Save Money! Lose Weight! Get A Dog.

We've owned our house for about three years now, and we've been through two real estate tax assessment cycles. For me, that means two assessment appeals - I'm that kind of guy.

The key to a successful appeal is good comps - recent sales of comparable houses in the area. The first year, I didn't have good comps and we lost the appeal. This year, I had solid comps, and we won. The assessment came down $25,000. That'll mean a savings of about $300 on our real estate taxes.

Why did I have better comps this year? Because of Jackson. I walk him around the neighborhood every day, so I see what's for sale. I keep track of the addresses, and, come assessment appeal time, I know where to start. Sure, you can get comps from sites like Zillow, but it's easier when you've previewed the comps yourself. Feet on the ground wins.

Which brings me to the weight loss and exercise benefits of dog ownership. I had been exercise walking for years without losing much weight. Now that I've added an hour of daily Jackson walking to the mix, the weight is coming off. It's a different kind of walking - slower, lots of stops - but it burns calories. I've dropped about 12 pounds in the nine months we've had Jackson, and I'm shaped somewhat less like a transcontinental zeppelin.

So get a dog and your life will be perfect. It's a scientific fact.

Pack Politics

This past weekend, our BFF Jim visited from NYC for a few days. The weekend was an enduro of food and drink: Jim came in Thursday evening and we had dinner at Garnett's. Friday, we met some other friends for a long debauched lunch at Can Can. Saturday, we had lunch at Sticky Rice. Saturday night, we saw another fine Bill Kirchen show at Shenanigans. Sunday, we did brunch at Caliente, then took Jim to the airport.

And Jackson? He got all his walks, and lots of morning couch time with us, and treats whenever we went out. But we were certainly away from him more often than usual, and for longer stretches of time.

Jim stayed in our guestroom, second floor back, a room that we're almost never in. As a result, Jackson is almost never in it, either. I don't think he's been in it a dozen times, and never for more than a few minutes.

But he was in it this afternoon. When we came home from the airport, I took Jackson right out for a walk. Stacy headed upstairs to tidy up the guestroom.

Where she found a poop! Jackson has never even peed in the house before, but there was a nice big poop in the guestroom, next to the bed. (We checked with Jim. He says it's not his, and we believe him.)

Stacy was upset when she saw the poop. She thought it might signal the start of trouble - Jackson's been giving us some other minor difficulties lately. But when Jackson and I got home from the walk and Stacy told me, I started laughing. I think I understand Jackson's point of view, and it makes a lot of sense:

A new pack member came walking into Jackson's nice, secure world. We started spending lots of time with this new guy, leaving Jackson behind while the rest of us went out. And, even when we were home, the new guy got special treatment, sitting at the table and eating with us. No kibble for him. And it wasn't temporary - the new guy was there every morning, every damn day.

What the fuck? Jackson was ticked off. He needed to send a message, pronto, before the new guy settled in for good.

So he shat in Jim's crate. Take that, new guy. And don't let the doggie door hit you in the ass on the way out.

Given Jackson's limited vocabulary, I think he was remarkably eloquent. And, since he picked the afternoon of Jim's departure to nail the ninety-five feces, he's going to get incredibly strong reinforcement: Jackson poops, and Jim disappears.

Stacy's feeling better now. We're optimistic that this was a one-off, not the start of a problem. And I'm still laughing. Hey, I love poop jokes, and Jackson really knows how to tell them.

That Dog Is Money!

Whenever we walk Jackson, we're careful to watch where he sniffs. Occasionally, he finds some sidewalk food, and we have to be quick to keep him from scarfing it down. He's swallowed more than one bit of street sandwich on my watch.

This morning, Jackson nosed at something, and I took a look...currency! A dollar bill, buried in the snow! Good dog!

That's a hell of a trick. And, if he does it another 2,000 times in the next week, we'll be about even on his expenses for the year. But I shouldn't complain - at least he's working.

Guard Dog

Monday morning, about 2 AM, someone tried to break down our front door. Scary as all shit, but, fortunately, this wasn't a home invasion crew, just a small, confused crazy guy. The door held, the police came in about a minute and grabbed him, and I got a look at the sandals he was wearing two days after a blizzard.

