly, nobody's going to mistake me for a bitch any time soon!

I was looking pretty ragged, what with the previous groomer's assault on my tail, the biped's own attempt to trim me, and the shaved spot on my flank where the vet removed a small bump. Plus, it's getting to be sticker and burr season here in Greater Metropolitan Spreckels. Plus, the biped wanted me well ventilated for the Pup Pal Tour anyway. So yesterday seemed like a good time to have the friendly, if somewhat clumsy, groomers at PetSmart give me a buzz, render me cool for the trip, and start all over on an even coat for the fall.

When you see me coming, you may think I look kind of skinny. But when you see me walking away, I can pretty much guarantee you'll be impressed. Especially in warm weather. It's a wonder I don’t trip over them.

It slices! It dices! It’s the amazing...

... Pedestrian Slicer front number plate!

Yes, Littermates, as you can see, I finally persuaded the biped to get off his arse and mount my pedestrian slicer front number plate. (No, Breezy it was not painful. He mounted it on the front fender of DexCorp 1.) Pretty slick, huh?

Well. That's all I got.

Pay no attention to the setter behind the curtain.

The bipedess expressed some trepidation yesterday about the possibility that the biped, DexCorp 1, and I might all be carried off by a tornado next month during our PupPal tour.

And I can see her point, I guess. I mean, OZ might be an interesting place for a tour, but we don't know anybody there, and I hear that that yellow brick road will rattle the fillings right out of your teeth, even at Ural speed. And then there are the flying monkeys to contend with--bigger and uglier even than Minnesota mosquitoes, I'm told. I guess I'd really rather we didn't get carried off.

And it's not very likely, either. The biped assured the bipedess that, statistically, we are much more likely to get hit by a truck than a tornado.

She seemed curiously unreassured.

Monday, Monday

I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.

Main Head: Toolz

Subhead: Henry David Thoreau: Pathetic Luddite or Latter-Day Nostradamus?

It was Henry David Thoreau who, in the 1830s, somewhat famously said Men have become the tools of their tools. I'm pretty sure he was talking about steam engines and other suchlike perils of modern technology. And, yes, you are correct, Littermates, in the 1830s, that was a pretty stupid thing to say. (It is the biped’s oft-expressed opinion that just about everything Henry David had to say was pretty stupid--and he's actually read On Walden Pond. Still, you must consider the source, I suppose.)

So, anyway, Henry David wasn't making any arfing sense at all at the time. But fast forward a hundred and seventy-some-odd years, and think, oh, say, Elliot Spitzer, instead of the steam locomotive, and old Henry David is starting to look fairly astute.

So cheer up, Littermates, just because you may be stupid today--and I'm not saying you are, Dog knows--doesn't mean--if you stay dead long enough--you won't look pretty sharp some day.

That's all I'm sayin'.

Toyz

Are you familiar with those old-fashioned European-style number plates they make for the front fenders of motorcycles, Littermates? No, me neither. I mean, why would I be? But a few weeks ago, when we were up at TriQuest, we saw them on a couple of the other Urals. The biped apparently thinks they look way cool.

He asked Ski where we could get one. Ski said that he did not then have any “pedestrian slicers” in stock, but he was able to direct the biped to another Ural dealer in Michigan who carries them. So the biped ordered one from the Michigan dealer. It arrived on Wednesday.

We have not yet mounted it, or even procured any lettering for it. But we are having a local sign shop whip up a couple of vinyl decals from a CorelDraw file the biped created to my specifications. It will say “DEXCRP1” on one side and “PUP PAL 2R” on the other, orange on the black background of the pedestrian slicer. I'll post pix once it's on my ride.

So that's one new toy. The other is the new ASUS eeePC 4G Surf that I've got the biped slaving away on (very slowly) even as we speak. Seems pretty slick so far. Definitely less irritating than an arfing iPhone.

Firelight

Yesterday, like today, dawned cool and overcast. Yesterday, unlike today, was also very windy, even first thing in the morning. As the morning wore on, the overcast started to burn off, as it usually does. But the quality of the sunlight that broke through was not the same as usual. It was kind of an orangey, sepia-tone sort of light. Reminded me a little of a fall afternoon. Maybe a fall afternoon a hundred years ago. And I like fall afternoons.

But this was a spring morning. So something clearly was not quite right.

When the overcast had cleared enough, it became apparent that there was a great brown streak in the sky, blowing over Greater Metropolitan Spreckels from the north. From a largish fire in the Santa Cruz mountains, as it turns out. One that burned not just woods and brush, but several dwellings, too. Reflection upon which kind of put a damper on my whole fall-afternoon-nostalgia idyll.

No wonder they call the wind Pariah.

We choose to go to Calgah-ry

We ah committed, befo-ah this summ-ah is out, to send a Gawdon sett-ah to Calgah-ry, and retuhn him safely to Spreckels.

Yes, and Albaqehque, and Dallas (but let's skip the parade this time, shall we?), and Lincoln, and Paullin-er, and Minneapolis, and Billings, and Richland, and a host of oth-ah places as well.

But why, some say, Calgah-ry? Why choose this as ow-ah goal? And why, for the love of Dog, make the trip in a Russian sidecah rig? They may as well ask why climb the highest mountain? Why, 30 ye-ahs ago, ride a bicycle to Vihginia? Why do the Giants play baseball?

We choose to go to Calgah-ry. We choose to go to Calgah-ry this summ-ah, and go to those oth-ah places as well, not because it is easy, but because it is hahd, because that goal will sehve to aw-ganize and meas-ah the best of ow-ah enehgies and skills, because that challenge is one that we ah willing to accept, one we ah unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win, and the oth-ahs, too.

Dogspeed, DexCaw 1.

Thank you. Thank you very much.

Thumbs: Not all they're cracked up to be?

Well, that is the impression I get from listening to the biped.

It seems the he was thinking undisciplined thoughts occasioned by the bipedess's innocent inquiry as to what he might like for his upcoming birthday. Since his birthday falls just two days before the kickoff of the PupPal Tour, he can perhaps be forgiven for confabulating (if that is the correct word) the two notions.

He had all along planned to carry with us his small digital camera, a very unsexy, out-of-date cell phone, and a laptop computer of some sort--possibly one bought just for the trip, possibly the bipedess's hand-me-down Acer. Then it occurred to him that, if he got a sexy new cell phone, he could perhaps get camera, phone, and internet access all in one device. And what is sexier and newer, I ax you, than an Apple iPhone? Not much, if you believe the hype.

So the next day, Friday, the bipeds drove 50 miles or so to San Jose to go to the nearest Apple store and spend some quality time with a personal shopper with whom they had made an actual appointment (well la-ti-arfing-da, sez I from my confinement in the back yard).

Turns out this particular Apple store is a hole-in-the-mall store staffed by spotty-faced, tattooed college kids (not that there's anything (much) wrong with that, of course).

Their personal spotty-faced college kid showed the biped the camera function of the phone:

Biped: What's the resolution of the camera?

SFCK: It's a two-megapixel camera.

Biped: Yes, but what's the resolution?

SFCK: It's a two-megapixel camera. What do you mean?

Biped: You know, resolution. How many pixels horizontally by how many pixels vertically.

SFCK: I don't know. I'd have to ask somebody.

Biped: OK. Please ask somebody. I'd really like to know.

