MANHATTAN CHIEN~Manhattan Muse

Eti's Legacy

2009-08-18T09:47:00.000-07:00

Four pieces of artwork of Eti have been donated to the French Bulldog Rescue Network and are now availabale in their store on CafePress. His legacy now contributes to this organization's service to french Bulldogs who are in need. The numbers of frenchies being surrendered are growing each year, please visit their site to see the many ways you can help them fund the work they do.

The Last of Eti

2007-11-19T13:05:00.000-08:00

Sadly, Eti was later diagnosed with a brain lesion and despite a valiant effort was unable to thwart its quick progress. This website will be left here as a tribute and celebration of a short but remarkable life that brought much joy to all that met him. Thank you to all who have visited and enjoyed the stories, pictures and videos of his antics. His beauty, comic timing and giant zest for life will be much missed.

I'll repost here the video of him enjoying his daily run on the beach in Provincetown during our vaction in June. He was never so happy as he was during this time and I wish to remember him this way always.

Sleeping Dog

2007-11-06T08:40:00.000-08:00

How could this happen? A young healthy specimen like myself. But alas it has. Here I lie quietly, usually restricted to my crate, nursing a herniated disc. And here I must continue to lie for the next few weeks, medicated, subdued- a woeful tale indeed. After weeks of confusion - they couldn't figure out what was wrong with me, and delay- medication didn't agree with me, I'm finally on a positive track. Things are getting better- slowly. PL is understandably concerned, his Halloween pumpkin carving and recent artwork pictured above reflect what is most on his mind these days. Manhattan Chien will take a little sabbatical but will return when this sleeping dog is fully rested and recovered.

The Daily Grind

2007-09-14T20:47:00.000-07:00

I had a fab weekend. We went up to Maisie's - not just for the day but for a long 3 day weekend. There was some giant shindig so there were a whole bunch of people staying there too. I managed to con PL into letting me out at 6.30 a.m every day. Then he'd go back to bed and I'd have at least three more gullible house guests to do the same. I developed a new 360 spin - that adds a little urgency to the 'I need to go outside' look- which I'll have to show you sometime but for now here's a glimpse behind the scenes. This is what happens when I'm not gallivanting in Central Park or sniffing around the flea markets. This is the daily routine of a job description: companion. I have two beds- bed #1: vintage nepalese stool with raw silk cushion from ABC and bed # 2: Large Urban outfitter square cushion wrapped in a vintage cotton quilt. I choose to forsake them both to perform my companion duties - I'm up there on the work chair squished in with PL- who is really quite a fidget let me tell you but thats another post altogether.

Frisky Business

2007-09-03T11:56:00.000-07:00

The title of this post references my failed attempt in the opening minute of the video to slide into shot a la Tom Cruise in that movie. Oh well -that didn't lessen the fun of a post rinse death match with my nemesis-the bath towel. Smothering towel awakens ninja spirit. I spin- pounce, hop-bark and crouch-crawl until evil looped cotton nemesis is forced to withdraw.

OK now I'm just shattered. Tres fatigue yo. We walked the whole of Central park- stopping only briefly at the Shakespeare garden, to drink a splash of water, stare at a rainbow and roll in the grass-hence the rinse when we got home. Now for a giganto nap to conclude the labor day festivities.

Shady Weather

2007-08-12T15:07:00.000-07:00

Here they are - the dog days of summer. Temperatures climbed into the nineties which means as you know- house curfew for us B- Boys (bracycephalics). Miraculously it turned out that Alex, the girl next door was going to be staying for a few days. What fun I thought. Back in the outlaw days when we used to run off leash down Harlem lane- Alex was a fierce competitor- racing after sticks and frisbees, outrunning me most times -but that was then. I haven't seen her for awhile her Mom has been on a different schedule so I was curious to see what would turn out. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She was a mess. She sulked at the door she slept on her bed and played with me - nada. I play bowed, I invited, I face licked- zip.

So we slept and we slept through the hot weather, both the air conditioners in our apartment at full blast their chilly drone keeping us in a drugged torpor. Alex went home (bye, whatever) and then the rains came- crazy rains and hurricanes in Brooklyn. But that cooled things down and finally after a couple of weeks of apartment fever we went this morning for a long walk in the Park. I'm not going to lie, it was tough going even though we kept to the shady parts and man was it nice when the apartment door opened and I slumped on the cool wood floor.

Damn Girl

2007-07-24T20:15:00.000-07:00

I'm fine, really. I moped a little for the best part of a week but I'm fine now. I've gotten over the whole return to urban reality thing. I get it, we can't have everything all the time and PL says we'll go back next year. And, he does have point the food is better here, I was missing my beef with tripe and the kefir and of course my toy collection. This week was definitely way better, we did our weekly visit with Maisie and damn, that girl had some game this week. Awesome. And she's a lot prettier than Jerry.

Soundtrack by Justin

Higher res

Boats & Planes

2007-07-13T16:50:00.000-07:00

"Lady, I'm just trying to help you" the airline counter clerk snapped at the passenger having a meltdown because our flight back to New York had been delayed for over an hour. "I'm going to miss my connection to London" she wailed. Well I had my own troubles to deal with. There was the kid that wanted to pet me every five minutes on the ferry ride. Then there was a hefty wait between our ferry arrival and departing flight and there were dogs patrolling the airport so guess who sat quietly in his sherpa without a peep from 5.30pm till midnight that night when we finally rolled into our apartment. Uh huh Thats right. Why oh why couldn't we just have stayed where we were- I was only just beginning to get the hang of all those crazy noises outside and I had just found a great new tug of war partner that very morning - Jerry. Sigh.

High Res Version

Home Sweet Vacation Home

2007-06-27T13:04:00.000-07:00

There are some interesting things about our Cottage Studio that I thought I'd share. Firstly there's a screen door - an odd thing it doesn't quite shut out the smells and sounds of the outside and I can even see through it. Secondly the outside is right there -no steps to climb just walk out onto the deck and you are outside and its an outside with inside type things like chairs and tables. Thirdly when the screen door is open, I can sit inside and sort of enjoy the outside, in particular the glorious sunshine that lingers all morning on the deck. Confusing, No?

