Rage and Chips

Last night, around 9:30, I took Jackson out for his late walk. He started in the bushes alongside our front steps, sniffing around for a few seconds. While he was sniffing, I heard a couple of guys and a dog coming down the sidewalk towards us. I couldn't see them, but the dog's tags were shaking very quickly, too quickly for the usual walking pace. I thought maybe the dog was off leash.

Sure enough, as soon as I could see them and yell, "Leash it!" the off-leash dog saw Jackson and came running. It was a young dog, and it wasn't attacking. But it ran right through my "No!" up onto our steps, and stopped right next to Jackson. By that time, the two guys had appeared. The owner said "Sorry" and got his dog down off the steps. He didn't leash it, though, and it went running off.

"Leash laws, please," I said. "Sure, man," the owner said as he walked away. He said it in that hipster/punk dialect where "sure" is a synonym for "fuck you," and he did nothing to leash his dog.

I snapped. I started walking towards him. In my finest Brooklyn gutturals, I said, "Hey, asshole, I'm talking to you." He immediately called his dog to him, leashed it, and crossed the street. (In my defense, I had been watching Sons of Anarchy before the walk. It gets me all revved up.)

Back home, around midnight, upstairs in my office, I heard a sound - something coming through our front-door mail slot. I went downstairs. There on the floor were four Pringles-style potato chips. It could be a coincidence, but Occam's Razor says reprisal. Or a peace offering for Jackson? Dogshit would have been a clear message, as would a dog biscuit. But four potato chips? The semiotics elude me.

In The Doghouse. Maybe.

We made an offer on a house. Good walking neighborhood, suitable for eventual one-story living, and a nice big yard. Plenty of room for a greyhound or three to keep busy.

To be continued...

You Two Have So Much To Talk About

Occasionally, when Jackson is out for a walk, we cross paths with greyhounds we don't know. This triggers thirty seconds of joyous tail-wagging, butt-sniffing breed recognition: "You're like me!" "Yes, and you're like me!" "Yes, yes, and look, you're like me!" "I know, and you're just like me!"

Then, abruptly, the canine conversation stops. Whilst we owners chat about all things grey for a solid five minutes, both dogs stand like statues, staring off in opposite directions: an awkward silence, with nothing left to say.

Of course the same thing happens when two IT professionals meet at a party. Well, maybe a little less butt sniffing.

pork dogs

Last night, I gave Jackson some pizza. Not the usual "pizza bones" crust he loves - this time, I gave him the real deal. I slid a slice's worth of cheese, meatballs, and sausage into his bowl, and he vacuumed it down.

Today, Stacy told a friend about it, and the friend was concerned. She said that any form of pork is extremely dangerous for dogs, and that Jackson could get really sick.

I was skeptical. After all, we've got a big bag of pig ear dog treats that come from, uh, pigs. Jackson loves them, and he's been working them for a few weeks now. So I asked Dr. Google about pork dogs. And the first hit explains it all: raw pork is dangerous for dogs, as it is for humans. Properly cooked, pork is fine for all of us.

And I'm so glad that the first hit under "pork dogs" is not a porn site.

On the Scooping of Poop

We live in the city, and we have a small backyard. So we walk Jackson along the sidewalks and alleys of our neighborhood. Early and late, rain and shine, heatwave and blizzard, we're out there. Which is one of the reasons we're looking for a house with a big yard, where "walking the dog" means opening a door. And you can even pay people to come scoop the poop! What a great country.

But, until we find that house, we walk, and we scoop. Unfortunately, Jackson's poops are not particularly scoopable. Once in a great while, he drops a few turds that are hard and well-formed and would probably work as an alternative building material. But his normal output ranges from soft-and-shapely to puddle-of-pudding. On a long multi-poop walk, solidity goes down as distance goes up. The last poop often looks like he gave a good hard squeeze on a tube of cake frosting. ^[1]



The drop zones vary quite a bit, too. Sometimes he's at the base of a tree, and the ground is covered with mulch - good news. Sometimes he's on a patch of trimmed grass - okay. But sometimes he's squatting over foot-high, weedy grass where the poop vanishes like a Slurpee down a deep, deep well.

Which means that the amount of poop we're able to scoop also varies. I'd say that we average about 90%. On mulch or gravel, we can get it all, irrespective of poop consistency. And if the turds are tight, we can get all the bricks, even in weeds. But in the worst-case combo, poop pudding in tall grass, really thorough clean-up would require garden shears and a hazmat suit. So we do the best we can with a couple of plastic bags, and we watch those real estate listings.


^[1] Speaking of poop and cake frosting: many years ago, I worked in a Baskin Robbins in NYC. One day, a customer came in to order an ice cream cake. She spoke to Mary, our cake decorator. The customer said:

I want it to say "Happy Birthday Joe", and in that chocolate shit.

But what Mary heard was:

I want it to say "Happy Birthday Joe", and in that chocolate, "Shit".

Couple of days later, after work, crowded store, the customer came in to pick up her cake. Of course we showed it to her, to make sure everything was perfect. And she started screaming, "There's 'Shit' on my cake! There's 'Shit' on my cake!" One of my fondest workplace memories.

Ice Cream Koan

Yesterday, on Jackson's evening walk, we stopped by Meadow Park. An excellent local surf-rock band, 3rd Wave, was giving a free concert. And there was free ice cream.

I sat down on a bench and hoisted Jackson onto my lap. He tolerates that, especially when's he tired - yesterday was a classic Southern scorcher, mid-90's all day. Stacy went to get an ice cream cone. Vanilla, soft serve. She came back and took a few licks. Then she handed it to me and went off to Garnett's to pick up our dinner.

I took a few hits off the ice cream. Then I showed it to Jackson, putting it within licking distance. No chocolate, so no problem.

Still on my lap, he took a couple of licks. Then he stopped licking and started wriggling around. That's the put-me-down signal, and I complied immediately, because his thoughts were as clear as if he'd spoken them out loud: "Wow! Hey, this is important. I need to focus on this stuff I'm eating. Put me down!"

Back on terra firma, Jackson used his long tongue to good effect while I held the cone, and the ice cream vanished quickly. He was meticulous, though, about not biting the sugar cone, till I broke off a piece and gave it to him. That changed the cone from container to treat, and he absorbed it as well.

Ouch!

I was out walking Jackson a little while ago. We heard and saw the neighbor lady, walking her two hyper chihuahuas, on leash. They were about 50 feet away from us.

Somehow one of the chihuahuas, Perry, got loose. He came charging at us like Jackson owed him money, barking and snarling. He was attacking.

When Perry got close, I leaned down and yelled "No!" He backed off, circled a little bit, and made another charge. I leaned down etc. Repeat three times, till Perry had circled us completely and was behind us. I seized the moment and led Jackson away. At that point, Perry lunged forward and bit me in the leg, a few inches above the ankle. Little bastard drew blood.

Fortunately, he had been to the vet for his rabies booster today - sounds unlikely, I know, but the neighbor lady had paperwork to prove it. One of those coincidences. Still, I'm inclined to report it. Perry won't get put down for the first bite, and it may make the neighbor lady more careful. I don't want the next victim to be Jackson or any other creature.