"A BEAR?"

“No Olive, it’s not a polar bear,” I inform my TV-loving pooch. But look at it. Can you blame her? I saw this thing and it made me crave both a Coca-Cola and a York Peppermint Pattie. Olive finds the television exceptionally engaging. Some dogs don’t. Like the dog a friend of mine had for many years. A fawn-colored Labrador who I’m sure was put on this earth to make us realize that yes, like people, dogs can be intellectually challenged as well. Steve (yes, that was his name) never, as in ever, glanced at the TV screen in his 15 years on this planet. Not a hint of awareness in the flickering images. Zero interest in the cacophony of sounds spilling out of the “idiot box.” He would walk by it a thousand times a day as if it were an inanimate object. Just another piece of furniture. Steve was a good dog, just not one of the brighter ones. In fact, my last and most enduring memory of Steve is when he returned home after running off (probably chasing a cloud or a shadow). Gone for hours, he shows up at my friend’s front door, all tuckered out and drooling. Smiling, with a peanut-butter coated English muffin stuck to the roof of his mouth. Stuck. To this day, I can’t figure out why he didn’t or couldn’t eat it. While he may have had no thumbs, he did have paws. As a counterpoint to Steve, I have a dog that is an avid TV watcher. Last night, Olive actually barked at the pheasants she heard on Downton Abbey. She chases the Golden Retriever chasing the VW Beetle in a commercial. She barks at doorbells ringing on pizza commercials, figure skaters gliding across the ice, cartoon dogs and cats acting silly, and dogs engaged in canine combat on “Dog Whisperer.” I have even watched her chase a marathon runner on TV. I guess the 51-inch screen makes it all seem incredibly real to Olive, but something tells me that even if the screen were much smaller, she wouldn’t notice it any less.

"Unbelievable."

“I cannot believe what I am seeing. Has Lord Grantham lost his royal marbles? Almost cavorting with a common house tart? And the honorable Matthew Crawley. He reminds me of an afghan – dog, not blanket – that I once knew. Nice to look at, but I wouldn’t follow it home. Except now that I think of it, maybe more like a blanket than I realized. They have similar personalities. OH MY GOD, I’M SPEAKING IN NARRATIVE FORM AND HAVE NOT INTERRUPTED MYSELF YET! What a dysfunctional pack of twits. I would never stand for such nonsense in my pack. EVER. Thank God I…oh wait a minute, I think I heard a fly fart…WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF! As I was saying, thank God, I can observe while perched regally on the couch at home, far away from such incestuous madness. PATTI, PLEASE BRING ME A GOBLET OF WATER. AND PEEL ME A GRAPE. Oh, no, maybe not a grape. Maybe a pheasant.”

"The HUMAN did it."

Right now, there is ample olfactory evidence that a small but powerful sulfur factory sits beneath my glass desk.

"I'm still deciding."