Provincetown Morning

2007-06-24T11:06:00.000-07:00

You could say I am a morning type. Certainly more of a morning type than PL who needs a little rousing assistance in the a.m. I lie on his shin, lick his face, sniff his ear, whatever it takes to get him up, because mornings here in Provincetown are a big deal. Thats when we take our longest walk and when we go to the beach. We live in the west end of town so its a long,long walk to the east end of town where there's a wide open beach and more importantly thats where the other dogs go.

Once we get there I am allowed off leash and the first thing I do is mark three or four things- a dead land crab, a pile of seaweed, an old piece of rope-once thats out the way I just belt down that beach like gangbusters. I've discoverd 'wading' -just in and out to refresh and its back to the running and playing and saying hi to everyone-but see for yourself below - this is my morning yesterday.

Hi-Res version

You may have noticed that the video format is different - PL got a new HD camera. He still needs to figure out how to get the best upload quality on the web but just for comparison here's some footage taken with the old camera the day before.

Up, up and Away

2007-06-22T10:04:00.000-07:00

"Can he stand up in there?" asked the uniformed lady behind the counter. "Yes, he can turn around quite easily" PL responded gently sidestepping the question. I looked nonchalantly at her from my sherpa, cool as a cucumber. She returned to her administrative tasks which she concluded by handing PL something and saying "Gate 31".

I knew something was up for days. PL was in and out of the apartment, doing massive amounts of laundry and giving out all kinds of anxious body language clues. The prelude to the big reveal was the extremely early morning walk at 6.30am walk after which there was an extremely light breakfast and we were shortly after in a Gypsy Cab headed for JFK. Short encounter with the uniformed lady as described above and we were minutes later beeping the alarms at the security gate- oh we have to take my harness off-duh.

We had a smooth flight to Boston but there were rough seas waiting for us there. Thankfully the ferry was cancelled and we boarded a bus to get to our destination. I slept most of the way, emerging from my sherpa in ta- da Provincetown where we are to spend the next two weeks. PL went immediately to the thrift store to get some quilts and towels to make me a temporary bed where I now spend my days daydreaming or gazing out the french door. So much to get used to here, the tangy salt air, the sounds- birds, people walking by our little cottage studio. Frankly I was a little spooked by all of this but after a couple of days of long walks taking in the delightful scenery, and many encounters with the friendly natives I'm beginning to unwind. I'm beginning to enjoy-my vacation.

Strike a Pose

2007-06-06T17:20:00.000-07:00

So far my posing duties have been pretty casual, sitting nicely on a walk or standing still for a moment or two. Today that all changed. My modelling tasks were more challenging, more demanding, the ante has been upped, the bar raised. I was asked to look for the light, stay absolutely still and look thoughtful for a profile shot. The most difficult one was shot in part shadow where I had to find an interesting head angle to make it all artsy.

Final Run

2007-06-02T20:23:00.000-07:00

Its here. The heat that is. I've spent the past couple of days drugged by the cool drone of the air conditioning unit. My walks, especially the evening one where the pavements and the evening air have been warmed all day are quite an effort especially that last stretch - the five floor walkup. Youch. Let me tell you I appreciate PL's extra little touch of a cool wipe with a damp towel on my belly at the end of that. How different it was just a few days ago when I ran in central park and just kept on running.

The End of Spring

2007-05-27T10:18:00.000-07:00

You may remember that I have said before that Fall is my favorite season, Spring is fast becoming a close second - but Spring like the one we've been having this year, .

Unlike the past couple of years, where Spring was chilly April weather that turned overnight into sweltering May Heat. This year, May has been closer to a true temperate Spring with much cooler albeit sunny days allowing for the extended enjoyment of long walks and an undefined timetable for random trips. A much slower progress to what's up ahead - the summer curfew of a short few early morning and evening hours or as you know bad things happen to short faced chiens like moi.

Take this day last week for example when PL out of the blue in the middle of the day rummaged in the closet and yanked out the sherpa- I spun in giddy delight. Before I knew it I had emerged at 96th street where I knew Cantral Park was just a hop and a skip away, which was exactly where we were headed. The park was lush and green, the tree canopy thick, allowing more cool shadows than light on all the paths. We stopped occasionally to enjoy this better on the benches, of which there were many mid week vacancies. The park keepers were out in full force cutting grass and trimming edges lending the air a thick scent of chlorophyll that enhanced my preferred activities of stick chewing or made pleasant my posing duties. By the time we were approaching the end of our walk which would be 59th st., I was deliciously tired and while PL was crouched taking a picture of the mall I took a little rest and he of course spun around to capture this rare shot of me taking it easy of my own volition- usually I need to be told being the bundle of energy that I am. The moment did remind me that the summer heat is on its way and I'm going to have to make sure not to overexert when we are outdoors.

As I write this, the weather has in fact warmed up considerably. Thank goodness PL is making all the preparations to ensure the situation indoors is pleasant for me in the coming months. That day last week could very well have been the end of spring.

No Regrets

2007-05-15T21:00:00.000-07:00

I'm bushed, wacked, beat, tres tres fatigue, I can barely walk I'm that sore and tired. I've hardly moved for two days but I have no regrets.

I had the best time with Maisie on Sunday.

Sprung

2007-05-08T09:58:00.000-07:00

I was beginning to wonder if it was ever going to happen but indeed it has. Spring has sprung and I know this because the bluebells are blooming in Central Park. I marked this on my calendar last year when I came across a patch of them in the wooded north west corner of Central Park where we always start our walk. Last weekend, retracing the exact same steps from a year ago - there they were again their wonderfull color offset by the dark mulch of the woodland floor. Further along the way I sniffed a violet or two, posed by a stream and played peek a boo on the bridge. I usually love to roll in a huge patch of clover thats on a small hill on our route but the grass was too wet that day. So instead I made a study of some dandelions , posed some more by the cherry blossoms and revelled in the heady perfume of blossom in the air. I returned home exhausted- every sensory nerve stretched and napped the whole entire afternoon.

