11 November 2019

Comfy slippers.


Banksy's kind of sort of afraid of swimming, at least til she warms up to it. Down at the old log mill pond, now home to suburbia birds and creeping willows, and the guys who sprawl around the picnic table drinking beer any and all times of day, when I toss a stick, she splashes out so she knows how far she can touch, a careful measurement of where the bottom falls out. Then she reaches out her teeth to grab it with her tippy toes still attached to the bottom. She whines if it sinks, laser burn eyes back on me, and gives me her desperate stare, that signals to find her a new one that isn’t dropped down too deep like that one is now. We do that a few times til she’s not afraid to reach further, or stick her nose under, and then she’s brave enough to paddle a little. Once the little paddle happens she remembers she isn’t afraid to swim, so she paddles some more, then she’s swimming out to where I throw the stick. Every single time she goes swimming, this is how it goes.

We’ve figured this out about each other, how to negotiate things where we have different ideas how to do them. We’re reasonably patient with each other, with stuff like who’s supposed to supply the stick, who’s supposed to jump off the bank, how far it should be thrown, how long is the stay til the throw. It’s very important to Banksy not to have to swim out to where it’s too deep, so our deal's that the first time I throw the stick, it won’t be past the shallows. Every time, we work it out. It took some doing, because I'm impatient and she's a dog and I'm a person and I just want to throw the stick and she gets it, duh. But now there’s a way for swimming when there wasn't before.

The pond water’s always cold, so a bonus ice bath for a border collie, for cooling off muscles that are tired from competing earlier in the day. She ran her agility flawlessly, didn’t put a foot wrong. Hit her running dogwalk with split feet, just like in my dreams. I showed her the right side of all the jumps, the bars stayed up, she flew into her poles, and followed my every move. She came in 2nd place in the finals, and we stood on a box for a photo. That kind of day, the kind I always dreamed of having. Is that a weird dream to have?

Some punk rock kids climbed down to our swim spot that other afternoon. The same t-shirts and boots like I used to wear, the jeans cut real skinny, and messy hair. Maybe they’re just watching birds, or looking for a quiet place to smoke pot or listen to the sky, wandering around the neighborhood looking for something. Just regular kids who like the pond like we do.

Gooey sidles up to them for pets, he’s happy to have something to do, since we’re doing sticks and splashes and he mostly roots around in the willows and only goes in the water up to his toes. He’s never been a swimmer, and never will be. Which is fine. Everybody on their own trips. Anyone who comes down the bank is his instant friend, so there’s three instant friends to hang out with him now.

They were pointing at an egret out in the water and wondering amongst themselves, heron or stork or what? I am the wealth of bird facts at the pond, if you want to know the difference between a duck and an egret. One’s short, one’s tall. Also I can identify a turtle, who I believe somewhere descended from the birds. True genetic fact that I read somewhere. That’s about it.

“Egret,” I offer up, butting into their murmured questioning. Maybe they didn’t know I was there at first, just some lady with her dogs. My dogs are rarely invisible, but sometimes I am. You get to this age, if you’re a girl, where all of a sudden you’re like a mist, even though you’re standing right there. Which is pretty cool, if you think about it, the power of invisibility. Maybe why standing on those boxes is a nice thing to do sometimes, the photo proves you're still here.

They start to marvel out loud, just amongst themselves since I'm still invisible enough not to hear I guess, to how I tell Banksy where hop up on a rock, and to stay there til I throw out her stick, and then release her after I throw it. How every single time, I can send her up to the bank and she goes right there, and looks at me and waits. I ask for a down, that’s what she does. We have our little pond games, that place where dog training meets regular fun stuff we do, and we could probably do it all day, until Banksy gets shivery and cold.

“Howd you get her to do that?” one of the girls asks. “That’s amazing.”

It’s not a big thing, it's what we do to spend some time together on a hot day.

“I just use a stick.” The easy answer. That’s what I told her, leaving out the part about the agility and the podium and our medal and the big deal about staying and going where I want her to go and that we have to really be on the same page or else everything goes to shit.