[SFCK goes away briefly]

SFCK: They say it's a two megapixel camera.

Biped: Can I change the resolution?

SFCK: No.

Biped: Does it have zoom?

SFCK: No. It's not really supposed to be, like, a fancy camera, you know? It's just a camera phone.

Biped: OK. Fair enough. Show me how to access the internet with it.

SFCK: OK. See, you use the pop-up virtual keyboard here...

Biped: Can I try?

SFCK: Sure. [Hands biped the iPhone] Use your thumbs.

Biped: [To the accompaniment of many facial contortions] Are you sure the touch screen is correctly mapped to the display? Every time I try to press "J" I get "H" instead. Every time I try to press "I" I get "U". This thing is arfing unusable!

SFCK: You'll get used to it after a while.

Biped: No I won't. I'll get mad at it after a while. And then I'll throw it in a drawer and never use it again!

SFCK: Here. Let me show you how it displays the album-cover view when you turn it sideways while it's in media player mode.

Biped: Thank you, but I don't really care about that. I was hoping that it would be useful as a camera and as a device for accessing the internet. It isn't.

SFCK: Well, if you don't like the camera, and you don't like the keyboard, you're probably not going to like it.

Biped: No. Probably not. Bye.

SFCK: Bye.

I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but the biped can be a remarkably childish person. He hardly spoke on the drive home (the bipedess tells me), so distraught was he that what he had envisioned as his next shiny new toy turned out--under his clumsy thumbs, at least--to be a worthless $400.00 piece of crap.

He spent much of the rest of Friday, a good bit of Saturday, and some of Sunday researching UMPC (UltrMobile PC) devices on the internet. Sunday afternoon, he ordered an ASUS eeePC 4G Surf from Amazon.com. It's supposed to arrive Thursday. Let us all hope that he does not find it a bitter disappointment.

Biomass

The trouble with all this warm weather, Littermates, is that it tends to encourage, you know, life forms. Most of them with six legs and wings.

Now, I am a reasonably open-minded sort of dog, as you all know. I get on well with most four-legged creatures. And I am quite tolerant of the two-legged variety, provided they either have treats in their pockets or are birds.

But six legs are just two legs too many. I'm sorry. And don't even get me started on the eight-legged beasties. But, Dexter, you may be tempted to point out, at least eight-legged creatures do not have wings. Perhaps not. But they've got way too many eyes, and many of them are proficient parachutists, which is even sneakier than having wings.

No, I'm sorry. I just don't approve of anything with more than four legs. Nor am I fond of anything with fewer than two legs, now that I come to think of it. And there are a few of the two-legged ones... but never mind.

What I'm thinking is this:

While there may no longer be enough corn in North America to make tortillas, feed cheeseburgers-on-the-hoof, and make ethanol incredibly inefficiently, there are by-Dog more than enough creepy-crawlies to make all the motorcycle fuel DexCorp 1 will require in 10 of my lifetimes. So why, I ax you, why, Littermates, are we allowing this precious resource to continue flying into our ears, where it does no good at all, when we could be shooting it through my twin carbs? Sounds like a failure of political will to me, Littermates.

Way cool on a warm night

Well, the biped did invite me to come in and swim with him, but I declined. I just lay around in the yard in the shade all afternoon.

Around 5:30 or so, he took me out for a walk, which was kind of warm work, but doable.

Then, just before dark, he put my harness and Doggles on me, and we went cruising in DexCorp 1, something that I had never done in the evening. Glorious! We went to the Toro Park 7-11 for Diet Coke. Both my ride and I got lots of appreciative oohs and aahs in the parking lot.

A night ride was actually necessary, the biped tells me, to see just how far out of adjustment the headlight was. You see, the biped removed the windshield yesterday to decorate it a bit. And it seems that two of the bolts that hold the windshield on also hold the headlight housing in place. The biped was not aware of that important factoid until said housing fell out whilst he was removing the windshield. He's pretty sure there was no way around it, even if he had known it was going to happen.

So, anyway, he put the windshield back on this morning (and had a great time trying to hold the windshield, the headlight housing, both bolts, and a couple of little rubber Russian do-dads all in place at the same time--but that is neither here nor there). When he was done, the headlight looked like it was pointing in more or less the right direction.

But he thought it would be wise to check. Imagine his surprise when he found that we were actually lighting up the lower branches of passing trees, rather than the actual road surface. But the angle of a Ural headlight is easily adjusted with only a moderate application of brute force so everything is... wait for it, Fred... copasetic now.

Well, whatever the excuse, it was a lovely ride. And--presumably because it is so very seldom warm here--there weren't even any bugs to get in our teeth.

Too much of a good thing?

You know how I'm always complaining about how cold and windy it is here in Greater Metropolitan Spreckels? Well, that's not really me. That's the biped sneaking his dubious opinions in. I like cool, windy, and overcast just fine.

Today at noon, it was 92 degrees here, with scarcely a breath of wind, and certainly no overcast. The wind is starting to pick up now, but that is not so much cooling us off as creating blast-furnace conditions outside. It's hard on a shaggy black Scottish dog.

The biped seems fine with it, though. He's just returned from riding DexCorp 1 into town wearing scarcely more than a t-shirt and a helmet. (Don't dwell on that image, is my recommendation.)

Both bipeds have announced their intention of doing some tethered swimming this afternoon as their primary exercise. Perhaps I will allow myself to be tempted. But I doubt it. As Maxwell says, you really can't trust water you can see through.

On another subject entirely:

Dog knows, the biped and I appreciate all the painting, remodeling, and just general sprucing up that is going on ahead of our impending PupPal Tour--some pups have even moved a couple thousand miles just to make our route more convenient--but, really, guys, it's not necessary. I am, after all, a shots-and-a-beer, seven-eleven-split, dog-of-the people kind of dog; not a fat-cat, I-have-no-idea-what-a-loaf-of-bread-costs, my-toenail-clippings-are-priceless sort of haute canine. Just keep our pillows fluffed, and we'll be happy as clams.

Taking the hamstring out for a little spin

I just know that you will all be as delighted as I was to learn that the biped's hamstring appears to be just fine.

Yesterday, whilst I was recuperating from my ordeal at the vet's, he engaged in a whole series of stretching exercises that I have never known him to bother with before, and then he took the old hamstring out for a two-mile test drive. Apparently, it performed about as well as could be expected, given its age. The biped pronounced himself satisfied with it, anyway. Which is just as well, because I don't think the local hamstring dealer is keen on taking trade-ins.

There is still the matter of my revenge to be considered, of course. I kept them up pretty much all night last night with my manic tap dancing around the bedroom at all hours--hey, I got plenty of sleep during the day, didn't I? But that was just for spits and giggles, as my dear departed pal, Jima used to be fond of saying. The other ax will really drop later, when it can be served well chilled.

Shanghaied!

Whuuuuuh? Snort. Cough. Wobble. Jeez!

Look... I'm sorry I peed in the corner of the vet's waiting room this morning. OK?

But is that any reason to cage me, drug me, scrape around in my mouth with instruments that could have been designed for the Spanish Inquisition, shave a bald spot on my side, do some more scraping there, and then throw me back into the dungeon?

I don't arfing well think so, Bunky!

Well, yeah, OK, he did eventually come bail me out. But still...