Social Skills

2007-04-26T09:05:00.000-07:00

Last Sunday it rained buckets. Mercifully PL packed me into my sherpa, jumped into a gypsy cab and I emerged to be greeted by Guinness, a brindle Frenchie, younger than myself whose parents were hosting brunch. And quite a brunch it was, his parents are in the wine and food biz and the fare certainly reflected their educated palates- lobster filled brioche, mini pittas stuffed with lamb and yogurt to name a couple of the tantalizing selections that of course neither Guiness or myself were allowed to partake in. Sigh. However Guiness is a very energetic play partner and I certainly had a good time with him. He is also interestingly, like myself- a muse. His Mom, Phoebe, a writer with a recently published book Service Included writes about him when he was little in this short story here:

Social Skills
by Phoebe Damrosch

In the hour it takes to walk my twelve-week-old puppy around the block, I meet more people than I used to meet in a month in New York. That was back when I could stay out until four in the morning, sleep until noon, and carry keys, wallet, and phone – as opposed to keys, wallet, phone, treats, pooper-scooper bags, leash, paper towel in case he barfs like he has been recently, squeaky toy to distract him, bottle of water, and makeshift water bowl in the form of an old cream cheese container.

The upside of it all is that I have finally met my neighbors and bonded with my super. The downside is that we have very different tastes in people. Guinness loves Jehovah’s Witnesses. He agrees wholeheartedly that rampant homosexuality is the first sign of the apocalypse – as long as they keep scratching his ears and handing out those deliciously shredable pamphlets. Ditto underemployed dog walkers and trainers who love him like a paycheck when he barks and gnaws on their hands and jumps up on their legs.

Because he has practically no tail, he wags his cute little ass at the kind of people who point out “Guinness’ mommy” to their own dogs and talk to him as if he could answer back. He cannot, I want to tell them, tell you how old he is, that he is a French bulldog, or whether he lives on the block. Instead, I look at him as well, waiting for him to answer until they get flustered and go away.

My encounters with these people do not go as well as his and I find myself hoping for a cockroach or pigeon to scuttle close enough to distract him and free me from my misery. While he is licking the toes of the sandal-clad Jehovah’s Witness, I am trying to hand back her pamphlet. As I coax Guinness away with the heralding call of his squeaking rubber chicken, she seems put off.
“Well God bless the dog anyway.”

Yesterday, Guinness went over to visit a homeless man and began chewing on the sign propped against his crossed legs that read “I’m hungry. Please help me. God Bless.” Apparently, Guinness thought a bite missing from one corner would add a visual dimension to the man’s plea. This was after bringing a well-meaning elderly gentleman to his knees, weaving his leash into a moving wheelchair, and wrapping it around an unstable, terrified, and soon sobbing toddler. All of them held me responsible.

Then there was the woman who accused me of animal abuse when she found out that I was exposing him to the disease-ridden streets of New York City before he was fully immunized at sixteen weeks. There is some debate about whether such precautions are necessary, I told her, explaining that I considered introducing him to children, traffic, and loud noises as early as possible was just as important.
“That’s what puppy kindergarten is for!” She countered, adding home schooling to the list of my abuses. “It’s a real shame,” she said with tight lips and shook her head at Guinness’ future of debilitating illness, improper socialization, and the tyranny of a heartless owner.

The only people we don’t speak to – although Guinness seems hurt by this – are the people who explain that their dogs aren’t friendly as they lean back like firemen with a hose to restrain their lunging, snarling beasts. Is this what happens to dogs who skip kindergarten? Will Guinness become a maladjusted menace who can’t sit, stay, or relieve himself on command? So far, I have depended on a growing stack of training guides, but he only sits when a treat is involved, never stays for more than three seconds, and resists my choice of “Ronald Reagan” as his trigger word for defecation.

This was beginning to worry me – until my friend Susan told me that she had brought her Chihuahua with her to her weekly therapy session and was relieved to find out that, counter to what her jealous fiancée believed, Lola really was just a dog. Clearly, I have graduated into a whole new level New Yorkerdom. It is only a matter of time before strangers will be touching my pregnant belly and offering unsolicited advice while I worry about which nursery school boasts the highest predicted collage acceptance rate.

So from now on, I plan to train him New York style: walk fast, eat well, choose your friends carefully, and when it comes down to shit, it’s all about location.

Rear View

2007-04-12T13:28:00.000-07:00

So my troubles are behind me now. Behind being the operative word. You heard about my ahem maladie derriere- thank heaven that sorry tail has come to an end.

Not however without three visits to that place where the dogs howl. 'That place' is a complete set up- first yay we're going out, scramble happily into my sherpa,then a nice lttle walk, then uh oh that place where lots of people are happy to see you and fuss over you and then bam its off to a small room with a lot of innapropriate, invasive, probing with fingers and foreign objects.

OK there were some benefits. For two weeks dinner came with dessert. There was the faint sinister taste of something vaguely chemical in it but it didn't ruin the exquisite sweetness of mashed banana or the tang of kefir counterpointed with a drop of miel de lavande.

Yes thats right I said miel de lavande as in from France or to be precise the South of France. PL got a lovely parcel fom the Côte d'Azur a little while back. Both he and I have struck a friendship with Jilly who writes Postcards from Pension Milou who sent us a delightful care package all the way from the South of France. I thought she might have preferred me over PL as she has written some very nice things about me and even has a picture of me on her wall but the contents of the package tended to favor PL somewhat. He was clearly thrilled with this box of Mediterranean goodness. He sniffed the hand milled soaps (he let me have a whiff too- lovely), spooned rich red pastes onto his lunctime sandwiches or snacked on cubes of pickled cheese or slices of sun dried tomatoes, his eyes closed, transported as I was when I had my (small) share of the young Parmesan to somewhere sunnier and far far away from cold NYC.

Butt I digress. Now what was I saying before I got sidetracked to the outskirts of Monte Carlo.....I've completely forgotten how I started this post. Oh well, onward.

Me Vs. You

2007-03-18T17:02:00.000-07:00

So my old pal Magnus was just here for the week. We played, we napped, we walked, we sniffed, we competed for lap time, and we sat nicely for our treats. All in all a good time was had by all.

We are very different, we look different, we like different things but one thing we both love is a good scrappy tug of war and PL's got the footage over in the Cinema Room

A Turn for the Worse

2007-03-06T20:58:00.000-08:00

I returned from a visit with Maisie on Friday with a case of the pukes. OK maybe I shouldn't have been partaking of all the stray morsels that I found in their kitchen or the stale kibble that lurked in the corners of the laundry room. By Saturday I had puked four times, but that was just the beginning of my malaise.

