Archive for the ‘writing’ Category
bowels, humor, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 09/01/2011 at 10:57 am
"QUIET. I''m supervising."
Olive’s been a really good sport about the kitchen renovation taking place. She doesn’t seem to mind that her water and food bowls have been unceremoniously moved into the basement. Or that she can no longer stand in front of the dining room window and people-and-car-watch. And bark. Of course, I knew better than to dare move Olive’s overstuffed black-and-white pony chair from the corner of the dining room. That would be akin to shoving Queen Elizabeth’s throne out a window. There she sat, as regal-looking as ever in her chair surrounded by almost two dozen giant cardboard boxes protecting kitchen cabinets and other nicely finished “sticks.” It was comical. There was just enough room for the chair and her. It created the impression that Queen Olive was surrounded by a crowd of loyal subjects. And while she enjoyed snacking on all the bits and pieces of chalky drywall, splinters of wood, splatters of spackle, and yes, cardboard boxes, she wasn’t too crazy about all the strange people entering and leaving the house. Oh sure, she’d bark her little grey head off when they entered the house, but in a dramatic display of ambivalance, her tiny tail wagged back and forth so fast, I was afraid it would snap off at its base like the stem on an aging pumpkin. One unfortunate result of all this intermittent commotion was the toll it took on Olive’s bowels. I’m now convinced that when she gets stressed, she goes through minor bouts of IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome for those of you with non-irritable bowels). This causes her to bark insistently at between 2am and 4am to be let out. Although I consider myself a morning person, this is not my favorite time of day to get up, get dressed and go outside. I stand under the star-kissed moonlight in the front yard with my dog who in the universally undignified “pooping position,” lets the contents of her bowels fly.
humor, movies, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 08/30/2011 at 8:32 pm
This is Olive at 10 weeks old when I got her in June of 2010. Thank God I did not get her two weeks earlier otherwise I might have lost my mind completely. Olive was a firecracker that I could barely keep up with. I used to go over to my friend Irma or Kari’s house and hand the leash to them and announce with pathetic desperation and exhaustion, “PLEASE TAKE HER FOR 15 MINUTES SO I CAN RELAX. OTHERWISE I THINK I’M GOING TO SIT HERE AND CRY.” I would say that for the first four weeks I had Olive, the thought that maybe I wasn’t cut out for a weim (or maybe just a puppy) occurred to me at least once a day. It was a fleeting thought, but nonetheless one that alternately terrified, shamed and saddened me. But lucky for this dog, I’m no quitter. And today, even though she still has most of the energy of an electrical power plant, now I appreciate how much a part of her personality it is and how bored I’d be with a dog that “disappeared” into the cushions of the couch.
fairy tales, hamptons, nightmares
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 08/30/2011 at 11:17 am
"We were in the HAMPTONS?"
Who would have thought that the first nightmare I’d have about Olive would take place at a Gatsby-esque party in the Hamptons? And that I would be the host of this mid-afternoon outdoor soiree. I have no idea what it was for except there were oodles of impeccably garbed and coiffed people… and hundreds of grey weimaraners roaming the estate’s lawn. All of a sudden, I was struck with an intuitive feeling that Olive was gone. Missing. Nowhere to be found. I stopped chatting with guests in mid-sentence and began racing around the grounds looking for her, calling “OLIVE! OLIVE! OLIVE!” Having exhausted what I believed were all the hiding places on the flawlessly manicured property, I sat down on the marble-veined steps and sobbed. I was bereft at losing my best friend. I felt absolutely helpless. And I hated myself for failing to adequately protect her and prevent this from happening. What a terrible parent I was. One by one, each of the human guests came up to me escorted by a weimeraner and said the exact same thing. “IS THIS HER? IS THIS OLIVE?” And one by one, I’d look up through the tears I was choking on and say, “NO, THIS ONE’S TAIL’S TOO LONG.” Or, “NO, THIS ONE’S HEAD’S TOO SMALL.” “THIS ONE’S MUZZLE IS TOO SHORT.” ‘THIS ONE’S TOO FAT.” Each one was uglier than the next. And then, out of seemingly nowhere, Olive emerges form a giant cardboard box, shaking herself off, making one of my most favorite sounds in the world; when her ears slap against the sides of her head, it sounds like leather chaps flapping in a brisk wind. She yawns like she’s been sleeping next to Rip Van Winkle and casually makes her way toward me. I grab her close to me and am so happy, I burst into tears. My beautiful, perfectly-formed pooch has returned. Olive remains completely non-plussed, wondering what all the fuss is about. As I write this, it dawns on me that this is how my Mother must have felt when as a 6-year old, after school, I went over to a classmate’s house without bothering to tell her or anyone else. The neighborhood posse were out in their cars and on foot scouring the neighborhood for me. One finally found me as I nonchalantly started to walk home the 6 or so blocks from my friend’s house. I got home to find my Mother sitting inside on the steps leading upstairs crying her eyes out and wondered, “What’s the big deal? I was just down the street at Steven’s house.” Now I get it. But I do feel like I may have behaved like Goldilocks in my dream.
couch, humor, weather, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 08/28/2011 at 8:10 pm
"Be quiet, I'm PRAYING."
Well, Olive’s prayers must have worked. Hurricane Irene left Northwestern New Jersey relatively unscathed…so far. Although most of the rivers will crest many feet above flood stage by Tuesday morning. Olive and I slept on the extra-long microfiber couch in the living room last night. I didn’t want us to sleep in either the master or guest bedrooms upstairs in case a tree fell on the house. These rooms would take the brunt of the fall and I didn’t feel like waking up (maybe) pinned beneath the trunk of a soaking wet black walnut tree. For Olive, it was out of the ordinary to be sleeping outside her crate in the bedroom. First, she curled up like a little donut in the upholstered chair in the corner of the living room. Why this dog insists on circling her sleeping spot 25 to 30 times in rapid succession before dropping her legs beneath her is beyond me. It’s like watching the canine version of the fable, “The Princess and The Pea.” She stays there for 20 minutes which probably seems like two days to her. Then, at around 11:30pm, as if Jack Kerouac has been reincarnated, she gets up to aimlessly explore her other options. I see Olive’s “second wind” coming so I immediately get up and yank her fire engine-red Orvis donut bed off the top of her crate and place it flush against the couch I’m lying on. After she circles this expensive nest 25 times, she lays down and I say “GOOD GIRL OLIVE. GO NIGHT NIGHT.” Within seconds, she reveals her true intent. She jams as much of the fleece-like edging into her mouth and starts sawing away. ‘OLIVE. STOP IT. YOU ALREADY RUINED ONE BED.” I guide her back to the overstuffed chair and she climbs up and settles herself into the wide seat snugly, draping her head over its arm. Now I’m thinking, “WHERE THE HELL IS THIS STORM? NOTHING’S HAPPENING.” As if I had asked this of Zeus face-to-face, the response is immediate. The rain that comes down could only be described as a sustained assault. It is LOUD and POWERFUL. As it hits the roof of my wood-framed contemporary home with cathedral ceilings, the sound is somehow amplified. It has the distinct rhythm of a machine gun but the noise it makes sounds more like “BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM.” This continues throughout the night uninterrupted. Sometimes softer, sometimes louder. I see Olive faintly, bathed in the blue glow of the oversize digital clock below the TV. She raises her head and looks around the room whenever the sound gets louder. The look on her face says it all. ‘WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?”At around 2am, I’m still mostly awake. I watch Olive rise from the chair and saunter over to the couch near me. I gently pull her up and she hops on the couch. She sidles next to me, extending her lengthy frame against the back of the couch. I put my arm around her and close my eyes, knowing that as long as Olive and I are okay, we can deal with whatever comes our way.
art, dogs, pets, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 08/26/2011 at 9:46 pm
Psychedelic Olive
Perhaps Andy Warhol had segmented eyes like bees do. Add some hallucinogenic mushrooms and perhaps this explains how he saw the world of pop culture around him. Olive has been Warhol-ized by my cousin, Christine Kolenda. The “Blue Olive” on the day-glo lime-colored background reminds me of Blue Dog, created by George Rodrigue. (Do you think he dumped the “z” at the end to sound more French than Spanish?”) The “Brown Olive” against the Tiffany Robin’s egg-blue background makes her seem like a canine version of a chocolate Easter Bunny. The “Grape Olive” against the lollipop red-background suggests to me, Olive’s insatiable desire to be constantly in motion, like a three year-old on a sugar bender. And the “St. Patrick’s Day Olive” resting on the butter-colored background? Clearly, Olive is about to projectile vomit some putrid thing she just ate and regretted. ‘WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THIS OLIVE? BEING IMMORTALIZED IN AN ANDY WARHOL-LIKE PRINT?” “MY GOD, I’M CUTE. AREN’T I?” said Olive. DOES THAT MAKE ME A NARCISSIST?” “NO MORE THAN LICKING YOURSELF DOES,” I say.
hurricane, nap, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 08/26/2011 at 10:19 am
"A HURRICANE? What's a hurricane?"