As soon as somebody gets a handle on the--urp--pitch, roll, and yaw controls of this house--urp--I'm going to start plotting my revenge. And it's going to make peeing in the corner of the vet's waiting room look like a lemonade social.

But for right now, I think maybe I'll go rest my eyes for a bit.

I guess they don’t call it SLO for nothing.

Not having been deluged with offers of lodging from any of our recently minted San Luis Obispo pals, the biped has just made reservations for us at what looks like a very nice campground in Oceano (just a hop, skip, and a couple of two or three miles from San Luis Obispo, by way of Pismo Beach) for our first night out. So anyone looking for us on the evening of Sunday, June 15th (Father’s Day, as it happens), will just have to motor out to Space 18 at the Oceano Memorial Campground.

(I don’t know about you, Littermates, but I just cannot hear the words Pismo Beach--or Coachella Valley for that matter--without thinking of Bugs Bunny and the clam--or carrot--festival therein. Whereas Cucamonga just sounds sort of Mickey Mouse.)

And in the fire of spring...

Well, I wouldn't be flinging that winter garment of repentance too far, Littermates--it's arfing freezing around here.

Yesterday was a reasonably nice day here in Greater Metropolitan Spreckels. One bank the biped passed in San Jose yesterday said the outside temperature was 76. The biped was thinking maybe he'd give me a long-overdue bath when he got home.

By that time, though, it was mid afternoon, and the wind had come up, and, although it wasn't unbearably cold, the biped nevertheless thought it would be better to wait for today to bathe me. Figured he'd do it in the late morning, after the day had warmed up some, but before the wind began to howl.

Only the wind was howling at seven o'clock this morning. And the sun never came out. And the outside temperature never got above 60. Not so's you'd notice, anyway.

So I did not get bathed. Which is hardly a tragedy, of course. But I'm just saying it's been cold here all. arfing. day.

About half an hour ago, the biped broke down and started a fire in the fireplace. I'm pretty sure that May 11th is a record here for late-season fires, at least during my tenure. Which so far, of course, has been only a four-and-a-half-ure.

O ye of little faith

Last night I imploded Saint Dexeter to supersede on the biped's behalf. Or at least on behalf of his left knee. And I am happy to retort that my implosion did not go unrequited:

The biped and I went on our regular Garland Park hike this morning, and his knee didn't hurt a bit. It didn't hurt me a bit, anyway. And if it hurt him any, you couldn't tell by appearances, which, as we all know, are everything, as the saying goes.

Once we got home from our hike, I was relegated to the back yard for a bit, while the bipeds drove up to TriQuest to retrieve DexCorp 1. Which is now once again back in its place of honor in the front yard.

So all is once again pretty much right with the world (excluding a few trivial wars, cyclones, and minor genocides, member FDIC, batteries not excluded).

He shoulda known better.

How many times have I told you, Littermates, change is bad? (The answer is several.) And the biped knows it at least as well as you and I do.

And yet, yesterday, he attempted to introduce another innovation into our routine.

Here's the deal, exercise-wise: On weekday afternoons/evenings (depending on the seasonal shift in the definitions thereof), he comes out of the house at around 5:15 or 5:30, dressed either to walk me or to run me. And that's what he does, regular as (somewhat shoddy) clockwork.

But apparently he has noticed, in the last 22 years or so, that it tends to get windier and windier here as the day wears on. He's not particularly fond of walking in the wind, and he downright dislikes running in the wind. So, yesterday morning around 11:30, noticing a blank spot on his otherwise full dance card, he decided to take advantage of that elusive half hour between when the fog burns off and the gale sets in to take me for a run. And he was feeling pretty good, too, so he was thinking in terms of a 3 mile run, rather than a 2 mile run.

Well, yes, it sounds alright in theory, I grant you. But it was a change, Littermates, and change is--all together now--bad.

About a quarter mile into our run, he felt a mild, but novel, pain in the back of his left knee. He kept going, on the theory that it would either go away or get worse. After a few blocks, it went (mostly) away. Then, just after the one-mile mark, it came back, somewhat more insistently. At a mile and a quarter, we stopped running--he informed me that we would finish out two miles at a walk. At a mile and a half, he decided he wasn't even much enjoying the walk, and we made a bee-line for home (you must picture a bee who limps and winces quite a lot).

He's feeling better today, but says he's still experiencing some tenderness in the tendon on the right rear side of his left knee. He has gathered contradictory and confusing information about whether or not that's a hamstring--apparently, he'd like to think he has something in common with all those top athletes, and a hamstring injury sounds like a lot more fun than an ACL injury. He's pretty sure that the problem is with a tendon, not a ligament. I don't know about that, but if I'm smelling ham, I don't think it’s coming from the back of his knee.

I don't know if I'm even going to get a walk today (if I do, it'll be at the regularly appointed time, you may be sure). But I by-Dog better get my Saturday morning hike tomorrow, or a sore tendon will be the least of his worries.

So, anyway, Littermates, let this be a lesson to you: Once you've got a mind-numbingly familiar routine going, stick to it. (Unless, of course, somebody offers you a 6,000 mile ride in a sidecar rig.)

Who ya gonna call?

Now, I may not pay as much attention to--well, to just about anything, really--as I probably should. Certainly not to bipedal elections. But I believe that this whole current election business started back in early January--earlier, depending upon what you want to count as the kick-off event. And we are now approaching mid May--over four months. And I'm pretty sure that the TV has told me repeatedly that I should call somebody if I experience an election lasting more than four months. But who? My vet? What would I tell him? Arf!?

The best laid mice and men...

...are really no concern of mine, though I wish them well, I'm sure.

What concerns me is that my own plans seem to keep ganging oft awry.

As most of you will recall, the very first stop on the upcoming PupPal Tour was going to be Cambria, California, where I was going to be sponging off of... ahem… I mean hosted by my pals Breezy and Leja. Well, it now transliterates that Breezy and Leja, who may or may not be enrolled in a witness protection program of some sort--you didn't hear it from me--are suddenly upping sticks and departing for parts unknown. I hope it was nothing I said.

So, anyway, the biped and I have had to rethink the first leg of our journey. Since we've already taken DexCorp 1 down the coast to Cambria once, on a practice run, we have decided to skip the coastal part of the program. Instead, we will be heading first up, and then out of, the Salinas Valley and on to San Luis Obispo, by way of Paso Robles, on the first day. From San Luis Obispo, we go on to Lancaster in the desert. Thence, we are back on our original itinerary.

And, while this change of plan is mildly irksome to me (remember, Littermates, change is bad!), it does present any of you living in San Luis Obispo with an unparalleled opportunity to host the very first night of the soon-to-be-legendary 2008 DexCorp PupPal Tour. It would be for one night only. Turn-down service and pillow mints are not mandatory. We wouldn't even mind camping in your yard, if you're short on indoor space.

Well, you can just think about it and let us know.

The fierce urgency of now

But people sometimes ask me, Why, Dexter? Why did you crap on the lawn at Stanford? You're a relatively young dog. Surely, you could have waited?

Well, you guessed it, Littermates--it was that fierce urgency of now thingee. What caused me to become, if not an agent of change precisely, at least an early depositor in the bank of the future.

And while we're on the subject of my defecatory ambitions, let me just renunciate that I could no more remunerate the biped than I could vilify my own grandmother for short-term political gain. And anybody who doesn't think I wouldn't, just doesn't know me half as well as he used to could have thought he did. Nor I him, either.