On Sunday morning, the puking had subsided but a new symptom reared its ugly head. I peed maybe four times, the last time being just two drops. PL's face changed color, his breathing seemed to stop as he saw the two drops stain the gray pavement blood red. We hurried home where he scrambled for his phone and I hear my name, in full, Etienne, as he makes arrangements of some kind. We spend the day very quietly, for some reason, I don't feel inclined to do anything but lie unmoving on my bed.

On Monday morning I have a rather nasty discharge but my appetite has returned to normal. Shortly after breakfast we are, surprisingly, preparing to go out somewhere. There is something wrong with the trains. We go back out of the station and catch a cab to the place where we go once a year.

Its a strange place full of people and other dogs. Everyone seems very friendly, they seems to know who I am but I have a strange vibe about the place. I am usually put on a table and prodded and examined but it usually ends and we leave. Not this time. This time, just PL leaves. I go into the back where they keep giving me water to drink. There are are a few dogs back there. The energy is not good.

I am laid on my back, I struggle, they insert a needle into my bladder. They lay me on my back again in some kind of machine. I start to worry about where PL is. They are handling me again. I begin to notice the cold blue fluorescent lighting, the smell of institutional disinfectant and the worried barks of my caged neighbours. After what seems an eternity, I'm brought back out again and PL is there. Hallelujah. Its over we leave for home. I have my dinner and sleep, exhausted by the ordeal.

On Tuesday morning things actually seem a little better, my appetite has completely returned and I do my morning business without any variation. I gather that I had a sterile urine draw for a urinalysis and culture, an x ray, and a prepucial wash. We have to wait for the results. I am more myself and by the afternoon I surprise PL by dropping Jitterbug, my Zebra toy on his foot after giving it a good shake. He smiles. "You wanna play huh?" he says almost with relief.

Coulda Been

2007-02-13T19:13:00.000-08:00

I got class. The blood of champions courses through my veins. I draw heritage from the finest American families like the Coxs and the Enstroms. A notable ancestor being Terrette's Tourbillon D'Gamin. I coulda been a contender.

My English grandfather brings bloodlines from names that regularly crowd that other show across the pond, names like Glenlee, Nokomis, Twinhoe. Have I not the poise, the looks? I have however been told my pasterns are not high enough, but I could have worked on that.

Unfortunately its never going to happen. Ah well tis the life of a muse and companion for me. I confess, I do allow myself the occasional fanatasy about the big win and do the victory lap at the run.

I wonder what Maisie's thinking.

A Light Snow

2007-02-01T20:41:00.000-08:00

Its gone now. A pale powdery sheet that softly cloaked our morning walk. By evening only the chalky crust of salt that had been diligently applied to thwart it, echoed its short visit.

What a walk it was, the brilliance of the light, the softness of the shadows and how deliberate were the marks of our footsteps and the curve of the park attendants vehicle tracks. The smell in the air was clean, the white blanket slicing away everything else but the air itself to be breathed in uncomplicated by the the odors of the pavements and sidewalks. How strange too was the quietness that the snow rendered and yet sharpening the crisp sound of our footsteps and accentuating the rythmn of our breathing.

When we got to the end of Harlem Lane and turned back, I looked down the length of it with an uncontrollable urge to run at full gallop right to the other end, but first swerving into the basketball courts where it was pristine and unmarked. I tugged and pulled at my leash to no avail. PL did however let me mark three small mounds along the way home, to my great satisfaction.

The first time I saw snow was when I was six months old, except it was deeper than I was tall. PL had to pick me up and carry me to my usual spot. It terrified me, this cold alien material. I scrambled so quickly into our apartment building that I actually ground one nail to the quick.

How wildy different that was from this morning where it was nothing but dazzling and beautiful and peaceful and like all the rarest experiences to be enjoyed so very briefly.

Jack Nasty

2007-01-26T15:03:00.000-08:00

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.

Hordes at the Gates

2007-01-16T15:07:00.000-08:00

'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?"

Unseasonal Greetings

2007-01-06T19:03:00.000-08:00

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.

I'll be home for Christmas

2006-12-29T17:08:00.000-08:00

No sooner had Magnus left on Christmas Eve, PL was racing around wrapping things, packing a bag, on the phone and shortly after, out came my Sherpa. I could smell the food he was packing in the Kitchen-one, two, three meals-looks like we're staying overnight somewhere. We're not going to be home for Christmas.

We raced along 125th St to the the Metro North train station and were soon on our way to Mamaroneck. Christmas was going to be spent for the second year with Maisie. In fact that evening we were joined by Ernie, a tall gangly fellow, French like myself, a poodle without the fancy haircut. The three of us worked the room, quite dilligently, by that I mean we scoured the floor for rather interesting tidbits mainly crumbs of a variety of cheeses, a little goose pate, a splash of shrimp dip, one entire pig in a blanket. That was the amuse bouche. For main hardly anything- I did have some of the steak the next day. In my boredom I barked at Ernie just for the hell of it- he growled back rather passively, his tail wagging the whole time so it was for nothing.

Christmas morning was fun, Maisie and I were completely into her tongue ball. I was completely tortured by a laser light that I could never seem to quite catch. I got my very own stocking and my breakfast was ground Venison.

So why is the title of this post "I'll be home for Christmas" when clearly we weren't. Last year, as he often does PL was taking a look around the FBRN site and saw a photo of a Frenchie who was waiting to be adopted. A beautiful cream frenchie lying on a rug. She looked as if she was daydreaming. The thought that flashed in PL's head was that she was singing quietly to herself.

"Christmas eve will find me
Where the love light gleams
I'll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams"

He immediately worked on the design of a card which he donated to FBRN. The design was made available again this year in their CafePress store.

She's no longer waiting to be adopted so she must have found a home now and for her just, like me there was 'snow and mistletoe, and presents on the tree'

Ok there was no snow. But there's always another Frenchie daydreaming about going home over at FRBN. Read about their stories and think of them as we do at this time of year.

Guess who's coming to town

2006-12-21T09:04:00.000-08:00

My usual ploy is this- casually pick up toy then hop playfully over to PL, while shaking toy like a polaroid, then sit and stare. I will do this for oh I don't know three minutes. If there's no response, I drop the toy, turn around and walk over to my daybed and plop myself down facing the other way from him. I don't do the whole digusted by the lack of attention thing too close to dinnertime just in case.