It’s easier to leave out the whole past, and how long that took to stay and for her to not just run away down the hill to jump in the pond the second she gets out of the car way up top in the illegal parking lot. It would be easy to go on and on about clear reinforcement and rock solid criteria, but probably they don’t want to hear anything like that. So I just wave the stick like a magic wand, it's all in the stick.

They stay a while, to watch us play. A normal day for me and Banksy, a marvelous feat for her quiet audience. They still only spoke in whispers, maybe they were tripping on acid, a stay and a release would be extra cool in that case. Maybe that's their dream, to have a dog like Banksy.

In my future vision, back in the past, I conjured up a dog who ran like the wind, flew over jumps, and always brought back the ball. Maybe you've heard my stories, that described in detail what happens when That Lady with All the Little Black Dogs goes out and gets herself a border collie puppy in the hopes of being that champion. If you don't know those ones, long story short, I don’t think my border collie wanted me to train her at first, not at all. Forget train her, she didn't want me even to pet her. We had a long haul to work things out.

This thing has been happening lately, when I'm with my now 5 year old dog. Who I love as much as I love all my fingers and toes. I think she reads my mind. She looks for my smallest move. She goes exactly where I send her, for better or for worse. I was having a lesson a while back with an instructor who just comes to town once a year, she said, “She’s your comfy slippers now, isn’t she?” She gave us some courses, we ran them, simple as that. Always a rush.

If you ever in a million years told me I’d describe Banksy as comfy slippers, I would have laughed in your face. HA!

Banksy was wild. She was crazy. She ran away. She chased anything that moved. I couldn’t walk her on a leash. She didn’t like me to touch her soft fur. Or feet. She freaked out inconsolably at goats. And surfboards. And wheels. And the broom. I was never going to get her running dogwalk feet to hit the yellow. She was out of control.

Forget turning her into a champion, I just didn’t want her to bite me when I did a late front cross and be able to dry her off with a towel. Banksy was a lightning fast, feral beast who lived in a hidey hole under our living room desk and prefered staring at pieces of dust to doing anything with me.

Comfy slippers? That would be the day. Her boots were made for walking. You know the giant metal stud platform flame shooting boots the guys in KISS wear? Those kind of boots, the kind that one of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you. Sprain the ankles burn your eyebrows off and slash your wrists comfy slippers.

I don’t know where it happened. Was it on the trails in the woods? The thousands of hours we logged ambling through the forest, where now she always walks just ahead, stopping and turning to stare at me with her perfectly round eyes and make sure I’m right there.

Maybe on the beach? Where we spent a year negotiating the terms of when it’s time to leave the beach, even if she’s still busy running out into the surf and dropping her ball, laying there and waiting for the wave to smash down on her. Or the worst, losing the ball out to sea, making it impossible to leave. Seemingly impossible, until the understanding was more clear. We can always come back again, and there’s always going to be another ball, even if that one’s drifted out to where the the whale spouts puff up close to the horizon.

Maybe in our living room? Where she’s either lying in her bed, watching for my next move, or following me like a fluffy shadow. My house is really small, a tight fit for border collies, so many toys played with in that tiny little space. Lefts and rights and beep beeps taught from that couch. So many dog beds eaten there, until we reached that negotiation, it’s stupid to eat your bed. Where she used to run away from pets, but now instead flops down to have her eyebrows and her belly rubbed, and I sing her songs about biscuits and gravy.

Or the driveway where I clicker trained most of her tricks? Flinging cookies around the asphalt, clicking for the feet to do this, up and down on the things, trying to help her figure out what I wanted her to do. Which included just eating the cookie. Or at the soccer field across the neighborhood, sending around the backstops, ciking and capping the trees, watching her fly across the field to Up Up on the stumps in the playground. Where she learned to be cool with the skaters, carrying her flippy across the grass, not a second thought about the skateboards carving up and down the bowl and popping off the sides, wheels clattering as they fly by.

