26.1.07
Jack Nasty
Mr. Frost may have been AWOL a few weeks ago, but Jack's back with a vengeance. NYC woke up to 10 degrees Fahrenheit this morning with the wind chill in the minus teens. Our morning walk was short and to the point. We actually bumped into Star the Rottie who we haven't seen in a while. Back in the day, Star, Alex and myself would run off leash down Harlem lane, chasing tennis balls and sticks and rolling in the long grass. Those carefree but outlaw days were brought to a screeching halt by the long arm of the law. I wasn't there the that day, it was just Alex and Star, their moms both got tickets. Sometimes if we bump into each other we might be allowed to have a quick lap off leash- nothing like the long sessions we used to have while PL and the two moms would chat and laugh while we played or just hung out. Not even a quickie today. PL and Star's mom exchanged hurried greetings in a cloud of icy breath and we were trotting quickly back home. We open our apartment door to the sweet sound of clanking steam pipes and hissing radiators as they work furiously to keep Monsieur Jacques at bay.
16.1.07
Hordes at the Gates
'That's a bad dog', PL said. I was napping in my usual TV watching position which is lying on PL's chest when I heard an almighty racket and looked up. It was the Dog Whisperer on TV. 'You're not like that are you Eti?' PL asked rhetorically glancing at me with an arched eyebrow. I cocked my head in earnest.....No, not like
that.....well that's not completely true. I was the teensiest bit bad today.
PL's deadline has passed hence the TV watching and this morning to celebrate, we went to the Dog Run, something we don't normally do on a weekday morning. Today, just like the weekends, PL sneaks me into the Starbucks near the 96st station. Hidden in my Sherpa, I breathe in the blistering aroma of ground and freshly brewed coffee and peer curiously at the pastries in the glass cabinet on the counter while PL orders himself a Grande.
We are soon at the dog run when another Frenchie arrives minutes later. I've seen this kid before, he's pretty good with a soccer ball, in fact he's obssessed with them. His owner mentioned to PL that he can't have any balls in the apartment because its a problem- he's only allowed them at the dog run and sure enough within seconds of entering the run he's got a tennis ball in his mouth. I remember that he's really not much fun because he's basically not interested in anything else but the tennis balls.
Just as PL is settling into a pleasant chat with the Frenchie owner there arrives a dogwalker with a pack of 6 or 7 dogs. By the time they are in the double gated entry there is a huge commotion, once inside the run we can see that a snarling and snapping Boxer is the center of the melee. The other dogs are by now all heated up. This sets off a frenzy of barking and yelping, an English Bulldog is racing towards the fray. Rock and Roll. I dash to join the heaving mosh pit. Within seconds I am yanked by my harness and whisked over to a bench, I'm leashed and told to sit. Actually I didn't hear a thing, I had an adrenalin rush so intense I had literally lost my mind including my sense of hearing and was finally brought round by PL tapping his finger on my rump. 'Oh yes, I see OK, sit, yes, OK, wait, what the heck are they doing in there, OK, I'm sitting.'
The dogwalker had taken all his unruly charges into the small dog run. The 5 or 6 other dogs and their owners in the main run went back to their business of chit chatting and ball chasing. PL let me off the leash and we walked over to the other side of the run. He picks up a stick and I am cued for a little round of fetch but waddya know another dog walker arrives at the gate with another 6 or 7 dogs, not quite as badly behaved but nevertheless agitated and also headed for the small dog run. I dash towards them as they manouvre through the gate. There's a small opening I might just get through if I'm fast enough. PL calls, I hear him but I didn't hear him if you know what I mean. I'm almost there the gap grows increasingly smaller and .....a booted dogwalker's foot thwarts my efforts. He laughs at me with evil glee,slamming the gate shut. I turn to look at PL who is fast approaching with a not terribly amused look on his face.
The small dog run is starting to look like Middle Earth on the eve of battle teeming with disgruntled Orcs. But they are all fenced off which is probably why PL decides to walk back to where we were. 'Come on' he calls picking up the stick to resume our game. And waddya know horde number three arrives at the gates. Seven or eight of them -all small dogs, Chihuahuas and Dachsunds and a wailing screeching banshee of a Pug. The Orcs are riled, the pug will not shut up and PL picks me up and walks over to the bench where my sherpa is and I am leashed and we are marching out of the run.
Wait. Hey. I lunge manically at the perimeter fence of the small dog run but Mr. Buzzkill marches forward. We walk silently all the way to 72nd street to catch the subway home. When we get in , the usual custom is that I sit and wait until PL takes of his coat, goes into to the kitchen to get a damp towel to wipe off my paws. I often sit then inch towards PL when he takes off his coat then again when he's in the kitchen I might move a few inches towards the dining room . Its like musical chairs, when PL turns to look or returns I sit bolt still. This time I decided, in view of the selective hearing, lunging, and general delayed responses, it would probably be best to stay absolutely stock still without moving a hair. When PL returned from the kitchen he found me exactly where I had sat on entering, faced completely away from him, calmly, quietly, obediently.
He sits on the floor to wipe my paws. A smile has crept into his stern face and he whispers in my ear. "You're a very good boy aren't you?"
that.....well that's not completely true. I was the teensiest bit bad today.