Then I try again. I lay on the bed thats right under his work chair and I kick and snort and roll around and make all kinds of guttural noises like I'm having a lot of fun and somebody's really missing out. This usually elicits a peek over the side of the chair and a laugh. Interesting. Didn't happen this time. I guess its time for the paws on chair accompanied by pleading begging mournful look. He looks at me, a thought crosses his brow and then the dreaded response-"I'm Busy".

There's been a bit of that lately and if memory serves me right its going to get worse. The conditon is called "deadline". They come and go, like a fever. The attention decreases, the walks are hurried, treats are forgotten, hours go by without even a glance from the computer, and then it breaks. Huge long meandering walks will follow with extended nap sessions and lots of TV.

I've been a good boy, I mean really, I've been nice, hardly pouted or cried-been good for goodness sake. And its paid off. Just when I thought was looking down the barrel of a mind numbing deadline episode guess who shows up with enough food and treats until Christmas Eve- Magnus. Welcome dude, lets get this party started.

The Gang's all Here

2006-12-10T12:10:00.000-08:00

On Saturday we made our way up to Astoria where Magnus lives and had a fun time meeting up with a gangload of Frenchies. Check out the fun in the Cinema Room.

Chanson D'Automne

2006-11-21T21:47:00.000-08:00

Now, as fall draws inevitably to its close, I come to the realisation that it is my favorite season.

First let me tell you about Autumn Leaves. A song for some, a visual feast for others, for me, a confession- its my favorite substrate. Its the very first outdoor substrate I encountered and their arrival each year, well it gives me goosebumps just to think about it. At first there's just a few, here and there,then.. a few more trapped at the feet of wire link fences to be scratched and freed. And then it increases and there are piles and mounds and huge great stretches of it that I dive into and kick up and then ahem well you know, like I said its my favorite substrate.

The cooler weather means walks, nice long ones with no fear of overheating and no worries about what time of day it is. PL seems to enjoy them more too, we go more often and we're out longer. And then, when we get home the radiators hiss and I nap with my nose pressed aginst the one in the dining room. "You'll burn yourself" PL scolds, but I ignore him.

This season of mellow fruitfulness also means apples from the farmers market. I will often find my lunchtime kong filled with cold cubes of a Braeburn or Mutsu or Fuji apple sealed with a dab of peanut butter.

International Treats

2006-11-16T21:05:00.001-08:00

We are still in an international state of mind here at Chez MC and ask the question: Are treats more delectable in more far flung places in the world?

Over in Mumbai, Chorizo has what looks like a very interesting Treat Kebab, and what colors- a feast for the eye to boot. In Malaysia-Amber enjoys big and I mean Big treats-yes thats treats as in plural. Wait a minute, I sense a theme here, Gunter in Norway is also enjoying something considerably larger than anything I've ever been given. Obviously people food like sushi and popsicles are not a no no in Okinawa. Lucky Tigersan. Here we go again with the gigantic bone-nice for you Loui in Blighty.

Conclusion: Treats are more colorful and bigger outside Manhattan.

Update: I just had a little heart to heart with PL about this whole Treat situation and he assures me that we are being very cutting edge about all of this. We are practising what Trend Forecasters are predicting as the start of a massive new trend-"The Nu Austerity". Conspicuous abstention-Great.

All the Leaves are Brown and the Sky is Gray

2006-11-09T17:03:00.000-08:00

There's nothing better on a cold rainy day in November to lift the spirit than to take a magic carpet internet ride to a warmer clime and to imagine what it may be like to be, say, in a five star hotel on the Cote D'azur. Like the Pension Milou, a mediterranean canine haven described as 'a spacious house that opens onto a large covered terrace which in turn leads into a large totally secure garden, fully fenced, where dogs can wander and play freely.'

If that in itself isn't already immediately a warming thought then read the heartwarming story of how it came to have its name. The owner of the hotel, Jilly Bennet writes a blog called 'Postcards from Pension Milou' and a recent post entitled 'Milou's Bench' tells the story of Milou, a beautiful black American Cocker Spaniel who its named after.

"One day in 1993, when Milou was three years old, he was brought to me by Madame Dana’s chauffeur. He booked him in for ‘about a month’ as Madame had to go into the Princess Grace Hospital in Monaco for an operation. The month became a year and eventually it became obvious that Madame wasn’t going to recover..."

P.S. Did this guy call it or what.

Running in Packs

2006-11-07T09:54:00.000-08:00

On Sunday PL and I went to see a yearly NYC custom that very much resembles an ancient canine pastime - running in packs. The pack in this case was a formidable 37,000 strong, the event better known as the Marathon. We had a special reason to be there cheering on the runners as Maisie's Mom Heidi was out there running her first Marathon. We positioned ourselves first at 110th st and 5th Ave. The runners were a delight to watch as they hit the uppermost corner of Central Park, their faces lifting visibly as they recognized the last stretch .

We got a call from Maisie's dad tipping us off that her shoe tracker had indicated that she would be at 125th st in 20 mins. We made our way North-past live rap bands, African Drummers, Loud Speakers, a sea of crushed paper cups and most of all New Yorkers in force urging the runners on. Go Brian, Go Tom, Go Sarah....they shouted reading the names of strangers written across the runner's chests...it was just one gigantic NYC pack.

Sadly we missed Heidi, she was running faster than her predicted time and had zipped by before we got there- and then went on to finish her first Marathon in 4 hrs and 12 Minutes -Awesome.

Scary Monsters and Superfreaks

2006-11-03T20:27:00.000-08:00

Halloween in New York City is superfreaky but in a good way. Our urban Halloween kicked off on Sunday at the Tompkins square Annual Halloween Contest and parade. What a creative crowd. The themes ranged the gamut from autobiographical; political; seasonal; to Asian, in fact Asian was very popular with the Pugs. Some were quite simply not thrilled to be there but most just lapped up the attention.

For a real scare we packed up my punk costume and PL's pumpkin and headed off to classic Halloween country-the suburbs- where a graveyard had mysteriously appeared overnight. The horror is on display in the Cinema Room .