Thank you. Thank you very much.

Remember me to Stanford, Dexter.

A number of very odd things happened today. First and foremost, I did not get walked or run or hiked. Which would have me pretty thoroughly out of sorts, except that I did get to crap on the lawn at no lesser an institution of higher yearning than Stanford arfing University in Palo arfing Alto. And let me tell you, Littermates, it is not every day that you get to crap on the lawn of an institution that your biped's grandfather dropped out of shortly before WWI because his father had just become the first traffic fatality in Mendocino County and he (the biped's grandfather) had to go home and help out with the family business. No indeed.

We got invited to a Uralists' get-together (no proctologists allowed!) at TriQuest Motorycycles in Santa Clara today. The biped thought that it would be an excellent opportunity to take a moderately long ride (100 km or so) with DexCorp 1 all loaded up as it will be for the Pup Pal Tour.

So I spent the first couple of hours of my morning in the command module.

Then I spent a couple of hours at Triquest tethered to the command module (see picture #2 above).

Then I got put back into the command module, and we joined 16 or 18 other Ural owners for a ride to Stanford. I'd never been part of a motorcycle gang before. It was pretty cool. And when we got there, all the bipeds did was mill around in a parking lot a little basking in the inattention of passersby. So I must assume that the only point of that portion of the program was to allow me to crap on the lawn of the biped's grandfather's would-have-been alma mater. Very pleasant, I assure you, but it hardly seemed worth the fuss.

Then we all piled back into our respective sidecar rigs and rode to a hamburger joint. We didn't exactly terrorize the other customers, but I'm pretty sure we puzzled them.

Then we rode back to TriQuest, where the biped left DexCorp 1 for its 7500 km service. The bipedess met us there in the Forester, and the three of us came home together.

Oddly, even without having gotten any exercise today, I find I am quite exhausted from all the unaccustomed excitement.

Did I mention that I was the most strikingest dog there? Well, I was, of course.

You may have your quails and peasants...

...and even your high-flying Canada geeses,
for I have seen the promised bird, Littermates,
and lo, the bird is on the wing.

I may never get him, Littermates,
but hot damn is it fun to try!

I don't know if I have mentioned before that there are wild turkeys at Garland Park. Probably I have not. Because, although we frequently hear them, we had never come face-to-beak with any until this morning.

I was frolicking around the Mesa pond, chasing the shadows of mere red-winged blackbirds and such-like trash birds. The biped was standing next to the bench, idly admiring my work. When, all of a Saturday morning, he was startled half spitless by a great gobble-gobbling noise right behind him. When the biped came down--he may have jumped just a bit and executed a 180 in mid air--what should he see not 30 feet away, but a wild Tom turkey, every inch of a meter high, casually strolling through the mesa grass.

The biped thought I might enjoy the sight, so he gave me a whistle. (He may have been a bit put out with the turkey for startling him.)

Never had I seen such a bird! And I have seen a bird or two in my time. I am here to tell you, Littermates, that your great blue herring does not hold a candle to a wild turkey. (And let me just interject here that, while I am all about chasing birds, I do not approve, under any easily foreseeable circumstances, of setting them on fire with candles.)

So, anyway, I was off after that turkey like a shot out of a musket. And I'd've caught him, too, were it not for the inconvenient truth that wild turkeys, unlike your domesticated holiday dinner turkeys, actually fly pretty well. They need a good running start. And they leave the ground with all the beauty and grace of a fully loaded C5A. But they can fly. They just can't fly a whole lot faster than I can run. So I had a good hundred-yard run across the mesa, keeping almost right underneath my new friend Tom.

Alas, he was able, in the space of that 100 yards, to gain enough altitude to clear the surrounding tree line and make good his escape.

But, Dog! what a shot of adrenaline! I spent the next 15 minutes quartering the mesa on full afterburners looking for another one! It makes my tail thump the floor right now just thinking about it.

If only we'd been in DexCorp 1, I think we could have caught him before he lifted off. Maybe next week.

Few and far between...

or

It's still not too late to be sponge-worthy.

Well, there's no weaseling out of it now. The biped has begun to ship cartons and cartons of books and CDs to InTrans Book Service of Kinderhook, New York. InTrans is going to be handling orders for him while we're off on the Pup Pal Tour.

The tour kicks off on June 15th with a short ride down the coast to visit Breezy and Leja in Cambria, CA (the only town I know of with an entire epoch named after it). We will subsequently be enjoying the hospitality of Kirby In Albuquerque, NM; Izzy in Allen, TX; Midnight Star and her pack in Lincoln, NE; Fred in an undisclosed location somewhere in the Midwest; Finlay in Belle Plaine, MN; Rajah Q. in Billings, MT; Eli in Calgary, Alberta, Canada; and Lyle and his pack in Richland, WA. And we hope to at least be able to stop in for a visit with Sergei in Tigard, OR (home of the infamous Beast Men of Oregon).

You may have noticed that what all these places have in common, in addition to containing pals of ours, is that they are kind of far apart. And we would not be at all averse to making some new pals who just happen to live along the way and wouldn't mind letting us camp out in their yards (or living rooms, whichever you think is easier). In fact, we would be more than willing to immortalize such pals in the trip journal that we fully intend to keep.

So we would love to hear from you if you live in or near any of the following towns or town-like objects:

Lancaster, CA
Parker, AZ
Payson, AZ
Quemado, NM
Muleshoe, TX
Seymour, TX
Shawnee, OK
El Dorado, KS
Huron, SD
Eagle Butte, SD
Broadus, MT
Fort Benton, MT
Lethbridge, AB, Canada
Cranbrook, BC, Canada
Coeur D’Alene, ID
Klamath Falls, OR
Red Bluff, CA

Try not to get too attached to him...

...He's just a husband, after all.

I don't know how many of you, Littermates, have nothing better to do first thing in the morning than have "Dear Abbey" read to you. I'm guessing most of you. But you can depend upon me, your very Chairman, to glean that what is worth gleaning for you.

Some time ago, an older woman wrote to Abbey to complain that her recently retired husband didn't want to do anything but sit around the house watching TV. Didn't want to socialize with friends. Didn't want to take up a hobby. Just wanted to be a couch potato. Abbey allowed as how the husband was probably depressed and advised counseling.

Today's column consisted entirely of reader responses to Abbey's response. (Some people will do anything to fill up column inches!)

One gentleman--and I'm thinking he and the biped should form a social club--wrote:

I'm a seasoned curmudgeon and have been retired for quite a while... If a man has been a productive member of society, provided for his family, been there for his children, and been a good husband, does he need to have his last little bit of soul sucked dry?

I'm thinking that's one of those retirecal questions that does not require an answer. But, just in case, the answer is evidently yes.

One woman wrote of the writer of the original letter (are you still with me?):

She should enjoy her space and activities apart from her husband. Partners who are independent transition easier in widowhood than those who are joined at the hip.

And it's not like you can't just rescue another one from the local seniors' center, is it?

Getting a jump on the day

While I am, by breeding, a Scottish sort of dog, I am by birth and upbringing very much a California dog. And there is a lot to be said for California, particularly if you are fond of pot holes, Austrian accents, and utterly dysfunctional state government. (And the weather is generally pretty nice, too, despite all my complaining.)