PL's deadline has passed hence the TV watching and this morning to celebrate, we went to the Dog Run, something we don't normally do on a weekday morning. Today, just like the weekends, PL sneaks me into the Starbucks near the 96st station. Hidden in my Sherpa, I breathe in the blistering aroma of ground and freshly brewed coffee and peer curiously at the pastries in the glass cabinet on the counter while PL orders himself a Grande.
We are soon at the dog run when another Frenchie arrives minutes later. I've seen this kid before, he's pretty good with a soccer ball, in fact he's obssessed with them. His owner mentioned to PL that he can't have any balls in the apartment because its a problem- he's only allowed them at the dog run and sure enough within seconds of entering the run he's got a tennis ball in his mouth. I remember that he's really not much fun because he's basically not interested in anything else but the tennis balls.
Just as PL is settling into a pleasant chat with the Frenchie owner there arrives a dogwalker with a pack of 6 or 7 dogs. By the time they are in the double gated entry there is a huge commotion, once inside the run we can see that a snarling and snapping Boxer is the center of the melee. The other dogs are by now all heated up. This sets off a frenzy of barking and yelping, an English Bulldog is racing towards the fray. Rock and Roll. I dash to join the heaving mosh pit. Within seconds I am yanked by my harness and whisked over to a bench, I'm leashed and told to sit. Actually I didn't hear a thing, I had an adrenalin rush so intense I had literally lost my mind including my sense of hearing and was finally brought round by PL tapping his finger on my rump. 'Oh yes, I see OK, sit, yes, OK, wait, what the heck are they doing in there, OK, I'm sitting.'
The dogwalker had taken all his unruly charges into the small dog run. The 5 or 6 other dogs and their owners in the main run went back to their business of chit chatting and ball chasing. PL let me off the leash and we walked over to the other side of the run. He picks up a stick and I am cued for a little round of fetch but waddya know another dog walker arrives at the gate with another 6 or 7 dogs, not quite as badly behaved but nevertheless agitated and also headed for the small dog run. I dash towards them as they manouvre through the gate. There's a small opening I might just get through if I'm fast enough. PL calls, I hear him but I didn't hear him if you know what I mean. I'm almost there the gap grows increasingly smaller and .....a booted dogwalker's foot thwarts my efforts. He laughs at me with evil glee,slamming the gate shut. I turn to look at PL who is fast approaching with a not terribly amused look on his face.
The small dog run is starting to look like Middle Earth on the eve of battle teeming with disgruntled Orcs. But they are all fenced off which is probably why PL decides to walk back to where we were. 'Come on' he calls picking up the stick to resume our game. And waddya know horde number three arrives at the gates. Seven or eight of them -all small dogs, Chihuahuas and Dachsunds and a wailing screeching banshee of a Pug. The Orcs are riled, the pug will not shut up and PL picks me up and walks over to the bench where my sherpa is and I am leashed and we are marching out of the run.
Wait. Hey. I lunge manically at the perimeter fence of the small dog run but Mr. Buzzkill marches forward. We walk silently all the way to 72nd street to catch the subway home. When we get in , the usual custom is that I sit and wait until PL takes of his coat, goes into to the kitchen to get a damp towel to wipe off my paws. I often sit then inch towards PL when he takes off his coat then again when he's in the kitchen I might move a few inches towards the dining room . Its like musical chairs, when PL turns to look or returns I sit bolt still. This time I decided, in view of the selective hearing, lunging, and general delayed responses, it would probably be best to stay absolutely stock still without moving a hair. When PL returned from the kitchen he found me exactly where I had sat on entering, faced completely away from him, calmly, quietly, obediently.
He sits on the floor to wipe my paws. A smile has crept into his stern face and he whispers in my ear. "You're a very good boy aren't you?"
6.1.07
Unseasonal Greetings
A couple of days ago walking to the dog run at 103rd and Riverside I noticed a tree blooming with clear disregard that we are still only in early January. Other trees are more soberly bare some even still wrapped in christmas lights and the pavements still thick with yet to be collected christmas trees that have been recently discarded.
Today on a stroll through the farmers market in Union square, people are in T shirts although the farmers are still offering the limited winter fare of root vegetables and apples. The weather is mild, the temperature a whopping 70 degrees.
I know this strange cross dissolve between the seasons is something that we've been warned about but can I just say- Global Warming doesn't completely suck. I thoroughly enjoyed the balmy weather. We came home and PL immediately opened all the windows. I chilled on my day bed, enjoying the light breeze that filled our apartment chasing away any trace of winter and gently succumbed to an epic siesta.
Today on a stroll through the farmers market in Union square, people are in T shirts although the farmers are still offering the limited winter fare of root vegetables and apples. The weather is mild, the temperature a whopping 70 degrees.
I know this strange cross dissolve between the seasons is something that we've been warned about but can I just say- Global Warming doesn't completely suck. I thoroughly enjoyed the balmy weather. We came home and PL immediately opened all the windows. I chilled on my day bed, enjoying the light breeze that filled our apartment chasing away any trace of winter and gently succumbed to an epic siesta.
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