Smart.......Like This

2006-11-01T23:40:00.000-08:00

So apparently in the ranking of how smart is your breed, mine lurks embarrasingly somewhere in the lowest third. Number 58 , to be precise. Understanding of New Commands-40 to 80 repetitions. Obey first Command-30% of the time or better. Ouch. But this is all about obeying orders and commands...all very left brain. Left to our own devices, we can be very creative about learning things, for example I figured out that a rope swing can be converted into a very interesting plaything. Speaking about left brain, it took PL forever to figure out how to upload a higher resolution video onto the video hosting website, but he's turned the corner on that learning curve. So here's my right brain creative reinterpration of 'swing rope' properly uploaded in the Cinema Room.

One of the greatest Books ever Written by Anybody

2006-10-26T12:37:00.000-07:00

Truman Capote had this to say about a book by one of his favorite authors:
Truman: Have you read the fantastic book by J.R.Ackerly called My Dog Tulip?
Andy: No
Truman: Well its one of the greatest books ever written by anybody in the world.

From Truman Capote: Conversations

Punch magazine declared it the "first highbrow dog book ever written". Christopher Isherwood considers it one of the "greatest masterpieces of animal literature". Its a book that often makes the list of undiscovered jewels or little known works of literature.

This contrasts with another more widely known masterpiece of animal literature-
Call of the Wild by Jack London. The books dark tone however like the more eccentric relationship detailed in Ackerly's book are examples of 'adult' animal tales that have since disappeared from the literary scene in more recent times.

I Love Soccer

2006-10-20T11:42:00.000-07:00

So I was featured back in September on flickrDogs with my Soccer Ball. Cute as that picture was, it doesn't really give you an indication of what my soccer skills are truly like. Problem solved. Fueled by a Bebel Gilberto remix, and with help from my tomboy girl Maisie, my fancy footwork is captured for posterity in our latest feature over in the Cinema room.

The Local, the Tourists & the Psycho Killer

2006-10-15T17:24:00.000-07:00

Today on our weekend walk we encountered three archetypes commonly found in the New York City Area.

The Local -39th St Flea Market Stall Owner, burly guy, t shirt, flannel shirt, sweatpants.

Local: He's a French Bulldog, right? There's a lot of them come to the market these days. Whats his Name?
PL: Eti
Local: Eddie, Come here big guy. Look at the muscles on him. You fellas have a nice day now.

The Tourists -Mr and Mrs British Tourist, elderly couple, church clothes.

Mr. British Tourist: Oh he's a lovely fellow isn't he? How old? Two? We have a Boston you know. He's a charming chap isn't he.
Later
Mr. British Tourist: Look dear there's that fellow I was telling you about.
Mrs British Tourist: Oh he's smashing isn't he. We have a Boston you know (she points to a Boston brooch on her lapel). Look at him foraging (I was investigating a crumpled paper bag on the ground). Oh you are gorgeous.

The Psycho Killer -Man on the No.1 subway train.

PL: May I? Pointing to a free seat half inhabited up by large man already inhabiting one other seat.
The man makes a small movement. PL tries to squeeze in
Psycho Killer: Don't start that fingernail sh*t with me. I'm in a bad mood today. Goddam m***f**** fingernails.
PL: Fingernails?
Sherpa jolts as PL gets up abruptly and moves down the train.

Pecorino and Tillamook Cheddar

2006-10-11T16:24:00.001-07:00

Here's an interesting pair of cheeses.

Pecorino, native to Italy, who insisted on wandering into his owners photographs adding a 'vital touch' that launched a globe trotting supermodel career and interestingly a match with a female pointer, arranged by a devoted fan.

And there's Tilly. Tillamook Cheddar, named after an oregon cheese, and the self proclaimed 'world's preeminent dog artist'. Biting, scratching and tongue impressions composing an impressionistic image are the methods she employs working with 'shocking intensity sometimes to the point of destroying her creations'. The Village Voice called her "A Sham", Time Out declared her work 'a masterpiece of conceptualism. Her biography is out this month.

Piece of Sky

2006-10-04T18:29:00.000-07:00

This could very well be the only photo of a dog seated as close as this to Anish Kapoor's Sky Mirror at the Rockefeller center. "I'm sorry sir, but dogs are not allowed in this area unless you carry him" barked the uniformed guard lady", after PL had taken the photo. Its the second in a series of poses in or part of public art in Manhattan. The first of course being the Gates.

Sorry Anish, your Cloud Gate in Chicago looks sensational, but Sky Mirror, not so much.

Californie Muse

2006-09-29T22:08:00.000-07:00

There were other four legged creatures at the Villa La Californie but it was Lump the Dachshund that found himself immortalised in Pablo Picasso's paintings, in particular the "Las Meninas" series.

I am understandably fascinated by other muses, being one myself. What was the connection? What were the games they played? What were the incentives?

All is revealed in the recently published "Picasso & Lump: A Dachshund's Odyssey" a 100-page book of photographs taken in 1957 by David Douglas Duncan.

What's the deal with Iconic 20th Century Artists and Dachshunds?

Cinema Verite

2006-09-27T16:32:00.000-07:00

French realism or "School of documentary film-making that aims to capture real events and situations as they occur without major directorial, editorial, or technical control. It first came into vogue around 1960 with the advent of lightweight cameras and sound equipment". Source

Or, roughly translated-PL discovered the movie function on his digital camera and tried out iMovie for the first time. Its all shaky hand held camera work, trendy black and white photograpy and there's a rocking soundtrack by Le Tigre. 'Dead Duck Tug Fight" Its real, it happened over the weekend while Magnus stayed over and its showing over in the Cinema Room.

Chien-gri-La

2006-09-24T08:17:00.003-07:00

'Imagine yourself curled up in a soft bed next to a crackling fire, being scratched behind the ears… you find a biscuit on your pillow and begin to drift off to the soft sounds of Mozart'…Where am I ? Chien-gri-La? Nope-Madison WI at Club Bow-Wow.

OK how about this - 'personal suite, platform bed, comforter, toys, TV/DVD, 2 walks, 1 forty minute jaunt to dog park, feedings, unlimited bottled water, climate controlled facility, daily maid service, 24 hour on site care'-I'm at home right? No, wait, there's no bottled water here. It's Philadelphia, at the Mazzu Hotel. Want 42 wooded acres to go with that ? Check in to the Top Dog Country Club in Minneapolis.