On the agility field? That may be her favorite place ever. The car pulls in, and she leaps out and runs straight down to the field, toy in her mouth, and usually climbs up on the dogwalk to wait for me. We’ve logged a lot of hours on that dogwalk, me staring at a yellow rectangle with her flying through it. Now flying through it, a lot of gruesome hours of her not. Where her joy of flinging herself into a tunnel had to become a bit more finessed, and the watching me for all the cues of which side to go in and which way to turn coming out. Listening to my words, syncing them up my shoulders and arms and feet and eyes. That I had to learn how to do clearly. Really clearly. Waiting for her toy, that toy, that lifeline to heaven, whatever tuggy du jour I happen to dig out of the toy bag in the car. Lately it’s the blue looped bungie one, with a shredded blue ball attached. She swings it over her neck and carries it with her when I go to move the jumps around or drag the tunnel bags from here to there.

Maybe it happened out on the bluffs? At agility class? When we started competing? Maybe it happened down here at the pond. Maybe it was everywhere, all the time.

“She never takes her eyes off you,” marvels the tall boy in shorts and beat up leather army boots, as Banksy methodically hands off the stick and heads back up the the rocks to prepare for the next launch. Also known as Up Up Lie Down Wait for It, in our special language the two of us share.

“My dad’s dogs wouldn’t do that, they don’t listen to anything. You know him? Older guy with a black scruffy dog and a blonde one?”

Yeah, I do. I know that guy. Once Otterpop chased off that little yellow one down here, a long time ago, a different dog training era for me.

Banksy's up on the bank again, prepared for lift off, eyes like lasers burning holes in me til I throw. Earlier that day, she’d done her Up Up on a podium, so we could get our picture taken with a silver medal on the red strap. Wholesale medal cost, about $4.99. A huge achievement, not only the 2nd place run, which was amazing and cool and I still am surprised, that we can do that, run fast and clean enough to win. At least almost win. But more so, that in front of an audience, she hopped up on that podium box, and stood still for a photoshoot. You don’t know that, when I blast that photo over Facebook, bragging to the friend world we won a thing, Banksy’s scared to jump up there in public and it’s the first time she’s done it without trying to run away.

We don't tell you those things in the social media. We just want you to think, we are the champions, my friend.

Me and Banksy, both of us have stuff that’s easy for you, but hard for us. But that day, climbing on the little box is just another thing we do together, she looks at me and her eyes say, I’m not sure if I can do this, and I try and show her a way she can. She trusts me that I do right by her and I trust her that she does right by me. I look at that course as step up the line and try not to question, how are we gonna run this? I trust her enough to take my lead and use her skills and speed and smarts to get around. She only tries her best, ever single time, and just wants me to show her the right things. If we wipe out somewhere, it’s definitely on me, but she forgives me.

When I hear someone say that phrase, dog of a lifetime, now I get it. I might not be talented enough to ever be a champion, that letter “E” seemingly fixed into my handling vocabulary. But I clearly realize I have a dog who’s one. Comfy slippers, sure. Feet with wings for us both, definitely.

09 September 2019

Just two dogs.


It's almost creepy, how easy and quiet two dogs are. They fit neatly into the car, they sleep in their beds, the house is mostly silent. You put on their leashes, they go for a walk. I leave to go without them, they look at me and shrug, all right. I get home, they're all, cool. I make their food, they eat it.

Otterpop took up a lot of space, made a lot of noise, did all the things. Went all the places! Wanted to eat the food! Wanted to stay up all night! Wanted to get in the car! Wanted to get out of the car! Wanted to walk! Didn't want to walk! Everything was a Thing! If she needed a thing she had to crash through the other things to get to the thing! The thing! The thingthingthingthingthing!

Me and my two dogs now, we still do the things. Right now, maybe even more things. We can walk further, ride the bike more, run all the way to the beach. Move at a much faster clip, go back to the one hour loop in the woods. They can go to more places, or stay home if I want to go without a dog. I can day drink with my friend who's allergic to dog hair in her kitchen, knowing they're snoozing till I get home. All the things for them, just fine. They trust my opinion on what we're going to do and follow all the rules. They believe that I'm coming home. They're actually so very easy. And quiet. And well behaved. Who knew dogs could be like that, maybe I didn't even notice they were like that all along, because always so much Otterpop and her Things.

Gooey and Banksy are really, really good dogs.