But there is one thing about living in California that just irks me. Let us suppose that you are an early riser. By which I mean you're up by seven every morning. (I'm not talking crazy, get-up-and-milk-the-cows at five o'clock early here--we are, all appearances to the contrary notwithstanding, civilized here in Greater Metropolitan Spreckels.) So anyway, you're up by seven, ready to take on the dew-freshened world. Only to realize that any slug-abed New Yorker who slept in until 9:45 has still beat you to the punch by fifteen minutes. It just doesn’t seem right, Littermates.

Oh, sure, we've got the jump on the Hawaiians. But just try dining out on that boast. (Not that I've got anything against roast pig or grass skirts, mind you.)

It's almost enough to make a dog want to move to the east coast. But then it would be cold all winter, which might be OK, and unDogly hot and humid all summer, which definitely would not be OK. I just don't know, Littermates.

I may have to sleep on it.

Q: How did you sleep last night, Dexter?

A: Very well, thank you for asking.

The bipeds have a big fluffy featherbed that they put on top of all their blankets during the winter months. In the summer, they take it off the bed and put it away. In the spring, it comes and goes with our whacky whimsical weather.

Last night, the bipedess decided that the featherbed wouldn't be needed. Instead of putting it away, though, she folded it in quarters and put it on the floor next to the bed. I don't know whether or not she intended that I should sleep on it--I'm guessing not--but I did.

And I've got to tell you, Littermates, a featherbed beats the spit out of your average dog bed. It doesn't yet smell quite "doggie" enough for my taste, of course, but that can easily be remedied over time.

And, oh yes, a mint would be nice, thank you.

Married Life, a review

Well, it's a slow news day here in Beautiful Downtown Spreckels, so I thought I would pass along to you the biped's capsule review of the new movie, Married Life, which he and the bipedess abandoned me yesterday afternoon to go see.

You will like Married Life if:

You've been longing to see a late 40s period piece that has no reason in the world (apart from the cool cars and Pierce Brosnan's hat) to be a period piece.

You're fond of possibly sincere, but distinctly pallid, Hitchcock imitations.

You've always longed to see Pierce Brosnan channel Fred McMurray at his sleaziest.

One dog poisoning. No nudity or offensive (or even mildly interesting) language.

Best thing about Married Life: It's only 90 minutes long, which isn't much more than 15 minutes longer than it needs to be. That may sound like damning with faint praise, but, believe me, compared to many new movies, that is high praise indeed.

Overall, the bipeds apparently found it a not altogether unpleasant way to spend a little bit of a Saturday afternoon. I, myself, personally, based on the biped's description, would give it 2 ½ thumbs up, except that... well you know.

Aerodynamic is as aerodynamic does.

Well, it appears, Littermates, that I have once again blundered into political incorrectness in my use of terminology. And I would never have known it, if not for the keen oversight of my oversight hound pal, Coffee.

It would seem that the correct term for what one might otherwise mistake for a disproportionately small head is not petite, as I had ventured to guess, but rather aerodynamic. Thus, Khalil Greene does not have a petite head. (Nor is he correctly referred to as a pin head!) Rather, he is the most aerodynamic player in the National League.

Congratulations, Khalil, and thank you, Coffee.

If they don't win, it's a shaaaaaaaame!

And they usually don't, of course. Even with the steroid-inflated Mr. Bonds, they usually didn't. Without him, they're pretty pathetic. What? The San Francisco Giants, of course. Who'd you think I was talking about?

Well, Littermates, I find myself gradually becoming a baseball fan. It's probably just one more manifestation of the Stockholm syndrome--and they don't even play baseball in Sweden!--but I'm a dog; what choice do I have, really?

Anyway, the Giants actually won a game last night. Took them 13 innings to do it, but they did it. Against the San Diego Padres. For whom both Greg Maddux and Khalil Greene now play. I know, I know... as if you care.

Every time we see him pitch, I have to listen once again to the biped's assertion that Maddux--for whom the biped has nothing but respect, by the way--looks like a chimpanzee in a baseball uniform. I can't argue with him. But then, all bipeds look pretty much like chimps in sailor suits, don't they? I mean, that's pretty much what they are, right? So I don't know why he wants to give Greg Maddux a bad time about it.

As for Mr. Greene... Well, the biped just plain doesn't like the guy for some reason. His head's too small. It's like looking at Sara Jessica Parker's body with a Chihuahua head grafted onto it! A mildly disturbing image, I guess, but I can kind of see his point. Though why the biped should be so offended by a guy with too small a head, I do not know. Some of my best friends--and you know who you are, Littermates--have... shall we say... petite heads. So what? He looks like an eight-year-old wearing his dad's pajamas! Yeah. So?

I suspect that the biped's real objection to Mr. Greene is that he's one of those pesky players who's always making a really good play or getting a bloop single just when you'd rather he didn't. The bastard!

Announcing DextExtraStones...

...the amazing new multilingual learning tool from DexCorp!

[To be read aloud while watching--with audio muted--the Rosetta Stone commercial with the perky young lady in the satin blouse.]

Fellas... have you been looking for a little help in the boardroom? Or maybe you'd like to impress that certain special someone by slipping a little parlez vous into your most intimate conversations? Well, now you can learn to speak--hey! I'm up here, fellas--now you can learn to speak in tongues more quickly than you ever thought possible with DextExtraStones, the amazing new multilingual learning tool from DexCorp! Learn to speak French, Cajun French, Quebecois, Latin… even Classical Greek! All in the privacy of your own home with DextExtraStones! Your DextExtraStones multilingual learning tool will be delivered directly and discreetly to your door in a plain brown wrapper. You can start learning the secrets of unleashing your inner linguist today! And really, fellas... can you afford not to?

Thank you for calling DexCorp.

Biped: beep, be-be-beep, be-be-beep, be-be-be-beep [1-(800)DEXCORP]

DexCorpPhoneBot: Thank you for calling the DexCorp Intergalactic Customer Service Center. Before we begin, please say or enter the 10-digit number of the phone you are calling from or about.

Biped: You're the Intergalactic Customer Service Center, and you don't have caller ID?

DexCorpPhoneBot: I'm sorry. I couldn't quite make that out. You may have a foreign accent or speech impediment of some sort. Please enter the 10-digit number of the phone from or about which you seem to be calling.

Biped: [sighs] be-be-beep, be-be-beep, be-be-be-beep [(831) 555-1212]

DexCorpPhoneBot: Thank you! Now, how can we provide you with a thoroughly satisfactory customer service experience this morning?

Biped: Yes, I...

DexCorpPhoneBot: You can say things like "I need more expensive service," or "I'd like to pay my bill now, please."

Biped: Well, it's about this bill you sent me for $138.00...

DexCorpPhoneBot: Thank you! I'll connect you with our billing department!

Biped: Well, I... uh, OK, thanks.

DexCorpPhoneBot: Thank you for calling the DexCorp Intergallactic Customer Service Center Billing Department. Before we begin, please say or enter the 10-digit number of the phone you are calling from or about.

Biped: [sighs] be-be-beep, be-be-beep, be-be-be-beep [(831) 555-1212]

DexCorpPhoneBot: I'm sorry. Our records show that there is no DexCorp service associated with that number.

Biped: I know! That's why...