Uh-oh. Something’s up. All the humans seems to have high anxiety. Should I be worried? Where are my bully sticks? Who’s Irene? Is she coming here? I hope she doesn’t stay long. Is she related to me? The leaves are falling. I had a nice walk this morning. Did I just launch an air biscuit? WOO. WOO. WOO. WOO. WOO. Now I feel better. I’m going back to sleep on my Orvis bed. I’ll chew on it some more when I wake up. Another day, another nap.
dogs, licking, pets, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 08/25/2011 at 10:01 pm
"Can't you see I'm BUSY?"
When Olive thought no one was looking, I caught her kissing my nephew, John. ‘YES, OLIVE, I HAVE PICTURES OF IT TOO.” Hopefully, prior to “the kiss,” she didn’t just clean her palate in a biological sort of way.
art, humor, photography, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 08/21/2011 at 3:09 pm
The Many Faces of Olive
Here it is. What I call the “Hush Puppy Series” from Olive’s professional photography session. I chose that name because it was the first phrase that came to mind when I saw it. It reminded me of the Hush Puppy shoes I used to love as a child. Always the highlight of the back to school shopping trip each year with my Mom. To this day, I have an incredible affinity for suede and any fabric that feels soft against my skin. This preference may also have descended from the hellish mohair incident also from when I was a child. Someone gave me a mohair sweater and when I put it on, I felt as though I were wearing something cut from a roll of insulation. It scratched like hell and to this day I won’t go near mohair anything. What the hell kind of word is that anyway, MOHAIR? Maybe this why I also don’t really care for goats. (I really hate their freaky vertical pupils.) Because if you didn’t already know this (and I didn’t), mohair comes from the hair of the Angora goat. Anyway, back to The Many Faces of Olive. My favorite shot is the middle picture on the far right. It seems to capture Olive in a goofy child-like moment which seems to dominate her personality right now. I also like the middle shot in the top row which gives off the same vibe. The shot on the bottom far left shows just how symmetrical this dog’s features are. Her front paws line up with the precision of the atomic clock. I have showed Olive this bronze-framed piece of art and introduced her to herself. She showed more interest in the frame. This from the dog who routinely stares (and barks) at herself in the mirror while lying on the bed. Goofball.
birds, bologna, lawn cigars, walks
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 08/19/2011 at 9:09 pm
"WHAT'S bologna?"
This is Olive doing an impersonation of a tube of fresh Italian bologna. Actually, she hasn’t pulled out all the stops yet. Usually, when she’s really hot, sweaty and stinky from our 60-minute walk, her tongue hangs out so far I think it might actually slide out of her head. When I start to see it grow like Pinocchio’s nose, we stop and I give her a drink from a bottle of Nestlé Pure Life water. I try to hold the plastic bottle in a way where the H2O just drips out but sometimes it drips like an I.V. bag. Olive gets supremely impatient and responds like someone who was just offered a peanut butter sandwich after having wandered the desert for the last 33 days without water. She starts grabbing the tiny neck of the bottle with her molars as though she is actually trying to twist the bottle open. I tip the bottle at a 30-degree angle and water starts pouring into her mouth like an infant geyser. She starts choking a bit but she won’t stop drinking. I pull it away after she’s gotten a mouthful and we continue on our walk. Olive goes back to scouting the sidewalk with her nose and the thought occurs to me, “If dogs have super olfactory powers and can smell its master’s DNA from miles away, then why do they shove their nose right into a lawn cigar or bird shit or whatever foul smelling object they find? When dogs do that with their super powers, it must be an incredibly overpowering experience for them. They must become intoxicated from drawing in a multi-note bouquet with a nose that can suck shingles from a roof. I imagine that our walks everyday must feel like an olfactory treasure hunt to Olive. I wonder if she excitedly anticipates what scents she’ll encounter on each walk, much like a child anticipates going to the toy store. ‘LOOK MOM! A ROASTED DEAD FROG. CAN I SMELL IT? HUH? HUH? (And yes, we did encounter a flattened dried out frog on the sidewalk the other morning.) Olive also seems to be unusually attracted to the intestinal splatter from birds. (Big surprise.) I wonder if she knows it’s bird shit. I usually let her casually sniff each object without getting too intimate with it, but today I drew the line at a suspicious looking purple balloon, inflated with what may have been one and a half breaths of fetid air. “FORGET IT OLIVE. IT LOOKS LIKE SOME COKE HEAD’S STASH. MAYBE IT DROPPED OUT OF HIS COLON.” Olive looks at me for a second like I’m crazy, then continues marching forward. She can’t wait until we pass the strip mall down the street where she’s sure to find the back-end of a tossed burrito or some other cheap fat and cholesterol-laden jewel that escaped some human’s piehole.
bugs, dogs, humor, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 08/13/2011 at 4:07 pm
"What the hell was THAT?"
So there we are on the front lawn last night. Me holding the anti-bear flashlight while Olive scent scans the environment. All of a sudden, a common yellow moth bobs and weaves its way into Olive’s personal space. Not a good idea. It’s like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Olive tracks the moth as it orbits her, observing its erratic flight pattern, waiting no doubt for an opportune moment to strike. And then it comes. Olive waits calmly and patiently until the moth dances so closely to her that it appears that it will touch down on her nose. In one elegantly swift move, Olive lunges at the moth like a champion fencer. She opens her mouth and then snaps it shut around Tinkerbell. Within seconds, probably after experiencing the odd sensation of a moth fluttering around inside her mouth and tickling her tonsils, Olive’s mouth pops open and out flies the moth unharmed as if it has simply emerged from a tunnel, making it feel uniquely like an absurd cartoon moment.
art, humor, photography, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 08/12/2011 at 7:38 pm
"LOOK. INTO. MY. EYES."
Notice the ambiguity in Olive’s facial expression in the portrait above. Is she registering surprise, confidence, or an intellectual curiosity? Her head, front paws and back legs form the shape of a pyramid. Her right ear, cocked ever so slightly, draws the viewer’s eye to the powerful apex of the pyramid’s base. The left paw, extending beyond the right and positioned forward, hints at an independent, dominant nature. Her eyes as wide as UFOs stare directly into the viewer’s soul. Does this make you uncomfortable? Stare directly into Olive’s eyes. What do you feel? Do you have an uncontrollable urge for a bully stick? Do you feel an inexpressible need to dig a hole to the center of the earth, eating the insect-filled dirt along the way? Have you just leaped across the room onto the couch? And does the water in the toilet beckon to you with an uncontrollable desire? Wait a minute. Sorry. Olive has been channeling me again. “YES OLIVE, THIS IS ONE OF THE PRINTS FROM YOUR PHOTOGRAPHY SESSION. AND YES, YOU ARE MUCH PRETTIER THAN THAT HAG MONA LISA.”
dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 08/03/2011 at 8:17 pm
"WHAT pink spot?"