03 September 2019

2019 USDAA Western Regionals, a few highlights.


Gooey got to watch from under the tent. I usually bring him ringside now and park him with a new friend so he feels included. We came in 2nd, these were the Finals!


oh a heart break one! She pops a pole when I blind. Dunno why, we were a little keyed up because my goal was just to WIN! Oh well.


Um, same thing. I ran to win, it was a hard dogwalk exit for Banksy, one she dislikes to hit on. I tried for some collection, in hindsight probably hurt more than it helped. So her only feet wrong on this whole gorgeous Paco course were the ones that didn't touch the yellow.


Triple whammy tunnel slammy. This was one she won! Not a foot out of place. Note the fancy start line stay. We have those occasionally, if I get to go first.

30 August 2019

Otterpop has left the building.


The picture I drew this from just said tree cave on the file name. That could have been in Nisene, or Jedidiah Smith park, or in Humboldt, or Henry Cowell, or in Booneville, we knew so many redwood trees, and so many tree caves. Who can keep track?

Otterpop was everywhere with me, all the time. It just wasn't possible for us not to be.

I can't count how many photos and drawings. Thousands. That's just the good ones. Too many to have favorites of. Enough to fill fifty books. A hundred books. All the books! Tens of thousands of throwaways, blurry, badly drawn, that now I wished I still had, filling my house to the ceiling, so I have to move like a hoarder, swimming through words and pictures, flapping my arms to make my way across the room.

Otterpop's vet helped us decide what to do, helped her go peacefully to sleep, and Otterpop left on the best note she'd played in a long time. Had a good day, had a good walk at work, had a walk in the park, played with Banksy, chased a ball twice, even though only for about 8" across the grass. She sniffed a lot of things, she still loved to sniff things, and loved to eat. She was skinny, even though I fed her constantly, she still had joy for eating, and would still find a way to throw herself into the water bowl and spill stuff and fling herself into the washing machine, to knock shit DOWN just to get to her food.

Otterpop was only hanging on for me. We were each other's worlds.

Life had gotten hard for her. All the manic shit that made her Otterpop became larger than her life could hold, and if your life gets large and your body's too small for it eventually you are like, living in a big pulsing explosion of crazy and that's an effed up way to live.

Her favorite thing, the last few months, was if we could hang out on the couch together, she would lay right by me, yeah, maybe she was sedated or just plain exhausted, but those were our good times. So I would watch stupid tv shows where cute kids bake ugly cupcakes to get voted off the island, or house hunting for open concept floor plans and dual vanities, and she would snore and have a little bit of peace.

Then we would stay up all night together a lot of the time, while I would try to put out her crazy fire. This happened a lot. For a long time. Her brain had some disease in it, maybe it always did.

I am lucky to have had an Otterpop. I sure do miss her something horrible. For sure, for better or for worse, I'll never have another one like her, Otterpops are an uncommon variety, one you have to stumble upon, the kind that finds you, and latches on like a viper or a tick, and holds on tight forever.

Otterpop was a huge fan of 80's punk rock. She thrived on Black Flag and the Minute Men. But somehow she's left me with a weird Jerry Garcia fixation, it started the day she died. I remember Santa Cruz feeling hollow when Jerry died, throngs of lost dead heads wandering the streets weeping.

So Otterpop may be sending me a message, actually, of course she is, and she may have already bit Jerry in heaven, so for Otterpop, I lit up from Reno, I was trailed by 20 hounds, didn't get to sleep last night till the morning came around. Set up running but I'll take my time, a friend of the devil is a friend of mine. If I get home before daylight, I just might get some sleep. Tonight.

A hole in my everythings.

29 August 2019

The frisbee, it hangs from my pocket.


That startline! I do remember that startline. Otterpop loved tables.


At Power Paws!


She ran like a little machine. She only put on her big speed competing during the gamble!

11 August 2019

UKI West Coast Cup with Banksy the amazing and happy birthday Gustavo!

So much fun! Great competition from all over, and Banksy back to jumping 20" again!

Banksy came in 2nd overall for the Masters Series, and won a bye to the US Open finals in Jacksonville Florida! That was with one bar in the Jumpers part, and a beautiful standard run.