DexCorpPhoneBot: Good-bye! [click]

Biped: beep, be-be-beep, be-be-beep, be-be-be-beep [1-(800)DEXCORP]

DexCorpPhoneBot: Thank you for calling the DexCorp Intergallactic Customer Service Center. Before we begin, please say or enter the 10-digit number of the phone you are calling from or about.

Biped: be-be-beep, be-be-beep, be-be-be-beep [(831) 555-1212].

DexCorpPhoneBot: Thank you! Now, how can we provide you with a thoroughly satisfactory customer service experience this morning? You can say things like "I need more expensive service," or "I'd like to pay my bill now, please" or "I'm a real dick."

Biped: What?!

DexCorpPhoneBot: What, indeed? You can say things like...

Biped: Look, I just want to talk to a person, OK?

DexCorpPhoneBot: OK! I can connect you with a Customer Service Representative. But, first, please tell me a little about your childhood, so that I can properly direct your call. Did you ever wet the bed when you were a child?

Biped: No, I didn’t wet the bed! Well, maybe once or twice. But that’s not why I'm calling! You morons sent me a bill for $138.00 for DexCorp DSL Service, and we don't have DexCorp DSL Service. Never have. Never will.

DexCorpPhoneBot: Would you like to sign up for DexCorp DSL Service this morning?

Biped: No! But you've billed me $138.00 for DSL service, and I don't arfing have DSL service through you!

DexCorpPhoneBot: Please hold while I connect you with our DSL Service Department.

Biped: No! I...

DexCorpPhoneBot: Thank you for calling the DexCorp Intergalactic DSL Service Center. Before we begin, please say or enter the 10-digit number of the phone you are calling from or about.

Biped: No! No! No!

DexCorpPhoneBot: Well, if that's your attitude, Sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to call back another time. [click]

Biped: beep, be-be-beep, be-be-beep, be-be-be-beep [1-(800)DEXCORP]

GenericPhoneBot: I'm sorry. The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please hang up, check the number, and eat spit. [click]

Biped: [to Dexter] Well, that could have gone a lot worse.

Dexter: How so, Boss?

Biped: I could have been trying to deal with AT&T.

More bad news for the plains states

Well, the weather here has reverted to arfing miserable: cold, overcast, howling west winds that just get stronger, and stronger, and stronger all day. Unpleasant is what it is.

We took our 3 ½ mile Garland Park hike this morning, regardless. We took it early and quickly, so as to be away before most of the Earth Day amateurs showed up.

But once we got home, neither one of us wanted very much to be outside. The biped gave me something vaguely (very vaguely) resembling a haircut in the kitchen of his office. Then I took a nap while he finished a very bad book he'd been reading. Then he thought he would follow my example and take a nap.

So he turned on the TV and started looking for a baseball game. A Giants baseball game, to be specific. Apparently, no other team is quite so soporific. Unhappily, the Giants game was already over, so he just started channel surfing--OK with me; I can nap through pretty much anything.

He never did find anything to go to sleep to, but, just before he gave up and turned off the TV, we saw a very disturbing report on Fox News. Apparently, the Pakistanis have just test fired a nuclear-capable missile with a range of 1200 miles. The Fox News announcer helpfully explained that that is roughly the distance from New York to Kansas. So, if the Pakis ever succeed in smuggling one of those puppies into New York harbor, it's lights out for the Jay Hawks. I would have thought the Pakistanis would be more interested in the great-circle route to New Delhi, myself. But I'm sure Fox News knows best.

The importance of -na

Biped: Evidently, there's been a moderate earthquake in Indiana, Dexter.

Dexter: That's terrible, Boss. How many tens of thousands of people were killed?

Biped: Well, I don't think anyone was actually killed, Dexter. There's been some property damage. And people have certainly been shaken up--they're not used to that sort of thing in Indiana, you know--but no actual injuries have been reported.

Dexter: Well, that sounds like the very simulacrum of a miracle to me, Boss. How is it possible?

Biped: I'm not quite sure what you mean, Dexter. It really wasn't that big an earthquake.

Dexter: Well, yeah, Boss. But, you know, when a bus blows a tire in Indiana, dozens are killed. When a train derails, casualties are typically in the thousands. I just assumed...

Biped: I believe you may be thinking of India, Dexter.

Dexter: So I was, Boss; so I was. Well. Nobody killed then, eh?

Biped: Apparently not.

Dexter: Well, good. Now I won't have any trouble getting back to sleep.

The birds

Not only is that martyrdom-seeking finch still trying to break into the back of the biped's office, now I've got robins bathing in my front-yard water bowl. And without so much as a By your leave, Gov. I would evict them quite unceremoniously, I assure you, except that I'm worried they might put some fancy bird-foo moves on me, or give me Vile Nest virus, or something.

And here's the really creepy thing: It's just like that Alfred Hitchcock movie... they have no shadows!

It's just overcast this morning, Dexter. You don't have any shadow, either.

Nevertheless.

Google Time

Yesterday afternoon, the biped was playing around with Google Maps/Earth, kind of getting directions for our upcoming Pup Pal Tour and kind of just playing around looking at satellite views of various places. (Parenthetically, he discovered that you can now get street level views of Spreckels, CA 93962, which is both highly perplexing and somewhat creepy, but, as I said, I offer that fact only parenthetically.)

Now, you may or may not know that the level of satellite resolution you can get from Google varies greatly from one local to another. I don't know if this has to do, historically, with the relative military/strategic importance of various locals, or what. But, if you ask for the satellite view of, say, Paullina, IA, just to pick a random example out of a hat, you can just about make out Iowa; you kind of have to take Paullina on faith. If, on the other hand, you ask for a satellite view of Martinez, CA 94553, scene of the biped's misspent yoot, you can almost read the license plates on the cars.

So, anyway, the biped was flying around over his old neighborhood in Martinez, following various streets down to the old ferry slip on the Carquinez straights, peering voyeuristically into the back yards of houses that used to belong to friends’ parents, following Alhambra Valley Rd. out to Bear Creek Rd. and over to Tilden Park in the Berkeley Hills... that sort of thing. And apparently, it started kind of creeping him out. Like he was halfway expecting to see a sky blue 1960 Plymouth Valiant (pathetic, ain’t it?) parked on a hilltop overlooking Bear Creek Rd. under a full moon (never mind that Google tends to use daytime satellite images). Like one might spy, not just on any place in the world, but on any time, as well.

Well, at that point, I said "Wait a minute, Boss, I think you've got a marketable idea there. Don't just go spreading it around all promiscuous-like; offer to sell it to Google."

"But, Dexter," says he, "Just think of the technical difficulties. Why, you'd have to somehow get an enormous lens many light years out into space. You'd have to be able to propel it faster than light, so as to catch up with the past. And then you'd have to find a way to transmit the images back to earth faster than light, too. And that's just to get images from the past. I'm not quite sure how you'd go about getting images of the future. Why, it would take almost unimaginable resources to pull such a thing off!"

"Well, you'd need venture capital, for sure. That's why I'd just set up a shell company and then sell it to the highest bidder. Let Google or MicroSoft or somebody worry about the piddling technical details."

But there was no convincing him. He insisted on just babbling about it to anybody who'd listen. Happily, that's pretty much nobody so far. There may still be hope.