Thank God Olive had her photography session before she decided to impersonate Michael Jackson’s nose. That’s right, my beautiful monochromatic monkey semi-disfigured herself apparently trying to use her nose as a lever, probably trying to escape from her crate when I went out for an hour a few nights ago. Now, there’s a bright pink spot the size of a large green pea on the bridge of her nose. It used to be brown. Now it’s like looking at someone with a decidedly noticeable imperfection on their face; so much so, that it’s the first thing that you see. Then, only after seeing the person for the 8,000th time, does it become “invisible” to you. If you like the person. If you don’t like them, then the imperfection becomes even more annoying. Clearly, it’s an unintended focal point. It’s like seeing a calcified horn sprout from a friend’s forehead and doing everything you can not to stare at it. But it’s impossible. And yet it’s just as difficult not to telegraph your discomfort by turning away. Somehow, you have to look straight through them as though they are Casper The Friendly Ghost and carry on a lucid conversation. At least Olive doesn’t have to worry about things like that. Dogs don’t care if you have a horn sprouting from your head. Impale a marshmallow on it and you’ve just created a peace offering. (This just made me drool for a Mallomar; a seasonal confection unique to the Mid-Atlantic States). Olive will always be beautiful to me, no matter how many scars she collects. As I sit here writing this, Olive is asleep on the couch behind me, the pink “badge” on her nose resting on my black pants. Hopefully, this heals and darkens. Until then, I’ll just look at it like it’s the mole on Cindy Crawford’s face.
barking, dogs, training, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 07/30/2011 at 7:20 pm
"NO, I'm not quite feeling myself yet."
Last Monday night, I dropped Olive off at her Trainer’s in preparation for my out-of-town business trip the next morning. I am grateful that I can leave Olive in the hands of someone she knows and someone who knows how to handle dogs—even the most challenging. As Shelley and her daughter Amanda secure Olive in the crate in the back of their car, I feel the familiar separation anxiety (mine), which like an air biscuit in church, I try hard to suppress. Little did Olive know that she’d end up with a human companion who is actually much like herself. I try not to think about her as I drive home, focusing on navigating my way through the thick fog suspended above the roads like endless giant cottonballs, deciding that I should no longer take the long, winding, narrow, steep back roads at night ESPECIALLY when it’s so foggy out. I get home and turn on the documentary “Something’s Wrong with Aunt Diane” on HBO. It is both catastrophically sad, chilling and perplexing. I wonder what Olive is doing right now, I think. Every so often, I continue to think about Olive throughout the next three days at my business meeting. I really do miss her and hate being away from her. Yeah, I guess I’m head over heels in love with my goofy dog. I wait until early Wednesday evening to text Shelley: “IS OLIVE BEHAVING?” Zing. The reply? ‘NO, DID YOU GET MY EMAIL?” ‘NO, IS EVERYTHING OKAY?” Zing. I can’t even wait for the reply; I panic and immediately call Shelley who informs me that Olive barked non-stop from the time she got her home at 10pm Monday night until 4am on Tuesday morning. “SHE BARKS AT EVERYTHING,” says Shelley, ‘BUTTERFLIES, BIRDS, BEES, THE WIND, YOU NAME IT.” She barked so much in fact, that the three teenagers living in the house, vacated it in the middle of the night. And then I remembered. This house was new to Olive, and there were new people living there; it was now a more active environment that Shelley lived in. This kind of change is challenging to Weims who are always in a state of “high alert.” “THAT’S NEW, BARK BARK. THAT’S DIFFERENT, BARK BARK. WHAT’S THAT? BARK BARK. WHO ARE YOU? BARK BARK. WHAT’S GOING ON? BARK BARK. I felt sorry for everyone. No one in Shelley’s family got to sleep. And poor Olive was on guard duty all night in an unfamiliar house filled with new, unfamiliar faces. She probably felt overwhelmed by the challenge of trying to “manage” all the kinetic activity around her. She sure must have barked herself out because when she returned home, the first time she barked, it sounded funny; unlike her usual barrel-chested bark, it sounded somewhat strained. Like a fat opera singer with laryngitis. Pitiful. She also seemed a bit tranquil and tentative at the same time. Like someone who couldn’t decide if they were just exhausted or had post traumatic stress disorder. She marched straight into her Beverly Hills 90210 crate last night and went right to sleep. She even skipped jumping up on the bed to spend some time with me. Today, after our walk, Olive spent much of the day stretched out on top of the back of the couch, sunning herself in front of the South-facing windows like a grey panther in the Great Plains of Africa who has just finished a very satisfying wildlife meal. Back home. Back in her quiet environment. Back to her dinner mixed with sweet potatoes. Back to just having to watch one person. Back to being herself. Right now, she’s in the dining room, zonked out on the pony-print chair, head resting on its arm, snoring ever so lightly. Peace at last. For all.
barking, crate, dogs, Love, Love Me
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 07/29/2011 at 9:48 pm
"IT'S ABOUT TIME YOU'RE HOME."
“You’re finally home. I’ve been up for days. Where have you been? I barked so much I think I ruptured my bark box. Why did you leave me? Are you okay? Why am I only speaking in sentences of three words? Did you know that I had to sleep in a NAKED crate? One without any soft downy pillows and fluffy blankets? Christ, my bony ass hurts. I’m thirsty. Why couldn’t you take me with you? The garbage can stinks like hell. Not a good idea to throw a 15 pound frozen turkey in it on a 106-degree day and then take off for three days. Thanks for finally moving it away from my pen. Can I have a bully stick? Did you miss me? Can I sleep next to you on the couch? I missed you. ZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.”
barking, cemetery, GPS, humor
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 07/24/2011 at 7:56 pm
"SO I barked. Sometimes you talk too much."
Today Olive and I drove down to the Brigadier General William C. Doyle Veteran’s Memorial Cemetery in Wrightstown, New Jersey. It was an opportunity for me to complete a genealogical task; to photograph the bronze grave marker of one of my ancestors. It was a good excuse for both of us to get out. Having been effectively quarantined for the past 10 days trying to avoid the Persistent Satanic Heat Blast and nursing my infected Lyme rash, I figured it would be a good break from hiding inside the house like twin crypt keepers. The red fabric blinds have been drawn all week, making it look as dark and claustrophobic as the inside of a mausoleum. Off we go. Olive climbs into the back seat of the SUV and takes her spot (the middle) on the olive-colored bench cover, looking as expectant as a child on Christmas morning. I plug in the GPS and as usual, she immediately contradicts the route I was going to take to stop at an ATM first. Whatever. I get to the ATM drive-up and there are three cars ahead of me. Cars one and two come and go pretty quickly. Car three, immediately in front of me, apparently has massive issues that I don’t think a bank can solve. He must have pressed every button four times. “HOLY CHRIST OLIVE, WE’RE GOING TO BE HERE FOR A MONTH. I THINK THIS IDIOT IS TRYING TO PLAN HIS VACATION, THAT OR HE’S TRYING TO COMMUNICATE WITH EXTRATERRESTRIALS.” Olive just looks at me. Perhaps she thinks extraterrestrials are giant treats. Finally, the constipated clown in front of us moves and I complete my transaction in seconds. It’s easy. I need some cash. This is an ATM, Unfortunately, it doesn’t dispense brains. About 90 minutes later, we arrive at our destination, just as I’m wondering why the electronic beeyotch told me to turn left instead of right. I let Olive out to pee and give her a drink of water. As usual, trying to locate a grave inside a cemetery is needlessly complex, like a topographical M.C. Escher print. Really, what’s with the convoluted sectional numbering? Section KS. What do they do, hire cartographers to chart cemeteries? I see a marker for Section KN and one for KW, but WHERE THE HELL IS SECTION KS? As we make our way around the cemetery roads in circles, I see a melancholy sight. A man sitting in a canvas chair with an umbrella on it right in the middle of the lawn, obviously next to a grave. You could sense this was how he spent every Sunday. And you also sensed he would be spending the entire day here. This fleeting impression made me feel that it was a father at the side of his son’s grave. Very sad. Just a very short way away I finally locate section KS. I get out, open the windows for Olive and start looking for my ancestor’s grave. All the markers are bronze and flush against the ground. This gives the cemetery the appearance of being the least populated cemetery I’ve ever seen or the kind of park that one would never associate with so much sadness. There is another family close by, paying their respects. I am now about 100 feet from the car and apparently I’ve crossed some imaginary line as Olive begins barking like she sees ghosts that I do not. Mortified that she is disturbing the peace of families paying their respects in a veteran’s cemetery, I stop, look back, and not thinking, place my finger to my lips, giving Olive the universal human signal for “QUIET!” Olive understands this (when she wants to), but right now, I’m far enough away from her that she can’t see this command. And it’s not like I can use the dreaded spray bottle from hundreds of feet away. I stop to face her and she stops barking. I turn away from her and she starts in again. I think I’m doomed. My best bet is to find the grave marker as fast as possible, say a prayer, take a picture and get the hell back to the car. I do this amid Olive’s insistent barking and when I turn around to begin the walk back to the car, my little Tasmanian Devil goes mute. The best is yet to come. While I was only outside of the car literally for less than 10 minutes, apparently the GPS beeyotch has suffered a stroke. Which I don’t know until I start the car and begin driving. “GO .04 MILES AND TURN LEFT ON CONSTITUTION DRIVE… GO .03 MILES AND TURN RIGHT ON CONSTITUTION DRIVE.” “WTF?” I say out loud. I swear you could almost hear the tension of ambiguity in her electronic voice. It gets much worse. “HOW TO MAKE A SPAGHETTI SANDWICH, STAY TO LEFT.” “SHEEP ARE BISEXUAL CREATURES. TAKE RAMP ON RIGHT.” “TODAY IS ADOLPH HITLER’S BIRTHDAY, TAKE ROUNDABOUT.” Okay, so she didn’t go to Crazy Land quite this way, but really, it was as if she just stepped off a rollercoaster and couldn’t get her balance. I took her off the dashboard and put her in front of the A/C vent. “TAKE 1-95 FOR 3,048 MILES TO ICELAND.”