That's a pretty long drive. And there are alligators there. We would go if not for things like work, if we had all the time the world we would drive there and find an alligator farm and see all the things on the way, I think New Orleans is near there, Georgia is near there, and Marfa is on the way. We could even visit Tallahassee and see a swamp.

Maybe someday, things like this, driving across the country for agility. In a camper!

For now, big fun events like this will do.

Banksy did not put a foot wrong all weekend, she just put her feet in front of another as fast as she could go and tried her hardest to do the things I pointed to, just like we practice, simple as that.









There were some amazing runs with amazing time, there were some bars, there were 2 handling errors on Sunday that cost me Es in 2 classes, and made me see how perfect Banksy is. She follows my every move and does exactly what I show her every single time! So I learned some things, such as use a decel at jump 5 instead of blasting her at top speed towards the wrong end of the tunnel screaming "INININININ!" in the 2nd round of Speedstakes.

I just wanted to win. Just use the decel! Maybe I would have won with it, maybe not. But the wrong side of the threadle tunnel was a popular E, so at least I was in good company.

The dabbling I did earlier this year with 1 arm threadle apparently took and caused a wrong bypass when I used that cue by mistake, costing us our Biathlon Jumpers run! Oops. I am very glad I have video to see the amazing dog that Banksy is, who does every single thing I've taught her.

She missed 1 rdw exit. But hit all the rest quite nicely!

I still make mistakes. But so many great, fast runs, Banksy is a dog of a lifetime. She's napping now. Otterpop, too. Gustavo hung out at the score table and ate treats and helped set bars. He thought that was great. I missed his birthday, I forgot it was the same day as mine and he's now 13 years old! Happy Birthday, have some pollo!

05 August 2019

Gifts from friends.


Sunday evening, 6:30pm

Me and some other toe dragging, shuffling zombies are slowly shoving three days of agility trial back into a cargo trailer. Masters Jumpers has just ended, we just want to go home. Nobody much is talking, everyone is thinking some version of the same thing. Traffic. Thai food. Work tomorrow. Beer mixed with grapefruit soda.

Donna and I look at each other for a moment, I’m trying to gather up an armload of jump standards, she’s lugging a tunnel. I know for that instant we had the same thought of, didn’t this used to seem easier? Like arms could carry more stuff and it didn’t pull so much on my back to bend over and move the tunnel bags?

“We’re not getting any younger.”

Jinx.

We’re not even that good of friends. We don’t hang out together, I forget her husband’s name. Maybe I never knew it. But I can rattle off all of her dog’s names, and remember when they died and remember exactly what they looked like running. I know most of one of her dog’s puppies and grand puppies, and their people. I don't know what she knows about me. I take the trash to the dumpsters and make the t-shirts and used to have all those little black dogs.

That kind of friends.

Saturday morning, 6:30am

“Any day we’re vertical is a good day,” says the lady who owns the bakery, where I’m stopping for another mug of coffee, because i was awake from 2am-5am, retrieving Otterpop when she bashes into a wall, trying to stop her from climbing up something she’ll just leap off of a moment later.

“Yeah. I’m gonna remember that. Vertical.” Self righteous bitch, I think, her and her overpriced muffins. She probably has signs that say Believe in the Journey and BREATHE painted in lavender script on barn wood in her den.

Except I'm working on having a positive attitude. “Vertical!” I answer back, a little more chipper this time, and salute her with my mug. Maybe I'll scrawl be vertical on my ceiling in black glitter and dryer lint when I get home.

I’ve known the bakery lady since before she was the mayor, when she used to live in her old house that was around the corner from my old house, then she moved to her new house right before I moved to a new house around the corner from hers. I moved in 1997. We don’t ever hang out, she doesn’t seem that friendly, and I’m not really either. She threw dogs at the beach under the bus when she was the mayor. She probably likes jazz and has a cat.

My last cat lived to 19, she faded slowly away into a bag of dusty, dry bones, and died one traumatic morning on my lap. My dogs haven't vaporized slowly over time like that. They get sick, we beat back serious illness until fatal, or they get dementia just like people. Some of them it’s fairly benign, some pacing and woofing, and for some of them, they’re escaping and leaping and screaming and bashing. Otterpop, not surprisingly, is the dramatic, manic head bashing one.

