If there's a Sunday this weekend, then there's a dog show.

The Colors quest continues. This Sunday, we run up to Santa Rosa, where running equals drive super fast at 5am past the lumpy Father Serra, Killer of the Indians Statue, through Golden Gate Park and across the Golden Gate Bridge and right by Brody's house and past Petaluma to the covered arena by the racetrack. Rumors abound about rain. Which means one of those days where dogs sit in the car and a lot of running through rain to where there's no rain and then back through it and really, all around sort of wet. Even though every other day, sunny bright skies and I have a giant bucket of yellow daffodils to prove it sitting on a dusty, dry, cabinet at the barn. But just not for dog agility day.

It's ok. Ruby's going to do a run, see if she can get one of those pesky Colors things so she can have a CATCH. Otterpop and Gustavo, can practice, practice, practice and just have a nice day doing some agility. If nice means sort of damp and muddy and cold. And maybe even nice WEAVE POLES, if your name is Gustavo.

Oh, you were like, "Hey, How's Gustavo's Weave Poles?"

Oh you weren't, except I'll just tell you because that's what dog agility ladies do sometimes. Too much information, usually when there's a little bit of an obsession about a Training Issue. I would say his weave poles are a training issue. I'm trying to go totally David Carradine and very little grasshopper over the whole thing. Deep breath, and that someday, he just does them. Just grab that pebble from my palm. You want to see some killer weave poles, visit my driveway. Hot damn. Anywhere else, when he's speeding, just blow by that entrance. I think to the point of we go back to some wires. So will be interesting, what they look like in Santa Rosa, but my prediction, we walk the planet, where fear is the enemy and trust is the armor, and if the weave poles happen, grasshopper has learned the ways of the Master. Except wait. Isn't the Master a shriveled up 1000 year old bald monk?

Grasshopper ran away in the field this morning to uncover a treasure quest of a giant pile of Burger King garbage. Snatch that pebble from my palm then run away and eat the Burger King. Father Serra, he was a monk and look at him now. A lumpy cement, finger pointing monk, sitting forever above a bathroom, pointing out at Highway 280. David Carradine? Any lumpy sculptures of him, flute playing, all quiet before storm of serious kung fu ass kicking?

Anyways. Kick some ass, Gustavo. Snatch that pebble, have us some zen, and then you just use the force and into that first pole you go. Weaving through the plastic like breeze shudders through the bamboo, so gently in the sun. You close your eyes, grasshopper, and the pole is there and like the water flowing through the stream, you go there too.