birds, parakeets, pet store
In dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners, writing on 07/19/2011 at 8:53 pm
"Lime. My favorite flavor."
As many times as Olive and I have been meandering the aisles of the local pet superstore, it never occurred to me to bring her down the “Bird Aisle” to see her reaction. Probably because we don’t even make it five feet inside the door and people are fawning all over Olive. And then I usually have to keep children from molesting her. In their excitement, they begin groping her as though she is the canine incarnation of Justin Bieber. Olive takes it all in stride, happy just to have a crowd of tiny humans orbiting her universe. We check out the treats aisle and I consider buying Greenies because I’m sure Olive would love sharpening her pearly whites on them but then I remember how Idgy vomited up huge chunks of them and move on. As we make our way down the toy aisle, Olive goes into olfactory overdrive and starts nosing through the toys nearest to the floor, occasionally picking something up and trying to make a run for it like she’s just pilfered a piece of blueberry pie from a diner and the cook is chasing her down the street. This time, the proverbial light bulb materializes above my head and I say, “OLIVE. HOW WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE SOME BIRDSSSSSS?” She immediately snaps to attention like an Airforce cadet and fixes an intense gaze on me. “I TAKE THAT AS A YES.” We approach the dozens of parakeets (all green for some reason; maybe they are cheaper in bulk colors) encased in their acrylic aviary and Olive’s reaction is priceless. She appears to be stunned. Shocked that so many birds are in such close proximity to her. I can’t decide whether she is counting them or calculating their caloric value. She watches them flitter about for a few seconds before jumping up and raking her big paws down the front of the acrylic window, whining ever so slightly. “ARE THESE LIME FLAVORED?” Olive wonders. I wonder if I’m being a little cruel, but this is too funny. The birds don’t seem to give a shit; they seem completely nonplussed by the sight of this giant grey monster staring at them and then jumping up against the front of their “house.” Olive, not surprisingly, doesn’t want to leave. “LET’S GO OLIVE BEFORE WE GET BUSTED FOR PARAKEET HARASSMENT.”
dogs, pool, vacations, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners, writing on 07/18/2011 at 7:37 pm
"I can see myself!"
That is the question Olive faced (literally) as she stood poised over the edge of the in ground pool at my friend Ellen’s home in Virginia. We tried to entice her down the three little textured steps into the pool using many, many biscuits and even some Monterey Jack cheese. No dice. She would plunge her perfectly shaped snout into the water up to her amber eyeballs to get the barely floating, rapidly disintegrating biscuit or wobbly bobbing orange and white cheese cube, even extending one of her paws multiple times to drag it towards her. A few times, Olive did gingerly plant her front paws on the first submerged step. There she stopped, like she was frozen in time. I didn’t have the patience to watch paint dry which is what training dogs can be like so I told my friend Sue that if she could get Olive into the pool willingly without trauma or drama, I would pay her $50. Since I have the patience of a gnat, it would be well worth it. “IS THAT MY FACE?” Olive seems to be wondering as she stares into the pool. “HOW CAN I BE THERE IF I AM ALREADY OVER HERE? ‘WHY AM I NOT WET?” And then, “ARE THEY INSANE? THEY WANT ME TO JUMP INTO THIS WATER BOWL WITH THE ENDLESS BOTTOM? NOPE. DON’T THINK SO.” Sue, who is in a whale blue inflatable chair float in the pool, puts her glass down at the pool’s edge to break up a biscuit, Olive casually saunters by trying to score a few slurps of the high test alcoholic beverage. I yank the glass away before her tongue ever touches down. “NICE TRY,” I tell Olive. “IF YOU GET INTO THE POOL ON YOUR OWN, WE’LL TALK ABOUT A HIGHER VALUE TREAT.” Olive considered what I was saying and walked away. Sue kept her drink and I kept my $50. Maybe next time.
dogs, pets, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners, writing on 07/18/2011 at 7:05 pm
"Where do we come from? What are we? Where are we going?"
Olive in a contemplative mood with twilight as her backdrop and a horizon filled with possibility.
dogs, humor, pets
In dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners, writing on 07/08/2011 at 7:58 am
"You pass, here's your sticker." (Oliver)
This morning, as raindrops faintly fell, Olive and I stood in the middle of the lawn just admiring the view. The corn in the field across the street is more than knee-high already. All the fields belonging to the local farmer provide a wide and long field of view, making this patch of land resemble what I imagine the cornfields of Iowa might look like. The sky is streaked with grey-blue tones, a scattered cloud cover and a glint of orange where the sun is beginning to rise. A brand new day is beginning. With this peaceful scene as a backdrop, I suddenly wonder what life would be like if we were all dogs. If we were all dogs, we wouldn’t care what color other dogs were. We’d spend our days blissfully present in the joy of simply being alive. If we were all dogs, our lives would be much shorter, and we’d be oblivious to what the future might hold or what pains the past has wrought. As dogs, others would know exactly where they stood with us. One sniff of the rump and everything about who we are would be read with an elegant simplicity that defies today’s most advanced technology. There would be no masks, no games, nowhere to hide our true selves. We’d have our disagreements, but they’d be sorted out without using guns and knives; without belittling or shaming others. We might growl and snarl; we’d bark; we might even bite, but usually out of an instinct for self-preservation, not malice. If we were dogs, we’d take immense joy in the smallest moments of our lives. Whether it’s eating our food, chasing a ball, or lying idly on the lawn on a hot Summer day. We’d greet others with a wag of our tail, a bounce in our step, and great anticipation about making new friends. If we were dogs, we’d roam our surroundings far and wide, learning as we go along in what would always feel like a great adventure. We wouldn’t care how old the other dogs were, what breeds they were, or whether they were male or female. As long as they functioned within the order of the pack, all would be accepted. If we were dogs, we’d already have the kind of loving, peaceful spirits that many people take a lifetime to attain. We’d be happy just “to be.” If we were dogs even for just a day, we’d be better people. Thanks Olive, for making me a little bit of a better person, every day.
birds, photography, portrait
In dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners, writing on 07/07/2011 at 7:35 pm
"Tracy, now I'd like to try something DIFFERENT."