Catching up with Dexter (as if)

Saturday:

At about 6:30 in the morning we took DexCorp 1 over Laureles Grade to Garland Park and had our regular Saturday morning hike. Spent a very long time at the Mesa pond, I chasing birds shadows, the biped listening to them sing (the birds, not their shadows). He seems to feel there is something particularly evokotive about the back-and-forth calls of redwing blackbirds early in the morning--not a sweet song, but one that reminds you of you're-not-sure what. Dog knows I'm not. Sure what, I mean.

Then, Saturday afterevening, he took me for a regular two-mile walk around town, just as if we hadn't already had our exercise!

A satisfactory day, all things considered.

Sunday:

Not a breath of wind first thing in the morning. So we hopped in DexCorp 1 while the hopping was good, and made a nice loop through Sea Scum (aka California State University, Monterey Bay). Not only did we turn many heads, we actually received a standing ovation. The two people doing the ovating were already standing--and indeed walking--when they saw us, but I'll take my standing Os as they come.

Late in the afternoon, the biped attempted to take me for a jog, but I wasn't having any of it--too warm for this dog. I crapped out after less than a quarter of a mile. The biped alternated walking and jogging while we finished one mile. Then he put me in the front yard and went off on his own.

Today:

We are back to something like normal weather: a nice cooling west wind off the fog bank on the bay. I'm thinking it's not going to be getting much warmer than 60 today.

The pugnacious pecker is back at it. Apparently, even the biped's very lifelike rendering of… well, of Dog-only knows what could not for long dissuade the little fellow from attempting to kill his own reflection. The biped has, I believe, transcended compassion and arrived at a fairly pure state of irritation. Happily, he is well aware that shooting a finch through a closed window would necessarily break both the window and any number of local ordinances.

Well, that's all I've got, Littermates.

What a difference a couple of days make

The temperature is in the mid 70s this afternoon (a veritable heat wave, by local standards), the westerly breeze is probably not much more than 10 or 12 knots, and there isn't a cloud in the sky. It's almost like summer on some other planet. But, hey, I figured it was the least we could do for Nelly’s secretary, who is flying out in this general direction tomorrow. She is, at least, if somebody hasn't grounded her plane because the prop-wash fluid hasn't been checked recently.

Anyway, having conjured up some nice weather to impress the out-of-towners, I figured we should take some advantage of it ourselves. So the biped and I took a nice little ride on DexCorp 1 down the Salinas Valley on River Rd.

I am spending more and more of my riding time sitting up and inflating my flews, which makes me much more visible to my adoring public and gets us lots of smiles and waves. You have no idea how much less irritating it apparently is to get stuck behind a slow-moving sidecar rig with a magnificent specimen of a Gordon setter in it than, say, a tractor with great gobs of mud flying off of it. When people wave as they pass us, they tend to use all five fingers.

Pugnacious pecker update

One sure-fire way to avoid reacting badly to any given stimulus is not to react to it at all. Or so the biped tells me. He sites as a case in point the time several years ago when he was walking along a sidewalk that fronted several small businesses in a local shopping center.

An elderly lady parked in her Cadillac in front of these businesses made the classic (and perfectly understandable) mistakes of 1) confusing D for R and 2) confusing the gas pedal for the brake pedal, and thus found herself sitting suddenly in the lobby of the travel agency she had been parked in front of.

This comic little excursion across the sidewalk and through the plate glass window took place about eight or ten feet in front of the biped--if he'd been in a bigger hurry, it might have taken place right through him.

While the (unhurt) travel agent was screaming hysterically, and the (unhurt) elderly lady was turning an interesting shade of ashen grey, and various (unhurt) spectators were engaged in activities ranging from covering their mouths with their hands to actually determining that no one was hurt, the biped was just standing there saying--aloud, if he is not lying to me--"Huh, you don't see that every day.”

Now, whether you would characterize this as calm in the face of crisis, or utter uselessness in the face of crisis, I think you would have to agree that it does illustrate the biped's point about not reacting--he didn't react badly. Of course, he didn't react well either. Which might, conceivably, have been a problem if someone had been, oh, say, bleeding to death.

But what, the more alert amongst you will have been asking yourselves for some time now, does all that have to do with our jealous and overprotective little feather friend?

Just this: The biped had been watching the poor little guy throw himself against the kitchen window for days, had felt mildly bad about it, and had done nothing whatever.

Well, what was I supposed to do, Dexter? Go outside and explain the error of his ways to him?

Well, no, actually. All he had to do was mention the situation to the bipedess again. She wondered out loud if taping something to the inside of the window might scare the bird off. Well, that's a thought, thought the biped. Whereupon, he proceeded to make a really crude drawing of two very large eyes and a beak and tape the drawing to the inside of the window.

And our pugnacious little finch has not been seen since, having apparently decided that, while protecting your mate and your nest is a very fine idea in principal, discretion is nevertheless the better part of valor.

Wind haiku

Even as it blows,
The enduring west wind sucks--
That's the way it goes.

Actually, it's sunny and calm this morning. And the paper says it will be warm today. I'm feeling cheerfuler already. I just wanted to show Fred that I actually can write a (very bad) haiku.

Weather you like it or don't

Yesterday, it was cold, windy, overcast, and miserable all day. This morning, it was cold and overcast, but not windy. This afternoon, it's cold and windy, but not altogether overcast. So I guess one would have to count today as the better day. Not much to choose, though, really. This morning, I couldn't chase shadows. This afternoon, the wind is just wearing us all down. It's sort of like the Kingston Trio might have sung, if they'd given it some thought:

Away out here they have a name for rain and wind and fire.
The rain is Tess, the fire's Joe and they call the wind Pariah.

Pariah blows the stars around and sets the clouds a-flyin'.
Pariah makes the mountains sound like folks was out there dyin'.

Pariah. (Pariah).
Pariah. (Pariah).
They call the wind Pariah.

Before I knew Pariah's name and heard her wail and whinin',
I had a gal and she had me and the sun was always shinin'.

But then one day I left my gal.
I left her far behind me
and now I'm lost, so gol' darn lost
not even Dog can find me.

Pariah. (Pariah).
Pariah. (Pariah).
They call the wind Pariah.

Out here they have a name for rain and wind and fire only.
When you're lost and all alone, there ain't no name for lonely.
And I'm a lost and lonely dog without a star to guide me.
Pariah blow my love to me. I need my gal beside me.

Pariah. (Pariah.)
They call the wind Pariah.
Pariah!
Pariah. (Pariah.)
They call the wind Pariah.

Summer in April

Ah! Fifty-six degrees, overcast, a brisk 20-knot breeze off Monterey Bay... Why, if I didn't know better, I'd swear it was June in Greater Metropolitan Spreckels. Cold, miserable, depressing June. Not that I find it cold, miserable, or depressing, mind you--why I'm sure this is weather much of Scotland can scarcely aspire to. But the bipeds get distinctly sullen when this sort of thing goes on day after day after arfing day.

And it does interfere with my bird-shadow chasing, I must say. Nevertheless, as Dorothy Parker once famously wrote:

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

Pugnacious little pecker, ain't he?

The part of the house that the biped uses for his office used to be a one-room apartment and, as such, is equipped with all the rooms an apartment would need, including a kitchen. That kitchen is now where the biped packages orders for shipping. It has a sink, and a window over the sink. And, outside that window, there is a bush of some sort--neither one of us is real big on horticulture (and you can't make her think anyway, ha, ha!)