One more time-'Imagine going away to an exclusive resort with fresh ocean breezes, restorative pools, pure filtered water, and manicured lawns on five magnificent acres of countryside. You stroll through a grape arbor, past a tranquil koi pond, fountains and waterfalls, then go for a swim and bask in the sun all day while an enthusiastic staff caters to your every need. And it's all surrounded by the most glorious canyon views Southern California has to offer'. That's Canyon Ranch right? Where the celebrities go? Yes. Well not exactly. Its Canyon View Ranch

Luxury Market infiltrates pet industry. Check. Coming up next folks- reality TV.

From: A dog's life, upgraded by Carla Baranauckas

She's Different

2006-09-22T17:02:00.000-07:00

She's a tease. She's fast. I like soccer. So does she. I always let her win.

Sometimes we just hang out. Do fun stuff together. I met her when I was very young. I know she's got my back.

She's different.

Dogwalk

2006-09-19T08:40:00.000-07:00

On Sunday we went on a big outing. In the bag, on the subway, and out we come on 41st and 7th avenue. As I emerge from my Sherpa, I see in the distance the white tents on Bryant park, where the fashionistas have been embroiled in the melee of Summer 07 previews. We go in the other direction towards Hells Kitchen to the flea market on 39th St. PL is uninspired by what's there we walk briskly through, hardly stopping. Then begins our trek to the flea market on 25th st. Outside Penn Station, a small group of Amish people are singing hymns. A couple of them are approaching the pedestrians.

"Would you like a Gospel Card sir ?", the Amish girl asks PL, he declines but her smile is unwavering. I take the opportunity to sniff the hem of her dress, recently laundered, dried in the sun, delicate particles of a rural life, still linger in the pale blue polyester.

The concrete sidewalks along eighth avenue however in sharp, pungent contrast, reek of the multitude of city dwellers, ooze from a thousand garbage bags from a thousand restaraunts, layer upon malodorous layer. Washed by the rain, bleached and hosed by the restaurants and then re trodden, re marked and re stained. Is this what they call ugly beautiful? Despite its foulness the complexity of the odors are spellbinding. My nose zigzags over the concrete, surfing an ocean of scent stories. If PL would only stop and let me reconstruct this one right here by the scaffolding, or that one on the stoop of a brownstone. The march to the flea market is however, relentless.

We both score at the market. PL finds a small jacquard curtain faded to the color of a pair of old blue jeans . I find new admirers who I lavish with butt wiggles, hand nuzzling and floor crawling. Its as if he read my mind, just as I was thinking what I might be having for Sunday Brunch, we had already walked ourselves to the subway station and it was time to get in my bag and head uptown. In the sherpa on the way home I daydreamed that Andrea Leon Talley and Anna Wintour on their way to dinner saw the Amish girl and pronounced her dress the perfect example of the new collapsed volume.

On Being a Muse

2006-09-12T10:01:00.000-07:00

definition: Muse
n. A source of inspiration.
v. To consider or say thoughtfully; to reflect deeply

It is hard to define tangibly the nature of my occupation when it relates to the area of Muse. I myself am not in any way in control of this. Neither of course is pack leader. It is a moment's revelation, a string of coincidences that ignites the spark of inspiration or as they say 'conjures up' the muse.

For example, a few weeks ago, PL, while retooling this new internet den, was wondering what he could do about my 'voice'. Although his interests are primarily visual he can't ignore the importance of the written component to this here internet project. Not being a writer, he decided that some work was required, some research necessary to develop the idea of a 'voice' that could bring a perspective to the subject of life in the metropolis that would be particular to me. He looked over at me while he was thinking this. I was lying on my daybed at the time, just about to take my late morning nap, but noticing the intensity of thought behind his glance I decided to walk over to him. He smiled and bent his head down to greet my approach.

He had very recently had breakfast, an intruiging smell of cream cheese still lingered on him. Cream cheese is a rare delicacy only very occasionally doled out in minute portions as a treat. I leant in and sniffed gently around his lips to re-acquaint myself with its tangy milky odor. 'Perfume' he said immediately. 'I have to re-read 'Perfume' by Patrick Susskind he continued to mutter to himself. There it was. Eureka. Unwittingly I had given him the clue to his endeavour. My curious sniffs had reminded him of that novel which described in enormous detail the smells and scents of 18th century Paris as experienced by a murderous perfumier born with an unusal gift of smell.

"He would often just stand there, leaning against a wall or crouching in a dark corner, his eyes closed, his mouth half open and nostrils flaring wide, quiet as a feeding pike in a great, dark, slowly moving current. And when at last a puff of air would toss a delicate thread of scent his way, he would lunge at it and not let go. Then he would smell at only this one odor, holding it tight, pulling it into himself and preserving it for all time. The odor might be an old acquaintance or a variation of one; it could be a brand new one as well with hardly any similarity to anything he had ever smelled, let alone seen till that moment: the odor of pressed silk for example, the odor of a wild-thyme tea, the odor of brocade embroidered with silver thread, the odor of a cork from a bottle of vintage wine, the odor of a tortoiseshell comb."

Will this be how I 'reflect deeply' on life in the big pomme? Will it be my calling to render sketches of this city not in black and white celluloid like Woody or jazz inflected refrains like George, but to capture its aroma? With 25 times more olfactory receptors than humans, I can tell you one thing for sure-the city that never sleeps certainly smells and that dear reader will be a thing of significant interest for this muse.

The Observer

2006-09-09T10:45:00.000-07:00

If the artwork on the homepage seems vaguely familiar to you , it's probably because it's an homage to another well known New York Emblem. In fact- the one belonging to that other New York Observer, home to the column written by Candace Bushnell that inspired the wildy popular TV series Sex & the City.

Konichiwa

2006-09-07T09:48:00.000-07:00

日本からの挨拶.Interested in photographs of beautiful scenery, fierce fashion, or a glimpse into the daily lives of Chiens in Tokyo or Yokohama? Luckily for you French Bulldog blogs are Big in Japan. Here's a random list list from one Blog that we like Kokoromi. OK reading them may be a little challenging, you may need this tool, but what doesn't need translating are the beautiful, funny and intriguing images.