Usually, when I sit down to write, the story comes first and the title follows. Today, the title came first. On our walk this morning, as Olive and I passed by Centenary College, a car driving past slows down and calls out to us. “A weimaraner!!!” “Yes, a weimaraner,” I reply and I start to walk over to the car with Olive in tow. “Is s/he a rescue?” the woman asks. “No, I strongly considered it, but eventually got Olive from a breeder. All the stories online about how challenging this breed can be even when they don’t have behavioral issues sort of scared me off going the rescue route.” The woman informs us that she has two rescue weims and we begin a conversation that only the owners of weimaraners can have. We agree that they are not mere dogs. They’re not human either, but rather fall somewhere in between. You may often hear the word “rambunctious” used to describe their behavior and it is quite accurate. Rambunctious is described as being “uncontrollably exuberant, boisterous,” and “turbulently active.” And you should know that this is the “natural state” of the weimaraner. The rule, not the exception. When Olive races through the entire house like an Antelope on steroids, I just stand back, watch in amazement and amusement. On one or two occasions, she’s slid across a floor and slammed into a wall which stills her… for just a moment… while she collects her wits and then takes off again. Weimaraners are frighteningly intelligent as well. I feel like I am engaged in a battle of wits all day long with Olive. Somedays, I feel unarmed and like I am a weak contestant on “Survivor.” There are “Mexican standoffs” often throughout the day. “OLIVE. LET’S GO. WE’RE GOING TO THE STORE.” She stands there with her head slightly cocked, looking at me with her piercing amber eyes as if to say, “AND? WHAT STORE? WILL I BE ABLE TO GET SOMETHING?” In other words, she’s deciding if it’s worth going. This goes on for about 30 seconds before I begin to approach her. I have finally learned that if I approach too quickly, she pivots, takes off and races past me in a blur, waiting for me to find her in some distant corner of the house. The other day, during one of my very infrequent uses of the refrigerator’s water dispenser, I glance to my left and see Olive intently watching the water pour from the ”magic fountain.” “CRIPES,” I say to myself. “IT’S NOT GOING TO BE LONG BEFORE SHE STARTS DRINKING FROM HERE.” Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to get stainless steel appliances. They look like her water bowl. Many of the weimaraner’s behaviors makes them seem very childlike. But childlike as in “gifted child.” This is the thought that occurred to me today while chatting with the other weim owner. I did see a bumper sticker online somewhere recently that said MY WEIMARANER IS SMARTER THAN YOUR HONOR STUDENT. I laughed. Only another weimaraner owner can appreciate the sentiment.

"Oh Look, there's my ride!"

On our walk last week, Olive and I encountered a lipstick red hot dog truck sitting in the parking lot of an auto body shop. “LOOK OLIVE. IT SAYS HOT DOGS.” EITHER THEY MEAN THE NITRATE-LACED TUBE MEATS OR SEXY DOGS LIKE YOU.” Olive looks at me as though she recognizes that this is a teaching moment. I stand there and stare unapologetically at the bright red truck because like a 5-year old, I am always entranced by bright, shiny objects. I did try mightily to get Olive into this picture, but the truck was too tall, and it was parked between two other badly beaten vehicles, so I couldn’t get a wide view. And then there was the matter of who would hold her three-foot leash while I took the picture. I could have had someone Photoshop her into the picture but all the photos on this blog are neither “Photoshopped” or cropped, so I didn’t want to start doing that. Besides, I think everyone who reads this blog gets the visual pun. Off we go. As we approach the corner of this quiet back road, Olive starts pulling just a bit to see if the big white German Shepherd is in his yard. He usually springs up and pops his polar bear head over the stockade fence to ogle Olive. We call him “Kimba The White Lion.” “NOT TODAY OLIVE. SORRY. KIMBA IS PROBABLY IN THE KITCHEN TEARING OPEN A PACK OF BALL PARK HOT DOGS.” As we get closer to Main Street, I see that the political wingnut has planted himself in front of the local Post Office again. He’s standing behind a small card table flanked by posters of President Obama on which he’s drawn Hitler’s mustache. Really? Whatever your political views, is this really an acceptable way to portray any sitting President? “YOU KNOW WHAT OLIVE? I THINK THE NEXT TIME WE WALK BY, WE’RE GOING TO EACH BE WEARING A HITLER MUSTACHE.” How funny would that be? Of course, I’d have to apply and remove our mustaches quickly so passersby don’t get the wrong idea. And there’s no guarantee that you wouldn’t eat yours before we got to the corner. As expected, the wingnut senses an opportunity to engage me in conversation because I’m walking a dog. I’m not in a rush and politely listen. I’m open-minded. Maybe I’ll learn something new. When he started to talk about going to Mars as a way to re-boot the U.S, economy, I said. “YEAH, WELL I HAVE TO GO BECAUSE I HAVE TO TAKE MY UFO IN FOR A TUNE-UP. BYE.”

"Oh yeah. THAT'S the one."