“Oh my God, my portraits are ready for review. I CAN’T WAIT! Tomorrow Patti and I go back to Tracy’s to see them. I hope they’re better than the ones Patti took during “The Making Of” with her crappy little digital brownie. Did someone say BROWNIE? Am I drooling? Do you think I’m cute? I wonder where Patti will display my pictures. I hope I don’t eat them. I liked my photography session, it was fun. Tracy is nice too. Although 90 minutes was pushing it. I have a short attention span you know. Can I have an ice cube? I’ll bet that BIRDS don’t get their pictures taken like this. Geez, my nails are long. PATTI, WHEN DO WE GO TO THE SALON TO GET MY NAILS DONE? She’s ignoring me. She’s probably sitting on top of my porcelain water bowl in that tiny room that she always closes the door to. What DOES she do in there? I like sweets. Do you have any? Where was I? No, not metaphorically, literally. I hope I look beautiful in my portraits. Patti says I look breathtaking. I don’t know what that means, but she beams when she says it so it must be good. She sure does love me. I love her more than I love chasing birds. Was that my stomach growling?”
clouds, picnic, spray mister
In dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners, writing on 07/07/2011 at 3:36 pm
"This MUST be its head."
Olive, a pro at looking as innocent as an infant fawn when she most needs to, thoroughly enjoyed the Fourth of July celebration at my cousin’s house. With her characteristic grace and wit, she stretched her Audrey Hepburn-like neck across the picnic table and extended her bright pink tongue as far as it could possibly reach to lick the icing off the cupcakes, nose through the macaroni salad, and nip at the hot dogs. Clearly the dog prefers dessert as more than once she had to be forcibly extricated from either the Friendly’s Orange Crème ice cream and sherbet roll, the black and white homemade cupcakes with edible 3D red and blue “firework” bolts standing atop each or the dutch chocolate ice cream log. She never got much before I’d hear someone shriek, “OLIVE, NO!” And then someone would have to scrape the icing off the cupcakes because I ask you, who wants to eat dog nose prints? Olive’s ears recoil as she starts to back away from the scene of the delicious crime. Smacking her lips, I can see the glint of delight lighting her eyes. ‘YEAH, THAT WAS DEFINITELY WORTH IT,” thinks a gleeful Olive. “FOR GOD’S SAKE OLIVE, DO WE STICK OUR NOSE AND TONGUES INTO YOUR FOOD BOWL?” Olive looks up at me as though she has no idea what I’m talking about. And then she abruptly takes off. You’d think she just recalled where she left her garter belt on Saturday night. Instead, she decides that this seems like an opportune time to chase Hunter, the 120 pound Golden Retriever and Oliver the tiny Tibetan Terrorist around the small yard. The three dogs begin chasing each other, racing in circles so swiftly that it appears that the circle is unbroken and that each of the dogs is a charm on a sterling silver bracelet. Green grass flies in all directions as they momentarily lose traction circling a bewildered bush, sometimes slipping but rebounding so quickly that the fall is almost imperceptible. Oliver is chasing Hunter who is chasing Olive, who lives to be chased. They are moving so speedily that I fear the centrifugal force will jettison them one by one into outer space. And just as quickly as it started, it stops. Olive now turns her attention to the oscillating fan, approaching it inquisitively. She plants her face directly in the fan’s wind pattern and she stands there letting it cool her off. What a goofy dog. After all the less ambulatory guests leave, we bring out the “spray mister” which looks like a garden hose that has been fashioned out of tough green plastic piping and stands up like a cobra snake ready to spit. (Perhaps this was not an accident in the design.) We connect the garden hose to it and it starts spraying a seductive fine mist in three different directions. Olive runs over to the spray mister like she’s late to prom. She’s not quite sure how to approach it, as it envelops her in its petite moist clouds. First, she tries biting the clouds to great comical effect. Because she’s biting very daintily and not snapping her mouth closed each time, it looks like she’s trying to gum the clouds to death. Not satisfied with her intake, she decides to take the proverbial bull by the horns and chew on the tiny golden spouts releasing the moisture. I don’t think she realizes that as she is imbibing the “liquid clouds” that her entire head and face is slowly getting soaked. The irony is not lost on me. I should have used this as an opportunity to bathe my little monochromatic monkey.
birds, sign language, yard
In dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners, writing on 07/07/2011 at 2:08 pm
"To all the BIRDS."
“Oh, I understand sign language all right. Is it ironic or redundant for me to flip the bird to all the birds who do fly-bys while I’m crossing the front lawn? Or, is it both?
birds, bowels, brown trout, yard
In dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners, writing on 07/03/2011 at 6:30 pm
"Could I be any more BORED today?"
I don’t know who’s more bored today, Olive or me. It’s been raining all day, truly the kind of grey, hazy summer day that most people living outside of New Jersey associate with New Jersey more often than they should. The only time we’ve been outside today is when Olive has had to drop brown trout. Increasingly, she is distracted from this biological need by the calling of another higher order need. The genetic need to capture the warm orange-breasted American Robin nesting in the middle of the purple-flowering Hydrangea bush in our front yard. Olive’s approach is the same every time. She makes a beeline for the bush but as we approach it she begins to slow down, lowering her body into a crouching position like a tiger that has just spotted an obese Peccary with four broken legs. She makes her move, scooting around to the side of the bush that the bird emerged from the last time we were out. Olive frantically starts looking for the bird, head bobbing up and down like a bobblehead doll, sure that it will fly out from this direction where she can just snatch it in mid-flight. And she’s half-right. Suddenly the elusive Robin shoots out the side of the bush right past Olive’s hard-at-work nose, cutting through the air like Zorro’s sword and coming to rest atop the clay-colored shed in our backyard. Far enough away from Olive’s quivering jaws, but close enough to keep an eye on the Tiffany blue eggs laying unmolested in the veiled nest. A few nearby Robins zip close to Olive from multiple directions as though they are performing strafing maneuvers. Probably relatives. Olive is momentarily stilled as she watches this display of bravado. This is a good moment to re-focus her on her bowels, so I lead Olive away from the scene of this domestic disturbance. As we walk away, Olive repeatedly cranes her neck behind her just to make sure she will not miss the bird’s return… and another opportunity to gobble an afternoon snack. “GO POTTY OLIVE. I THINK I SAW LIGHTNING. WE HAVE TO GET BACK INTO THE HOUSE BEFORE WE LIGHT UP THE NEIGHBORHOOD.” She must sense the tiniest bit of apprehension in my energy, so she goes quickly. As we make our way back inside, Olive makes one last desperate pass past the bush. Maybe she just wants scrambled eggs for dinner. I wonder though, do you think she’ll feel inadequate if this genetic need to catch birds is never fulfilled? And if a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, what the hell is a bird in the bush worth?
dogs, humor, photography, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners, writing on 07/01/2011 at 8:09 am
"Am I DONE yet?