And Jackson had my back, from a safe distance. He came about halfway down the inside stairs and watched from there, 20 feet from the front door. Amazingly, he's able to instinctively calculate, and stay out of, potential lines of fire.

Still, Jackson had a part to play: when the police arrived, I opened the front door to verify that no, I didn't know the crazy guy. That was all they needed from me; they turned to leave and I started to close the door. Then one officer noticed Jackson on the stairs. "Is that a greyhound?" he asked, a big smile on his face. "He's beautiful!" Anytime, anywhere, any circumstances, people love greyhounds.

So, no harm, but we were all pretty revved up for the rest of the night. In fact, Jackson was so upset that he didn't get back to sleep for almost three minutes.

Bootie Call

Blizzard in Richmond this weekend. Jackson was born in Texas, and did his racing in Florida, so we figure this is probably his first encounter with a winter wonderland.

Friday night, with a couple of inches of snow on the ground, Jackson wouldn't come down the porch steps for his late walk. He did wander around in the backyard a bit, and take a much-needed pee.

Saturday morning, sixteen hours since his last poop, a full blast of snow on the ground, I dragged him down the porch steps. As soon as he started to walk, he cheered up. Yes, the world was different, but it wasn't bad. A whole lot better than rain. He got used to the step-and-sink rhythm, and set off in his determined fast-paced walk. We call it his "man on a mission" mode. And he realized pretty quickly that, when the whole world is soft, you can poop anywhere.

So the Saturday walks were pretty easy. This morning, though, we were worried about Jackson's feet. There's salt out there, and chemical salt, and puddles of cold water under thin sheets of ice that break into sharp pieces. Fortunately, a couple of weeks back, we had ordered a pack of Pawz bootiesfor him. If you click the photo above, you can see one on his back foot as I trundle down the steps.

The booties worked! Jackson didn't seem to mind them. He had a little less traction, but the protection/warmth/dryness more than compensated. Downside: the booties are expensive, a little more than a buck per for what are really just thick balloons. They're reusable, but still. So you may want to put a couple aside for your own use: they're handy when you mule drugs through JFK, to raise money for the next order of booties.

The Asshole of Meadow Park

Meadow Park is a pocket park near our house, a block-long triangle of grass and trees. It's also the place for local dogs to meet and greet. No fences, so leashes on at all times, but there's plenty to see and sniff.

Jackson and I got there early this morning, around 6:30. There was one other dog, large and beige, at the other end of the park. At first, Jackson was content to follow the pee trail. But, after a few whiffs, he decided he wanted to say hi. I let him lead as we crossed the park.

When we were about 15 feet away from the other dog, its owner whirled around and said, "What are you doing?"

"What?" I said, truly confused.

"Are you following me or something?"

I pointed at Jackson. "He is. He's friendly."

He looked at his own dog. "Well, she's not. So go somewhere else. I don't need a dogfight first thing in the morning."

His dog seemed to have a different opinion. Throughout Jackson's approach and the subsequent pleasant chat, she stayed calm. She looked at Jackson a couple of times, but no barks, no growls, no tugging on the leash. If there was hostility from her, I missed it, and so did Jackson.

Whatever. "Okay, okay," I said, "be nice about it." We turned and headed the other way. They crossed the street and left the park.

I'll assume the guy isn't completely delusional, and that his dog has gotten into fights in the past. He seems to have no idea that his paranoid reaction to other dogs and owners isn't going to help. All he had to say was "She's not friendly." Instead, he almost turned it into a confrontation between me and him.

<brooklyn> And by the way, asshole - if your dog is so fucking dangerous, maybe you shouldn't be walking her in the one place where you're pretty much guaranteed to see other dogs, even at 6 in the morning. In fact, maybe she's not a good choice for a city dog, Einstein. Maybe you and she should both pack up and move to 10 acres in Goochland. That way, at least, I won't have to see your stupid fucking face. </brooklyn>

Caliente Brunch II

70-some degrees in Richmond today, so we went to Caliente for brunch on the patio again. Blissfully, boringly uneventful: we gave Jackson a rawhide treat, he plopped down on his mat, and he stayed put while we ate. The only other dog there wasn't cruising, so no casual sex.