Last night, Olive did something that truly amazed me. And this has inspired me to write today. I was sitting on the couch hunched over my iPad whose incredibly cool lime green magnetic cover was, I noticed for the first time, sticking to my copper coffee table. “What the heck?” I mutter to myself. Olive, my velcro companion, was lying beside me on the couch, snoring like a little Matchbox locomotive. As I sit, self-absorbedly reading everyone’s nonsense on Facebook, I hear a deep and very sustained growl from Olive. “GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR” In fact, this may be the first time I’ve ever heard her make this sound. It serves its purpose. It gets my attention. I look over in Olive’s direction and note that she’s now raised her head and is directing her serious bear-like growl with laser-like intensity at the television. I look at the TV and lo and behold, what do I see that she’s growling at? A black and white police sketch of a criminal suspect. I kid you not. I laughed my ass off. Either this guy is so evil that Olive picked up on it through the television screen, or she simply knows how to recognize bad people. I find the former possible and the latter comforting as Olive is so uber friendly that I’m afraid if she encountered a serial killer, she’d just start licking him like she does everyone she meets. Thanks, Olive. I’ve gotten a lot of mileage out of this story already. You are one smart little goofball.

"I'm not going ANYWHERE with 'hungry eyes.'"

On our walk the other morning, as Olive and I come to a quiet four-way intersection, a man rolls down the window of his car. Olive and I expect either one of two possibilities. We’ll either be asked for directions to a location about four blocks away or he’ll say something like “Beautiful dog.” It was neither. What he did say was this: “Hey, I’ll buy your dog from you.” It was a statement delivered in the form of a question. “Fat chance,” I reply with an unspoken acknowledgement of his back-handed compliment of Olive. “I just sold a litter last week,” he continues. I wonder what kind of response he’s expecting from me now. Finally, he’s basically pushed into the intersection by the car behind him and slowly chugs along his way. Olive and I cross the street and finish the last leg of our walk. It doesn’t occur to me until the next day that what the guy in the car was really suggesting was that he buy Olive to breed her so he can sell more litters. So, does that whole strange exchange mean he was propositioning Olive through me, her supposed pimp? I think I have to go take a shower now. “OLIVE? YOU’RE NEXT!”

"BAA. BAA."

The other evening, as I was bending down headfirst in Olive’s dog food container, scooping the little brown kibbles into her bowl, it hit me like a runaway freight train. The odor of lamb was so pungent, it finally ignited the circuitry in my brain. In an instant, I flashed back to that moment when I asked myself, “Why does my dog always smell like day-old lambchop?” DING! DING! DING! DING! BINGO!” This is why my dog smells like day-old lampchop. Because she eats lamb everyday. I guess she must secrete it through her pores. Sort of how a friend of mine always smells like a walking, stinking clove of garlic. Because she eats so much of it, it has to escape from her body sub-cutaneously. Her pores await the tsunami of garlic that rushes toward them, using these microscopic portholes as escape hatches. I guess the same thing happens to Olive. Maybe she’s eating too much lamb. Maybe she’s turning into a lamb? I wonder what she’d do if she came nose to nose with a real, live one? Thank God I don’t feed her groundhogs. I don’t know what they smell like, but it can’t be good. Too bad chocolate is harmful to dogs. I wouldn’t mind if Olive walked around the house smelling like a chocolate Easter Bunny.

"I think I get it."

Maybe I am crazy, but I love having existential conversations with Olive. I do this to stimulate her natural intellect and to reassure her emotionally that she has a life and existence all her own, one in which she has the ability to make choices. In some small, slightly delusional sort of way, I hope to raise her consciousness when I say things to her like: “Olive. Do you understand the concept of free will vs. determinism? Determinism is like fate; it’s how you ended up living with me. It’s the paw of cards you were dealt. Free will is how you play the paw you have been dealt. This means as a conscious being, you make choices in your life freely that you are able to make. Such as, do I lay on top of the back of the couch today? Or, on the bed in the master bedroom? Do I have a drink of water right now because I’m thirsty or because I might be thirsty in a few minutes and I’m standing by my bowl right now?” “Do I believe in Dog, or God for that matter?” Olive usually sits there politely listening to me address her in this sobering tone of voice. Other times, I sense her disinterest and she just humors me. “How do you know that you are really awake right now Olive and that my talking to you is not just a dream?” “Yes, that was a trick question. I just want to make sure that you know you may spend the day today however your little heart desires. The choice is yours.”