When I first started agility, I could run really fast without even trying. I had slippy skateboarding shoes and tiny little shorts shorts. I didn’t need a sports bra, there wasn’t enough going on to jiggle. I thought I had a fat roll around my stomach, except now I know, that wasn’t a fat roll, that was like a piece of gum. Don’t talk to me about rolls. The Y2k had happened, we didn’t turn into exploding robots, and I found extreme pleasure in sending my dog through a tunnel. Stranger things have happened. It really seemed like just running around and pointing worked out pretty well. Although, I was out there on the fringe. Everybody else was better. We taught weave poles by dangling a hot dog through the poles, threading the dog in and out in the hopes of grabbing a bite. Contacts were sort of this thing kind of stopping but mostly vaguely pointing at the yellow calling something out. Not sure what. It changed. It was vague.

My dogs went everywhere with me. Does that count as adulting? I couldn’t breathe without my dogs. I bought little fans for them, to blow cool air over them on those long, hot days. Never got around to having a baby. Spent a lot of time getting perfect weave poles instead.

Otterpop was such a jerk. She bit. She howled. She rolled in whatever stank the worst. She grabbed a stick and off she went. She was obsessed with me, and only me. Now she spends her evenings hobbling as fast as she can go around our living room, peeing by the back door and tracking it through the house til I can capture her. Most of the time she smells like pee.

Sunday morning, 10am

That’s my friend Rob, giving a nod across the field. He taught me how to serp, he's one of those friends that is happy to talk about dogs or happy to talk about politics or happy to talk about most anything else. We like a lot of the same songs, and he used to let me run one of his dogs. Lately the topic is, retirement. We’ve been friends for fifteen years? Sixteen years? Longer? I can’t even remember now. I haven’t seen him in months, we only see each other at trials. He misses some to do other things, I miss some for work, or for when my dog’s been injured. But there he is, I sure do hope he gets to retire.

Next time I see him, I have to remember to ask him, does all this time spent at agility count as pissing our lives away, or living life to it’s fullest? He’s one of the smartest people I know. Maybe he knows the answer to that one.

Sunday morning, 3:30am

Otterpop and I go way back. She wasn’t supposed to be a friend. She was a complete asshat of a stray, just one of those dogs you collect by mistake. I took her home from the lady that owned the ranch down the road from where I worked because she looked like Ruby and played ball with me on her lawn. I tried to pawn her off on a family with a red haired devil child but before I handed her off realized, my god this dog is going to bite someone and everyone if she doesn’t die first from bolting out the door trying to chase down a truck to bite it. I liked her, she climbed on my chest and bit my face, but in a nice way. She wanted to keep me. So I kept her. Not for agility, just because something told me I had to.

We’ve been everywhere together. Literally. We are joined at the hips. She has god awful separation anxiety and was always happier in a dog tote bag than being left at home. Howling would happen either place, but much easier to just shake her out of the bag and have her do some of her party tricks. Shooting a dog with your pointy finger in the middle of an airport elicits applause from the travelers as opposed to leaving a howling dog at home that the neighbors can hear clear as a bell through the windows. So that’s what we did, for all our years. Me and Otterpop, she would have done anything for me.

Except sleep at night. She's crazy and demented, and when the sun goes down, her brain explodes till it comes back up again. Hear that? That's the sound of flailing feet where she's stuck behind the chair, bashing herself into the wall.

Sunday afternoon, 1:36pm

One of my agility friends died without warning. She lived in Canada. I only ever saw her once or twice a year, does that count as a friend, still? We would say funny things to each other on facebook sometimes, and she was a good person. Maybe the funniest person I’ve ever met, not someone that had lived enough time. Unfathomable that she could be here one day, then gone the next. Unthinkable that there could be such short time to do things with dogs.

Monday morning, 9:30am

This new lady came the other day for a lesson. She came tearing down the drive in a forest green vintage Mercedes with peeling paint. As she flew past the parking spots, almost launching off the overhang at the bottom, which would plummet her down to a soft wood chip pile, the shady ringside tent and a huge old log, I ran out screaming, “STOP STOP STOP STOP what are you doing?!?”