Last night, Olive sat for her professional photography session with Tracy Kometani. When we first got to Tracy’s studio, Olive of course spent the first 10 minutes using her nose to imprint the “GSS” Global Scent System of the studio on her brain. Tracy had two backdrops set up, one ghost white and one the color of dark coffee beans. There are big titanium white umbrellas with megawatt lights surrounding the dark backdrop. Olive explored the studio by walking back-and-forth across the backdrops, sniffing out all the assorted props which ranged from dolls begging to be chewed to a old stand-up mirror that Olive spent some time gazing into. Then seeing the half open door in the corner of the studio, Olive shot up about 20 twenty steep steps and started to make herself at home in Tracey’s kitchen and living room. “OLIVE. GET BACK HERE. YOU’RE NOT GETTING A BATH,” I yell as I’m scrambling up the stairs like an ATV with 50,000 miles on it. I wrangle Olive back downstairs and after she calms down a bit, we start the session. Tracey has set up a beautiful antique bench whose wooden ends curl and is covered in an ivory white fabric. It is stunning against the java-colored backdrop and against Olive’s unique shimmering taupey-grey coat. “OLIVE. SIT.” My well-behaved dog sits on the backdrop and looks at me for her next command. “OLIVE. STAY.” As Olive continues staring at me, you can hear the “pops” and “clicks” as Tracy starts taking Olive’s photograph. She seems to be enjoying the process and amazingly does not even blink with the pop of each “flash.” You’d think she was used to this from years of walking the Red Carpet. “OLIVE. IT WOULD BE NICE IF YOU COULD STOP PANTING AND KEEP YOUR BIRDHOLE SHUT FOR A FEW MINUTES.” Tracy gives Olive some water which she characteristically slurps up like a waterholic. It helps. A little. Then we try to get Olive to sit on the bench and stay which she finally does with much cajoling and lots of Wagatha’s Cranberry with Chedder and Mint biscuits. It’s about 7pm and I haven’t eaten dinner and they smell so good, I momentarily consider eating one. Olive is now seated on the bench as Tracey clicks away. “MY GOD, SHE LOOKS LIKE THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND” I say. We take breaks during the next hour, letting Olive run around the studio burning off her energy by shaking her canvas Frisbee from side to side as though it is a beady-eyed woodchuck she has just caught. Back to the sitting. This time, we try to get Olive to lay down across the bench which would have been a perfect way to capture her natural regal demeanor, but Olive is having none of it. It’s actually a bit too small for her to feel comfortable on. Oh well, no matter how many biscuits I ply her with, it’s just not happening. Break time. Back to the session, this time Olive, starting to tire of posing or “remaining still,” just lays down on the backdrop. So, this becomes the next and final series of photos. Tracy stops to show me some of the pictures she’s taken and my jaw drops. I knew Olive was beautiful, but in the hands of a skilled photographer, she is absolutely breathtaking. It allowed me to see Olive more objectively than I see her every day. I look at these pictures and think, “This session was a great idea.” I look at one of the close-ups where you can clearly see Olive’s distinctive cowlick on the bridge of her nose and all of a sudden, I feel a mixture of love and pride, like I’m looking at the first grade picture of one of my kids with their hair slightly askew. What a fun experience! And for Olive? She got to be the center of the universe for 90 minutes.
dogs, pets, tiara, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners, writing on 06/29/2011 at 9:27 pm
"Where the HELL is my tiara?"
“For God’s sake, HURRY! I look like a common tart. And I’m getting tired of posing. I’m hungry. WHERE are my clothes? Tell Prince Harry I think he’s very hot. Even if he does resemble an Irish Setter. A drink! A drink! I need a drink! NOW.”
dog park, kira, rugby
In dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners, writing on 06/26/2011 at 8:44 pm
"Who's next?"
Yesterday morning, Olive met Kira, a beautiful 10-month old polar white Boxer at the local dog park. On this wonderfully cool morning marked by scattered blue-grey clouds, Olive and Kira, the only two dogs in the park, race nuttily around the grounds oblivious to everything but themselves. When not screaming past their owners like comets streaking across a night sky, the dogs stop every once in awhile to literally box one other. After a couple of sweaty, saliva-flinging rounds, grunting, they wrestle each other to the ground, using their mouths to pin each other by the neck. While it was friendly at all times, clearly they played with the unvarnished vigor of filthy rugby players. All of a sudden, Olive or Kira would stand up like they had been tweaked by a wandering ghost, and they would dig their nails into the dirt and take off as if they were racing with the moon. No matter how far or long they ran, or how many petrified lawn cigars they passed, they would always find their way back to their human companions; drawn to us as if we were giant red and silver-tipped U-shaped magnets. Always moving toward us, they’d tumble over each other like two crazy bowling balls that crossed lanes. It was funny until a combined 150 pounds of lean, muscular grey and white canine power slammed into me, knocking me to the ground like a catatonic bowling pin. I may have gone ass over head. All I saw was the horizon simultaneously moving in different directions. ‘GOOD CHRIST YOU CRAZY DOGS, THAT HURT!” I announce with mock annoyance as I pick myself up from the ground gingerly like an old fart, waiting to determine if I have any broken bones. At least I didn’t lose my glasses. “Are you okay?” says Kira’s owner. I assure him I am; more surprised than anything about being taken out by “Team Kolive.” Of course they didn’t mean it. In their blissful moments of play, living fully in each moment as it occurs, they simply become unaware of their surroundings; as focused as Tibetan monks only on each other. I look up and Olive is standing there with her tongue dangling from her mouth like a tube of bologna. “THIRSTY?” I ask Olive. Panting heavily, she looks at me longingly, as though I have magically materialized into a garden hose. I open the bottled water I’ve brought with me and slowly let some drop into Olive’s mouth which is now wrapped around the upper half of the bottle. Growing impatient as she starts to chew on the plastic bottle, I say, “LET’S GO OLIVE, I THINK I MAY HAVE SPRAINED MY ASS.”
cornfield, fireflies, movies
In dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners, writing on 06/24/2011 at 5:57 pm
"I think I INHALED a firefly!"
As twilight began to slip away the other night, Olive and I meandered outside and stepped into the most amazing display of firefly “performance art.” There before us, in our front yard and across the street throughout the almost-knee-high cornfield, thousands of miniature yellow lights twinkled on and off, blinking at us as though they were performing a visual symphony. I felt like I was in a scene from “A River Runs Through it,” “Legends of the Fall,” or “The Color Purple.” It was such a powerful association that I could almost hear Robert Redford narrating the story. “AND IN THE TWILIGHT OF OUR YOUTH WHEN WE MUST PUT AWAY CHILDISH THINGS…” The scene was breathtaking. We stood there for a few minutes like a pair of blue Cornflowers, taking it all in, until Olive decided she wanted to take it all in LITERALLY. She starts leaping into the air like a spring-loaded jackrabbit, becoming momentarily bi-pedal, biting at the fireflies, chasing them across the lawn. Leap. Bite. Leap. Bite. Leap. Bite. Leap. Bite. Leap. Bite. It had a funny Chaplinesque quality to it, one that caused me to start laughing out loud. LOUDLY. And then Olive abruptly stops and snorts with the gusto of a bagpipe player: “HAYUMPHHHH!” “WHAT’S THE MATTER OLIVE? DID A FIREFLY GO UP YOUR NOSE?” She looks at me for a few seconds and then goes back to leaping and biting. I stand there wondering how I got so lucky to get such a great dog. And again, it’s another one of those moments when I say to myself. “God, I can’t believe she’s really mine.”
car, lincoln tunnel, new york, pets
In dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners, writing on 06/21/2011 at 9:28 pm
"A prostitute AND a clown?"