"Are we done? I'm EXHAUSTED."

As I sit here writing this post tonight, Olive is downstairs in the living room, splayed out in front of the pellet stove’s roaring fire and intermittently kvetching. Not a whine, not quite a bark. Something in between. Something meant to communicate her displeasure that I am upstairs and not giving her my full attention. She’s exhausted from the fashion show today. And when she’s tired, she can become quite pissy. If we’re out and it’s past 8pm, she’ll start to piss and moan relentlessly until we leave. She stops only when we get home. She races upstairs, leaps onto the bed like a pole vaulter, executes a few “nesting circles,” then plops down and conks out like a serial drunk. Initially, she lays there curled up like a street vendor’s hot pretzel, ultimately untangling her supermodel-long limbs and stretching out the full length of her frame, squeezing every last molecule of stale air out of her lungs. Occasionally, she might open one eye partially, and catch me staring at her. She goes right back to sleep. Today, at around 10am, we arrived at K-Nine Coaching in Old Lafayette Village for Olive’s fitting. There are already about eight dogs there, most of them the size of an infant’s teaspoon, save for one big-boned boxer who didn’t look very happy to be there. I think he might have felt emasculated by the gigantor bow that was attached to his collar. It was so big it looked like it had sprout from the side of his fawn-colored head like a parasitic twin. Like some “what the Christ were they thinking” accoutrement appended to the cleavage of some Hollywood starlet’s mermaid-like gown. It’s Olive’s turn to be fitted, so she marches forward with her usual unbridled enthusiasm and curiosity. Two dressers are strapping a violet-colored winter coat with a repeating pattern of blue paw prints on it over her head and around her undercarriage. She’s not too crazy about having her head plunged through a small fabric hole, but it’s performed quickly without clumsiness so she doesn’t panic. Meanwhile, she stands there fixated on some small white fluff of a dog wearing pink goggles. “DON’T WORRY OLIVE, YOU WON’T BE WEARING ANYTHING THAT RIDICULOUS. IF YOU’RE GOING TO WEAR ANY GOGGLES, THEY’LL BE PRADA BRAND.” Olive’s friend Luna, a blue weimaraner, arrives. They proceed to act like long-lost Siamese twins separated literally and figuratively for much too long. I know this sounds crazy, but I swear they understand that they are the same breed. Not species, breed. It’s uncanny. Olive behaves differently around Luna, almost as though they came from the same litter (which they did not.) Now it’s time to move Olive to the staging area with the other dogs. We enter an empty storefront which might be 12’ x 10’. It contains dog crates and adjustable fences that would fit properly in a space twice the size. Dogs, dog handlers, dressers and owners are also squeezed into this coffin-like space. Dogs are barking (including my champion barker), dressers are frantically dressing the models, handlers are coming in and out exchanging dogs; it is controlled panic. But this is probably what a human fashion show feels like behind the curtain, I imagine. Meanwhile, I stay close to Olive in her crate because in this atmosphere and because she’s so powerful, I don’t want her accidently escaping in the middle of all this unfocused hysteria. Olive is pissed at me; barking so incessantly that I’m almost getting sprayed by spittle. “I’M RIGHT HERE, OLIVE. KEEP YOUR PANTS ON. IT’S ALMOST YOUR TURN.” Thankfully, finally, it’s Olive’s turn to be led down the runway in the building next door. Flashbulbs pop and I proudly watch my pooch walk down the runway surrounded by strangers ogling her. She loves all the attention. She deplanes from the runway and is returned to my arms. “YOU MEAN I WAITED IN THAT CRATE ALL THIS TIME FOR THIS 90 SECOND WALK? YOU OWE ME,” admonishes Olive. “YEAH, YEAH, YEAH. YOU SEE THAT COAT YOU’RE WEARING? YOU GET TO KEEP IT. WE’RE EVEN.” Olive climbs in the car, lays down across the rear bench seat and sleeps the entire 30-minute ride home. What a rough life this dog has. Now, she’s standing in front of the TV barking at figure skaters doing a dance routine. This is a first. Maybe modeling isn’t challenging enough for her.