3 posts tagged “dogs”
I have absolutely nothing worthwhile to say on this fine Thursday morning.
Saturday morning at St. Arbuck’s.
There he sat content in the supremacy that came from being the only dog on the patio.
Buster was his name.
French bulldog was his heritage.
And make no mistake, he was cute.
Such a face.
He looks exactly like the dog on the lid of the old Buster Brown shoe polish cans.
His owners, a young couple obviously proud of their pet sat drinking their beverages of choice and reading the morning fish wrap also known as the Las Vegas Review Journal.
I observed several people pausing to pet Buster and comment to the couple on his evident cuteness.
It was a moment to cherish.
That was all about to change.
Cheri and I walked up with our pointy-eared, currently scruffy-faced, wonder dog, Trixie Belle—actually Ellie's Trixie Belle of the Ball if you want to be technical--a jet black Miniature Schnauzer of some renown, a picture of whom would would have been included were it not for Vox's maddening penchant for sporadically rejecting my attempts at uploading.
Anyway...
Suddenly the eyes of all were immediately drawn to her commanding presence.
Honesty compels me to mention that the very first ones to acknowledge her superiority were Buster’s owners.
The woman even left her seat to squat in obeisance and attend to Trixie’s scratching and nuzzling needs.
She said, “Oh, HE looks just like that dog in 101 Dalmatians…you know, the Scotty?”
I said, “SHE’s a Miniature Schnauzer,” a revelation which went completely over her head so enamored was she of Trixie.
It was a pitiable display of dog envy, and yet I had mercy on the poor woman and allowed her a full five minutes of Trixie’s attention.
When Trixie was finished with her, she moved on to the man who, although stalwart in his initial resistance, eventually succumbed to her, ahem, animal magnetism.
During this time Buster sat unnoticed and pouting under the table.
Feeling sorry for him—for as mentioned he is unarguably cute—I scratched his ears, for which he seemed to be grateful.
Having conquered that table Trixie moved on to others and before long was the center of attention.
Of course, for Cheri and I this is such a common occurrence that we sat calmly and enjoyed our coffee/tangerine frappacino drinking and paper reading whilst the other guests kept Trixie occupied.
Buster and his people soon left as it was painfully obvious that he had lost the battle for patio dominance.
But he’ll be back, as will others…all for naught.
For Trixie is not only the “Belle of the ball,” she is also conclusively the Bell of the patio.
RG…out!
When my son was little he used to tell me I “have a way of dogs.”
I’m not quite sure what meaning his seven year-old mind ascribed to the phrase, but I took it as a compliment. Over the years it kind of stuck to the point that it’s become a family joke of sorts.
But it’s not a joke...I love dogs.
Sometimes when I have nothing better to do, I will go to a random pet store and look at puppies, or go to the local rescue shelter and gaze at a few dozen sets of warm brown eyes and wish I had a country estate so I could take them all home.
I was at St. Arbuck’s early today. Mornings are good thinking time and good thinking generally produces good writing.
Generally.
Anyway…
My second favorite dog in the entire world came in with her master.
Her name is Maggie.
She’s an English bulldog.
A licking, slobbering seventy-pound hunka-hunka burnin’ love.
Tail wagging is for other less fortunate canines. For Maggie, it’s a full-body experience.
If she likes you, that is.
She likes me.
She’ll sit calmly by her master’s side, gazing through the window to see if anyone will pay her any attention.
I, of course, hold out for all of five seconds. Then I exit the store, call her name and watch as she goes into her act.
First there’s the body wiggle, followed by a full-throated greeting, which is merely preparatory to that for which she most longs—a jolly good slobbering. She really can’t be content until the object of her affection has been good and slobbered.
The master carries an extra towel for just such an eventuality.
After having been satisfied that her subject has had enough, she dips her head and waits patiently.
For what, you ask?
Why, it’s time for the scratching.
But not just any scratching.
Noooooooooo.
Maggie tolerates nothing short of what amounts to deep tissue manipulation. It’s kind of like doggie shiatsu--head, ears, shoulders and finally tail stub.
She really likes the tail stub rub.
And who wouldn’t?
Modesty prohibits me from…oh, what the heck…I am an expert in tail stub rubs.
Ask anyone.
Ask Maggie.
At some point—and the timing varies greatly—she will lose all motor control and just collapse onto the ground, her great pink tongue lolling out of the corner of her mouth as if she were road kill.
Then, and only then, is it safe to walk away.
Her master? Oh, he’s a nice guy. But it’s all about the dog.
It’s always all about the dog.
Sadly, she’s seven years old now. Bulldogs don’t live much past nine or ten.
For now, she’s my little doggie buddy.
Everyone with a way of dogs needs one—or two—or…
RG...out!