フレンチブルHANAの日記
フレンチブルドッグふく
＆ブルドッグパンチ
ブッチュ or Die
BLINDLE
ブルーノ・サンマルチノ
chocolat's room
レオポルド
frenchbulldog&life
マメ＆ゴースケ
MUCHAS☆MUCHAS
et Merci
FRENCH BULLDOG☆
NEO'S ROOM
KURIN＆PURIN
a peaceful ATMOsphere
SPiKE a Go Go
I'm sorry
ナツロウstyle
フレンチブルドッグ
マニア
Garakuta★Honpo
つぶことてんてけてん
フレンチブルドッグがやってきた
KOTAPE
月間！日の丸
小吉代理店
空豆日記
ちくわ日記
コタロウ日記
おこめ道
I'm GULICO!!
王子じじじ〜

My Morning Walk

2006-09-02T21:53:00.000-07:00

My very first walk , its exact route, has become the template for my daily morning walk, performed exactly and rarely with any diversion. As soon as we awake we go downstairs out of the building left on 7th Avenue past the morning line people of waiting for the M2 bus, past the corner deli and across the street and immediately down a lane that runs first past the children's playground then the tennis courts. At the top of the lane is when I make my first stop. Its a favored spot, many a neighbourhood canine marks the confluence of wire chain link, tarmac, weeds and miscellaneous scraps of litter. I am allowed a little time to take in the shift in the scent messages posted there since yesterday to which I add my own. Its never in exactly the same spot. When the weather is warm, the smell and debris of food eaten in the picnic area is powerful, evidence of the previous evening's cookouts linger in the bushes and the garbage cans spill over with greasy paper plates. I am quickly pulled away from all these distractions as soon as I have done my business.

We then move swiftly forward past two caged tennis courts separated by a walkway lined with benches and trees. To our right a chain link fence separates us from the rail yards that abutt the subway station housed underneath PS200. Depending on the time of day and the time of year the soundtrack to this particular stretch shifts, from either the rumble of a subway train, or the laughter and conversation of a group of summertime tennis players or the shrieks of children at the edges of the school playground. Just before we round the corner of the second set of tennis courts is another favored spot. Here a patch of ivy clutches to the chain link and spills onto the lane. I lunge towards it but pack leader holds me firmly on a short lease and insists I continue and we turn past the handball courts by the park keeper station where the park attendants are usually gathered and engaged in idle banter.

We are now at the start of Harlem Lane which runs down the back of a well maintained Housing Project. It is lined with trees, has a small grassed area, another children's playground, water fountains and two baseball courts. In the winter the lane can be completely iced over, in spring dusted in fallen lime colored blossom or blackened by stains from the fruit of the mulberry trees in the early summer but at this time of the morning it remains, almost always, without any other human activity except for the park attendants who will have a greeting for pack leader or myself.

We walk its entire length with determination until we reach the last basketball court and there by the chain link fence that separates this quiet empty sanctuary from the roar of traffic on Harlem River Drive I make preparations for my morning poop. There are cats that live there beyond the fence, underneath the highway, and there are squirrels in the trees and the occasional tramp that has spent the night on a nearby bench, all of whom might distract and I find myself staring and forgetting the purpose of our dallying. But no matter there are a couple more stops back on the way that I will be allowed to start the proceedings again, in fact most days even though things may begin here I often need to finish them elsewhere.

When we are on the last leg, the return portion of the lane by the tennis courts, we may meet one of the two locals that we might stop and have an exchange with. There is the Jehovah's Witness lady with her poodle, a strange fellow, not particularly sociable, I offer no more than a cordial greeting. Pack leader however will linger and listen curiously to the stories of her most recent travails, the death of her brother or a recent trip to Las Vegas. The other is the Poet man. "How's my buddy ?" he will say and I will strain to greet him my ears pinned back to recieve his large affectionate hand. He always laughs and comments on my friendliness and my sturdiness. Sometimes he says to PL,"What do you think of this one ?" and digs into his pocket pulling out a few scraps of paper, one of which will contain his most recently penned verse. There amid the grim urban landscape of stained concrete and rusted fences and stale barbecue smoke, our poet friend speaks of the shadows of trees on fresh snow or the glitter of a beautiful woman's eye.

Its not the seasonal variations or the unexpected diversions on our route that I enjoy most about my morning walk, its the constantness. Every day this ritual performed without fuss, a walking mantra expressed in an exact measure of footsteps, a physical chant treaded and retreaded over and over again, wordlessly the both of us, I waiting patiently for him as he sleepily pulls on his clothes, him waiting patiently for me as I sniff and search undecidedly for the perfect spot. Again and again, over and over, side by side.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

2006-08-18T18:06:00.000-07:00

One thing you need to know about living with creative folk is their incessant need for exploration and the consequent change that it brings. I can relate-its an extension of a curious nature, and I certainly know all about that. When pack leader decided to create the Manhattan Chien website he encountered a new medium-HTML, as fascinating as a shadowy ball shaped object trapped under a chest of drawers. "Very curious, this code thingymajig", I could hear him mutter to himself late into the night. Many hundred hours of crude experimentation later, we have here ladies and Gentleman, the new Manhattan Chien site.

Being the closest living creature to PL, and privvy to all that goes on here let me sketch in the creative backstory to this endeavour. Buried under the scrawls and cut and paste experiments with code, lies an older canvas -that of the blogger template formerly known as scribe. The body of the scribe template, like a page from an old paperback novel triggered the creative process. He liked the visual theme of paper -he had been fascinated by the "papers" that I arrived with, my pedigree, veterinary reports and shipping documents all fascinated him with their official stamps and signatures. I actually have a folder of my own marked "Etienne /Documents" now expanded to include paperwork for a New york license, invoices for veterinary checkups and Letters of testimony that I have been neutered and vaccinated aginst rabies. Other pieces of ephemera duly saved include the labels that were stickered onto my original travel crate and our entry ticket to the Martha Stewart show. The paper theme continues with the artwork here that references old posters and postcards on faded and stained vintage paperstock, screenprints and watercolors on cold pressed art papers. C'est Voila- a portfolio of loose papers and documents filled with artwork, text and notes scribbled into the margins.

Its not just about looking pretty, and I know even more about that, the shift to blogger software also makes a subtantive change -its going to be more dynamic, more regularly updated. The stage is set, there's quite simply going to be a lot more of me, more regularly and in more detail. Am I exhausted by the prospect of it all? Not really, you see my job description is Companion and Muse. There is no heavy lifting, no code writing, no nothing, just being. Reclining adorably on my day bed may elicit an impromptu photo shoot, a bored scratch could trigger intensive research into holistic methods of flea prevention. Change is good, No?