Olive was in the heart of New York City on Saturday. (That is if you believe that New York actually has a heart.) By accident. I took Olive with me as we embarked on a trip to Weehawken, New Jersey to drop one of my nephews off at the New York Waterway Ferry. For those of you not familiar with the ferry, it offers a civilized 10-minute ride from New Jersey to New York with none of the hassles of driving. That is of course IF YOU CAN F’ING GET TO THE DOCK. As I come down the ramp into Weehawken ready to make the left hand turn at the only road I know of that leads to the dock, it is barricaded with giant orange and white plastic drums. No sign. But New Jerseyans are used to this. No sign is needed. It means, FIND YOUR OWN F’ING WAY.” “Cripes,” I groan, “Now what?” I have about three seconds to decide if I want to go through the Lincoln Tunnel. I turn to look at Olive in the back seat, sitting there much more tranquil than she ever is when she’s way back in Outer Mongolia, otherwise known as the cargo area. I hate the idea of going into “the jungle” with Olive, but I don’t have much choice. My nephew needs to be at Penn Station to catch a train. “Buckle up,” I announce to John and Olive, “We have to drive through the urban birth canal.” I hear Olive, faintly snoring in the back. Apparently, she’s just so happy to be nearer to me, she’ll just sleep through this adventure. I hate the tunnel. I hate the idea of being stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic under the Hudson River for 1.5 miles. After what seems like hours, there’s light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. One of my favorite sights. (My other favorite sight is the sign that reads “Welcome to New Jersey” when we leave.) As we are expelled from the tunnel’s mouth like a drunkard’s morning-after gob of spit, Olive stares at me with a look that suggests she is wondering what the hell will come next. I come to a light where I need to make a left turn only to be confronted by sheer civil engineering idiocy. The traffic crossing in front of me is snaking around to ENTER THE TUNNEL. It was probably conceived by the same rocket scientist who designed fast food stores whose exit doors dump diners out into the path of oncoming drive-thru traffic. Since most New Yorkers suffer from narcissistic personality disorder and have a deeply abiding unearned sense of cultural entitlement, they proceed to block the entire grid as they stream continuously through 12 red lights. (And might I remind people that New Jersey was home to Albert Einstein, Thomas Edison and Bruce Springsteen. It doesn’t get much smarter and more accomplished than that.) To make matters worse, there is a nutless schmo in the silver barge in front of me who is actually WAITING for someone to let him through. Hey Bozo, this is not the Midwest. No one is going to “let” you in. You need to drive like William The Conqueror. I maneuver my Saturn around his car as though mine is a can opener on wheels. As I let fly a percussive note of filthy words that would make a convict blush, I glance back at Olive who is quietly and contentedly chewing on her bully stick while she’s stretched out across the length of the back seat. This is when she’s not people-and-dog-watching. “Look Olive, there’s a prostitute AND a clown!” Either she thinks that I have everything under control or she knows it’s best not to get involved at this moment. (Smarter than most back seat drivers.) Finally, I get to the entrance to Penn Station which is unrecognizable under a mountain of scaffolding. The building looks like the mouth of an eighth-grader with braces the size of a football stadium. I hug my nephew goodbye, jump back in the car, look at Olive and say, “Let’s get the hell out of this shithole, Olive. And this time we’re taking the GWB (George Washington Bridge) so if we get stuck behind some insecure mouse driving a car that’s too big for his skills, we can just push him off the bridge.” (Just kidding. And people wonder why New Jerseyans are so “gritty.”) The next time Olive goes into The City, it will be only to sign autographs of her book, “My Life with Patti,” at Barnes & Noble.
bath, dogs, pets, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners, writing on 06/19/2011 at 4:15 pm
"Why are baths SO exhausting?"
One of Olive’s least favorite things in the world is getting bathed. She knows it’s coming when I take her into the downstairs bathroom and shut the door behind us. She looks at me like an escaped convict who’s just stumbled upon an unanticipated 25 foot brick wall. I used to be stupid enough to let her watch me gather the oversized towels and drag them into the bathroom along with her. But, the real giveaway is when I put my swimsuit on. This is an undeniable clue. When she sees this, she runs upstairs and does one of two things. She either jumps up on the overstuffed pony print chair that she has claimed as her own and sinks as far down into it as she can, or she runs into my office and curls up into a fetus on the Orvis fleece wraparound bed she has eviscerated at the seams. She is desperately trying to make herself invisible. I gently drag her off either while she fixes her pleading eyes on mine. “OH C’MON OLIVE. IT’S NOT SO BAD. YOU’RE ONLY GETTING DETAILED. IT’S NOT LIKE YOU’RE GETTING WAXED AND BUFFED. AREN’T YOU GLAD YOU’RE NOT A SHOW DOG?” She retreats to the farthest corner of the bathroom deliberately avoiding all eye contact with me. I remove her olive-colored nylon collar with its repeating pattern of brown dog bones. I replace it with her stinkless stainless steel prong collar. It’s the only way I can pivot her inside the shower stall to ensure I’ve not neglected any of the nether bits. I squeeze into the stall after I’ve helped Olive cross its threshold and quickly shut the glass door. I pull the handheld shower spray down and turn on the water. Making sure it’s neither too hot or too cold, I proceed to “rinse” Olive. I love watching the transformation when Olive changes from weimaraner to seal. She goes from her usual grey-taupe to a dark brown-grey. All I can think of when I see this is that she looks like a seal. Not that I’ve ever seen a seal get a bath before, but I imagine them (some of them at least) to be this color. I start with her back, then work my way to the “undercarriage,” the limbs, neck and chest and finally the feet, tail and the trap door in the back. Then I lather her up in mostly organic Lani shampoo, trying to work it into her fur to get down to the skin, and realize that her micron-sized fur makes this next to impossible. I save the nose, ears and dainty head for last, knowing that this is the part she absolutely despises. Then I rinse her and wait for her to shake. She doesn’t. NOT THIS TIME. NOT EVER. NEVER. Not while she’s in the shower. I swear, this is her way of getting even. I’m not about to stand in the shower waiting for her to re-consider, so I open the door. She runs out and shakes ecstatically like she’s just been baptized by a polygamist cult. Droplets of water zip-zip-zip in all directions while she tries to dry herself off by rubbing her entire body on the teal-colored throw rugs. I try toweling her off, but she’s spastically twirling around the room now like a much-too-young-to-be-competing-in-beauty-pageants toddler. She now bites the towel repeatedly trying to engage me in a game of tug-of-war. I open the bathroom door which she barrels through like she’s been shot into outer space. Legs akimbo, she struggles to gain traction on the linoleum floor. She finally comes into contact with the carpeting and proceeds to zoom across the 24’ x 18’ room executing multiple figure eights at supersonic speed. You can hear the carpet screaming.
bunnies, fireflies, toadstools
In dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners, writing on 06/18/2011 at 10:58 pm
"I ate no such thing."
While the end of Spring is fading like the color in an old photograph, the beginning of Summer has already quietly made its entrance with fireflies and bunnies. Olive races around the yard like a little brown ambulance, chasing, and I suppose catching some fireflies. She focuses on her winged-beetle target and then leaps up to snatch them out of the air. Can you imagine having the freedom to fly and then being devoured by another living creature in mid-flight? She also joyfully chases moths, butterflies and bunnies. In an example of being paralyzed by complex decision-making, last week Olive approached four bunnies seated on the front lawn like Congressmen debating the merits of yesterday’s lunch. In an instant, all four bunnies scattered in four different directions. I thought Olive’s head was going to explode. All she could do now was frantically sniff their tracks hoping that there might be a meaty trinket at the end of each trail. There seems to be an abundance of these small brown and white cotton-tailed rodents this year. Possibly because my lawn does not look like a lawn, but a clover-and-weed farm that supplies the rabbit kingdom throughout the world. This year is also the year of the giant toadstool forest. Each heavy rain produces a crop of an exotic variety of toadstools; some the kind that Lewis. G. Carroll must have eaten before penning the LSD-fantasy, “Alice in Wonderland.” I run around harvesting these magic buttons whenever they sprout up so Olive can’t eat them and be magically transported to some imaginary world which costs me thousands of non-imaginary dollars to rescue her from. I am always startled by how fast these botanical ornaments grow. At night, there is nothing there and by the next morning, there is a fungal skyscraper the size of the Chrysler Building. I shouldn’t worry too much though. Olive much prefers nibbling on the pockets of glazed black marbles that the deer and bunnies leave behind after dining on our lawn like it’s an agricultural drive-though. “THAT IS SO DISGUSTING OLIVE. DON’T COME NEAR ME WITH THAT MOUTH UNTIL AT LEAST AUGUST.” And the funny thing is, as she’s eating this biological waste, she grimaces like she’s just discovered that they are infinitely more sour than she expected. But of course, this doesn’t stop her. I guess it’s an acquired taste. Perhaps it is the caviar of the canine world.
lawn cigars, trash cans, walks
In dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners, writing on 06/17/2011 at 7:29 am
"Hey, I MADE that."
