Monday morning, down off the mountain.

Someone's standing on the corner in a frog suit, waving a sign directing drivers to bargain hair cuts. I can't tell if it's a he or a she frog. There's a lot of traffic, and I sit and watch the frog shuffle around for a while. It's hot, and it's suit is hairy, for a frog. Some of those corner dancing people, like the guy with David Bowie hair on the corner by Safeway, they look like they can dance all day, twirling their signs for an undisclosed fee. I feel really sorry for the frog, though, slowly swaying on the asphalt in front of the market that was busted in a money laundering case for a Mexican drug cartel.

The lineup at Zumba had not 1 but 2 older gentlemen wearing hand crocheted and distressed ensembles that while not exactly flattering, garnered awesome points on the craftiness effort scale. This class is packed, and everyone sambas and grinds into their neighbor's sweaty flashdance shirt. Ripped fishnets under booty shorts go a long way towards festive making.

Being down off the mountain means walking around on leashes again. The stealth labradoodle from the house with porch gnomes leaps out barking from behind a parked Honda. Damn you, labradoodle. Goes for Otterpop. Always has to be Otterpop. Up on the mountain, there's no other visible dogs except for the team. Just distant barks from way down in the valley. Otterpop lives a happy life.

We tried to head down to the beach in the evening for low tide, but it's already summer here and the air is thick with tourist dogs. 5 minutes at the beach is harrowing with visible impending disaster so I call everyone up the stairs and snap leashes back on. Walking home through the throngs strolling the promenade is as exhausting as climbing the steep trail out of the ravine. I'm stuck for a while behind a lowriding wide guy and his platform shoe lady. We all walk slow in the sun.

Up on the mountain, there's a flat spot by the cabin where we do as many reps as possible of running back and forth from the rock to the tree, then sitting down and being quiet. I can do my sitting without moving a muscle, the dogs silently graze on wet grass. I don't use a timer. When it's time to be done sitting, we all run from the tree to the rock.


Monday mornings are my official agility practice day, and I have carefully prepared in my mind. I may have notes. This is my one day in the week when I have to do it all. When I pull into the driveway I'm ready to drag around jumps and set up the drills. I have flaws and holes and Monday mornings are about trying to patch and fill. Gustavo needs tighter wraps and consitency on the hard, far away weave pole entrances. Left and right need to be counted equal. I have to figure out how to point better so he always hits the backside of the jump at full speed. There are amraps for playing. He didn't play with his tuggy thing of cheese bits enough and we are going to lose dogwalk reps for more effective playing. But it's our only day all week to see a dogwalk. There's a lot to be crammed in before the bell rings.

There may be time for a forest walk but it's likely on the clock. Because there's somewhere else to be. This is a day off and time must be used effectively.

Up on the mountain, agility is a different thing, entirely. Dog training is a whole other set of skills that fit into time and space of a whole other continuum. No one wears frog suits, up on the mountain. We just hear them croaking from the creek.