She laughed maniacally. “HELLO!”

I told her she was about to get her car stuck in not one but three ways, could she just back up and park over here? I pointed to the marked parking spaces.

“Oh Sure!” she cackled. And threw the car into reverse, and flew all the way back up the drive. Somehow avoiding a water line, tree, fence, and shed.

I ran up the steep drive. “What are you DOING?” I yelled, waving my arms to get her attention. She was about to back into an electrical box in the owner’s front yard. If she hits that thing, KA is going to be beyond pissed off, I am going to be in huge effing trouble, and I am so kicked out of here, my only lifeline to agility in town.

“You said to park up here!” she called happily.

“Down here!” I call back, pointing to the parking spots. Where I’d pointed before.

She ground that Mercedes back into drive, and burned rubber back down the hill. Parked, and unleashed a doodle out of the passenger seat. Who ran over to the field and pee’ed on a tunnel bag.

I can’t say she was old, because now I’m old too. This lady’s older than me, probably the same age as my mom, who would definitely not be Evil Kneivling an old car down a hill on a mountain to run a dog around an obstacle course.

She just wants to run around on the field and point at stuff and is thrilled if her dog makes it over something. Anything. She totally made it up when she told me on the phone that she already knows how to do agility. She cackles like a 2nd grader. She’s crazy as a loon. She clearly loves this dog, a doodle who just wants to pee on stuff and chase his ball. She really just wanted him to watch me do some agility with my dog, and then for him to run around doing it all on his own.

I’m horrified, and instantly all crabby up on my high horse. It’s my mission to try and explain to you exactly how important this nose touch thing will be for getting your dog’s feet to touch the yellow, and for using the right arms to do the right things. It’s against dog code not to show you how to do it right. I stay up late after my other job to teach dog agility, I get up early on my days off to teach dog agility, I scream out of work early some days to teach dog agility. Dedication to my craft! My old agility dog doesn't sleep anymore at night and I had important agility business to attend to all weekend, running my young dog in a trial. So many ways for dog agility to make you tired. My patience is pretty much shot in this exact moment in time.

I tell her all the things she’ll have to learn before she can run the course. She’s not convinced. Foundations? Clickers? Wrapping cones and learning to put two dog feet on a box? Who has TIME for that? She only has so much time left.

That lady just wants to run feral with her dog.

Tuesday morning, 4:15am

Otterpop slams into a wall. This week I’m trying different drugs for her, a quarter tab in the evening, then get up at midnight for another one, when I carry her out the front door and down the stairs to potty. Then maybe I sleep on the couch for a while so I can hear her if she bashes into a wall if the drugs don’t kick in. Every night it’s a little different, some nights there's sleep, some nights there's not. If I could just find the right set of magic pills?

Her vet and I have a lot of talks. Quality of life, for her and me both. But every time I’m about to pick up the phone to call, to make the appointment, you know, THAT appointment, I start to cry and I can’t do it.

So I don’t sleep again, another night, just carry her back into the house, and think about all she ever did for me. Every single time she came running back with her frisbee. Every single gambler’s run she aced. How many of thousands of walks in the woods, how many walks around the pasture in the morning, putting out the horses, how many walks around the barn at night, putting on the blankets. How many bike rides, sitting in her basket up front, how many tennis balls tossed into the pond. How many times she was just right there, no matter where we were, how many time sitting on that grassy knoll in the park, where we sit in the shade on a hot day and do nothing.

Every single time she walked to the line, maybe even when she didn’t want to, and ran with me.

Because that’s what friends do.

14 May 2019

Adventure walks for Banksy.

We're tired of walks around the neighborhood. We've done every street, every direction, for so many years. So branching out somewhere different every day. Maybe not somewhere new, but somewhere else, in a different hood.


Blocked Entrance/HomeUnilvvr/AMT Walk
How about the alley behind the taqueria? Right by where they're building the very large new motel.



CRIDLE Walk
Or the path that used to be the big marine lab fields, now a boring leash path, but how super to have a new one! With it's own bus stop!



Props Walk
If you go back behind the winery, they even offer a chair. Now fenced for your convenience for no access to the tracks.