There’s nothing like carrying your dog’s poop in a plastic bag while you are walking to make one feel like an idiot. As I pass by school kids, crossing guards and other pedestrians, I try to hide the presence of the little fecal purse by being very animated. Perhaps this will divert attention from the little green bag dangling by my side as if it’s a parasitic twin. Olive prances ahead, head held high as if to proclaim, “Where for art my bag of crappeth? Being carried by my loyal subject of course!” As our walk continues, while Olive has her medium-sized brown nose criss-crossing the terrain like a tiny hovercraft, my eyes criss-cross streets lined with Victorian homes, searching desperately for a garbage can on the sidewalk or one that’s accessible to me without being arrested for trespassing. “Cripes. Garbage Day was yesterday. I’m going to have to carry this thing for miles.” Most of the cans are forest green, so they blend into the surroundings. And then, there are the new “charity cans,” bright, Barbie-pink trash cans that support breast cancer. I already donate to a number of cancer charities, but when I see these cans I think. “My God, I’d donate $1,000 just not to have this eyesore in front of my house.” The other morning, I looked out the kitchen window and saw what I thought was a person down the street, just standing idly in front of a neighbor’s driveway like a buoy. “That’s weird,” I thought. Until I take out my binoculars and confirm that it’s not a person. It’s one of these ridiculous garbage cans. Really, isn’t the world we live in today noisy enough without added “visual noise” like this? Olive and I live in a fairly rural area and these pink cans stand at attention at the end of driveways like giant erasers visible from hundreds of feet away. Can you imagine what they’d look like in urban areas? By now, I’m so tired of carrying the turd tote, I feel like just flinging it into the air like it’s a skeet target. And all of a sudden, a nasty-looking trash can, one whose lid looks like it has been seriously nibbled away by squirrel-beavers, stands before me on the sidewalk in front of a home that is either (sadly) occupied by very old people or a band of drugstore cowboys. The house is in grave disrepair. Another few years and it looks like it will have to be condemned. Whomever lives here is neither going to notice or care that I’ve dropped a bag of dogshit into their garbage can. I use just my pinky to gingerly open the rodent-bitten lid, toss the bag in, and gag momentarily before letting the lid drop. Olive just watches. She looks up at me as though I’ve just given away her left kidney. “Don’t worry Olive, you’ll make more.”
barking, humor, sticks, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners, writing on 06/11/2011 at 10:39 am
"I see dead STICKS!"
Late Thursday night, when I took Olive out after the thunderstorm, we barely made it out of the garage before she begins barking like a banshee and shrinking back from something she obviously finds threatening. I squint my astigmatic eyes and step out a few feet to trigger the motion sensor lights. I do a quick visual scan of the front yard and there it is. While I am always afraid of coming face to face with a bear, the intruder that Olive is barking at is…a leafy bough that has fallen from the tree and lays like a beached Blue Whale on the front lawn. This dog has a gestalt mind; always recognizing “things out of their place.” I sigh with relief, grateful that I don’t have to protect my pooch and myself from being used as a toothpick and then torn apart and eaten by one of the American black bears that have already been roaming the neighborhood like zombies. However, Olive will not stop barking until I have confronted the motionless interloper. I walk out to the middle of the yard to retrieve the “Creature from The Black Lagoon,” dragging Olive behind me on her flexi-leash. It’s one of the few times it’s not unspooling like an off-track rollercoaster. She continues to bark intermittently as she charges forward, sideways and backward as if she’s as animated checker on a checkerboard, changing her mind instantaneously and repeatedly before making a definitive move. Olive is incredibly agile, executing 180-degree turns in fast forward (and reverse) with the grace of famous French trapeze artist Jules Leotard. It is funny to watch. “FOR GOD’S SAKE OLIVE, IT’S ONE OF YOUR FAVORITE THINGS. A STICK. AND IT HAS MULTIPLE HEADS.” For emphasis I add, “IT IS THE OCTOPUS OF STICKS!” I drag the bough across the lawn and driveway and place it next to the garbage can. It will probably stay there a week before I feel like cutting it apart to dispose of it. Olive runs over to inspect the captured prey, cautiously sniffing it. By the third sniff, she sinks her teeth into the injured branch. “HAPPY?” I ask Olive. She ignores me as the sawdust starts flying.
biscuits, humor, walks, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners, writing on 06/09/2011 at 6:34 am
"Do I LOOK like an easy mark?"
As Olive and I were on the last paw of our morning walk, we passed the discount gas station we pass every morning. Usually we just say “Hi” or “Good Morning,” to the gas jockeys. On this morning though, one of the gas jockeys approaches me to ask if he can give Olive a biscuit. At least he asked. Because he was holding up, not a complete biscuit, but half of one. That wouldn’t have been so bad but for two other bits of information. One, the artificial red coloring looked like the biscuit had been dropped into a can of brick-colored paint. You could distinctly see the “layer” of manufactured coloring on the biscuit. But the worst part was that I think this guy had been CLEANING OUT HIS CAR. Typical male. He probably thought to himself, “Hey, look, half a dog biscuit,” never stopping to think that it may have been trapped in the bowels of his dirty car amidst all the greasy junk food wrappers, crumpled empty cigarette packs, and God knows what else for the last three years. Yes, most people have good intentions. This is what we say when people don’t stop to think before they act. I look at the biscuit which seems to be decaying in front of my eyes, probably wrinkling my brow and curling my upper lip and say, “Uh, thanks, but she’s got a really sensitive stomach.” I can’t recall exactly what he said next, but it was something to the effect of “Are you sure?” I look him in the eye this time and say “Yeah, I think I’ll pass. I already have to pick up her poop with a straw.” He chuckles and backs away. I walk away thinking, am I THAT paranoid or was there about 4 things wrong with this situation? And just for the record, I half lied. Olive does have a sensitive digestive tract, but only a third to half of her poops resemble cow pies, but that’s a whole different story. Can you imagine my organic foodie pooch eating this petrified biscuit? The dog who won’t even drink out of her water bowl if there is any whisker dirt or kibble floaters present? Olive and I walk away and I am tempted to turn around to see if this guy eats the half biscuit himself.
dogs, humor, parade, pets, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners, writing on 06/05/2011 at 7:45 am
"Don't hate me becuase I'm BEAUTIFUL."
Last week, when Olive and I went for our morning walk, we were a bit later than usual and ended up encountering the staging of the local Memorial Day Parade. On this bright, sunny day, we passed bright red fire trucks spewing handfuls of candy, antique cars filled with antique local politicians, a revolutionary war-outfitted band and bazillions of children jacked up on sugar. Olive is pretty much enthralled, excited about the prospect of licking so many people, especially the food-stained boys and girls. Once in a while when one of the trucks or cars passes by and blows their horn right in front of us, Olive’s ears retreat like two wounded soldiers and she hops like a jackrabbit behind me for safety. Instead of just standing on the sidewalk like two deeply-rooted plants, Olive and I follow the parade down Main Street, mirroring the procession from the sidewalk. The air is punctuated with the sound of “oohs” and “aahs.” “Beautiful dog.” “Gorgeous dog.” “What a great face.” “Is she the parade mascot?” “How cute!” “Nice-looking dog you got there.” With each compliment, Olive’s chest seems to fill with pride, yet never interrupting her naturally graceful gait. We also pass a few garden-variety dogs every few yards and all of a sudden, what pops out from the sidewalk crowd but another weimaraner! Olive is always happy to meet one of her fellow brethren. The time usually devoted to the sniffing of naughty bits is significantly reduced when Olive meets “one of her own.” There seems to be an instinctual understanding between the two and they begin playing almost immediately. So far, we’ve been lucky. While the weims we’ve met may not be as naturally gregarious as Olive, they’ve been friendly. I worked hard to socialize Olive, especially when she was between 12-16 weeks old, which they say is the most important window for doing so. Sometimes, I’m afraid I’ve made her too friendly. She is innately trusting of strange dogs and people, so I have to closely monitor all “initial greetings,” to essentially protect Olive from her own naiveté. I chat with the dog’s owner and family for a couple of minutes and Olive and I continue on our walk. “Your dog is so pretty.” “Great looking dog!” “What a beautiful dog.” “Is that a weimaraner?” The compliments are always delivered in the same way. With a slight tone of incredulity. As if they can’t quite believe what they are seeing; that witnessing Olive’s beauty is like seeing an artistic masterpiece where you least expect it. Or like unexpectedly discovering one of the world’s natural wonders in your backyard. We continue walking and run into our friends, Susie, Perry, Ryan and Gail. Olive is always happy to see them and like the grifter she is, immediately tries to pilfer 2 year-old Ryan’s Pepperidge Farm Goldfish snacks. Olive thinks they should extend the line to include tiny birds. Even though it’s a holiday and we’re watching a parade, it’s just another beautiful day on Main Street U.S.A.
Life With Olive 