For the last several days, a tiny bird--possibly a finch of some kind, almost certainly a male of his species--has been slamming himself into that window with a vengeance. He sits on the bush and periodically launches himself at the window. Hard. With much flapping, thumbing, and pecking.

The biped, slow witted as always, was under the impression that the little bird desperately wanted to get inside the house for some reason. He couldn't see anything in his little office kitchen that ought to be a major bird magnet. He was--as is so often his wont--puzzled.

He mentioned it to the bipedess. She observed the behavior for a bit and then announced that she was pretty sure the bird was actually attacking his own reflection in the window.

Well, the scales fell from the biped's eyes. Once you considered the thing in that light, the little bird's behavior started to make a lot more sense. He had always seemed way too angry just to be trying to get inside. I mean, it's a nice enough house--Dog knows I like it--but I can't remember the last time anybody got mad about not being invited in.

Then the biped started wondering why the little pecker came back day after day to engage in a fight he can never win. And why only to this one window? Our current working theory is this:

The little bird must have a mate nesting nearby. He periodically patrols the area to make sure there are no intruders. And every damn day, he sees another handsome and sexy male of his species hanging out in the bush just on the other side of that window. One of these days... you sneaking Lothario!

I can kind of relate, I guess--when I first got here, I used to see a handsome little Gordon setter puppy in the oven from time to time. But then, after a while, I figured out that it was really just my own reflection. But you can't really expect a mere bird to make that kind of cognitive leap. They are way too busy making their shadows disappear into our lawn, whence I can never seem to dig them out. Though not for want of trying, I assure you.

Where everybody knows your name

The bipeds have, they tell me, been shopping at the same grocery store for the last 27 years or so. It is not exactly a Mom and Pop grocery, but it is a supermarket only by the most generous and old-fashioned of definitions. It is run by an extended family of Chinese Americans who stay in business by being very attentive to the preferences of their customers. It is they who have been feeding the biped's Tab habit all these years (and that apparently involves sending a truck to Fresno or Modesto or some such Dog forsaken place every few weeks--that's how attentive these folks are).

Many months ago, Victor, the senior member of the clan, apparently noticed that, when the biped bought gin, he tended to buy Tanqueray. So one evening Victor button-holed the biped in the liquor isle--he was just passing through, honest--and said, "Come here; I want to show you something." Whereupon, Victor led the biped into the back store room and showed him a case of some new-fangled kind of Tanqueray call Tanqueray Rangpur gin. Victor hadn't had a chance to put it on the shelf yet, but he thought the biped might like to be the first to try some. So, you know, not wanting to disappoint Victor, the biped bought a bottle. He liked it. He has tended to buy it since then.

But here’s the thing: I may--whether mistakenly or maliciously you may decide for yourselves--have given you the impression that the bipeds drink a lot of gin. They don't. Typically weeks, sometimes months, go by between gin purchases. So, while you may be able to lay about half of Star Market's Tab depletion rate on the biped's door step, he really has relatively little to do with the rate at which Tanqueray Rangpur gin does or does not walk off their shelves.

But, as it happens, yesterday evening he and the bipedess were feeling relatively festive, and the biped was dispatched to Star Market to purchase some gin and some tonic. He had just taken a fifth of Tanqueray Rangpur gin off the shelf and turned to go when Victor, who was coming up the isle behind him restocking, called out cheerily, "I'm sorry we were out of Rangpur gin for a couple of days last week!"

The biped, after fleetingly considering taking an I-have-no-idea-what-you're-talking-about stance, instead sheepishly replied, "That's OK, Victor, we can always get by on Beefeaters for a couple of days."

And maybe a pint of Ben & Jerrys, wot?

Keeping the biped busy

Knowing as I do that an idle mind is the devil's playground, I try to keep the biped occupied. Yesterday and today, I've had him working on modifications and additions to DexCorp 1. You can see a couple of these additions/modifications (take your pick) in my new photo above. And--if you are an imaginative sort of dog--you can easily imagine the third when I abscribe it to you, which I will do first.

Yesterday afternoon, the biped, straining his mechanical aptitude to its limits, installed a Vista Cruise on DexCorp 1. This is a sort of poor man's cruise control that essentially jams the throttle at its current setting so that you can take your right hand off the throttle once in a while and flex it a little, or scratch your right leg, or whatever. If the picture were not so tiny, you would be able to make out a very small lever mounted at the inside edge of the throttle grip. Flip that lever down with your thumb (assuming you have one) and you're on cruise control. Very slick.

And after he did that he mounted a second gas can on the sidecar trunk--the one you see in the picture. There was already one on the other side. So now we can carry five gallons in the fuel tank, plus a total of 20 extra liters in the two gas cans. We're thinking the extra range may come in very handy this summer.

Finally, you will see in the picture the object that I am truly admiring, the new Dexterflaged tool carrier mounted on the sidecar fender luggage rack. The biped mounted that this afternoon with a couple of large worm-gear hose clamps. It is an object of his own design and manufacture, consisting of 18" of 6" diameter PVC pipe, with a cap on one end and a clean-out fitting on the other. The carrier allows us to get a bunch of stuff out of the trunk: bottle jack and handle, wooden jack block, tire changing tool kit, main tool kit, rubber mallet, and a couple of shop rags. The camouflage pattern is based on my "Capitalist Running Dog" photo.

The bipedess seems to have adopted a tolerant, bemused, and yet condescending attitude toward the biped's on-going motorcycle fiddling. And I can sort of see her point, I guess. Until she drags out her latest needlework project. Now there's a quality waste of time. (But you didn't hear it from me.)

Foggy dew

I don't like it, foggy or otherwise. Dew, I mean.

I will gallop through mud or standing water or snow or grass that's four feet tall. I will happily go for a walk or run in the pouring rain. I laugh at squall lines.

But I do not like to walk on the lawn when there's any dew on it. If possible, I will instead walk on the six-inch wide concrete border that separates the lawn from the bipedess' attempt at a flower garden. If forced to walk on the dewey lawn, I mince.

I don't know why. It is just one more aspect of the wonder that is Dexter.

An aphorism both seasonal and topical

We’ve got another one. We thought it up special, just for today:

April showers. Spit!

I think we’re getting the hang of this. Fred is always an inspiration, of course.

Outside of a dog...

...a book is a man’s best friend.
Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read
-Groucho Marx

Yes, and let's keep it that way, shall we? I shudder to think what sort of apocalypse a lit match would produce inside the average canine digestive system. (I speak only of the average canine digestive system, mind you--we all know the sun shines out of my vent. Hell, you'd need shades to read inside of this dog.)

In other non news, the biped got so bored yesterday afternoon, he actually took that silly "What kind of a dog are you?" quiz. Evidently, he is--wait for it--a German Shepherd! Which is no doubt a very fine thing to be, but... I mean... come on! I cannot help but believe that the result would have been vastly different if none of the above had been an available response--you couldn't drag him to a costume party; there better be a hosted bar at the modern art museum; and I think the best friend on the street would get a smile and a nod and a see you next week.

I think a properly designed test would have pegged him for something more along the lines of a Rottweiler/Golden Retriever hybrid. Not so very different from me, when you think about it--who's to say who's on which end of the leash, after all?

No, of course it's not just a ploy!

Dexter: Boss?

Biped: What is it, Dexter?