Deliciousness

Chewie is an idiot.

So is Phil.

To wit:

Chewie ate Tam's glasses the other night. Phil thought Chew was playing with one of her myriad, healthy, fun fun fun yummy doggy toys that don't cause emergency treks to the vet on weekend mornings,. Instead... Chewster was eating hip chick anteojos.

The "crunching" noise .. was not the teeth-on-nylabone sound that Phil thought it was. Oh, noooo. It was actually the glass (not plastic!) lense being crunched into bitsy bitsy bits, and then swallowed.

When Phil came closer than the fifteen feet away he'd been, from Chewie.. and saw the brown trapezoidal frames being twirled like a rope bone, he was sad. When one of the lenses wasn't IN said frame, he was sadder. But Phil still didn't think Chewie swallowed the frame! Indeed, Phil told Tamera that while her formerly cool-ass glasses appear to be nearing the end of their time on planet mother Earth... there's a lense lying around SOMEwhere, that Chewie apparently popped out! But she couldn't EAT an actual glass lense, could she? Tam says Yes! Phil says No!

And then, hours later, Chewie, seemingly happy and weird as ever... starts to gurgle and buck and wiggle and fritter and urp, urp, urp, bloop, bluhp, PUKE something right onto Tam's formerly soft cool comfy comforter. It's six inches of white foamn, with two somehow smooth pieces of glass inside -- smoothed edges! As if filed down by the poochie gods! -- that are quarter-sized.

It is, to be sure, two thirds of Tam's left lense.

The vet is called, the vet laughs, ha ha very hee hee funny vet vet stop laughing seriously wtf vet? Hunh? Funny?

Well she appears to be fine, the vet says, playing with a waggy tailed Chewie chew chew, who's trying to eat the vet's stethoscope. Wait -- do vet's have stethoscopes? I think they do. And IF they do, Chewie would surely try to eat it. Point is, Chewie's feeling fine.. the vet checks here and there, talks about the bad possibilities (torn organs! ripped insides! six years of braces! months & months of dog therapy, and blaming every car-and-cat-not-caught on her -- nodding at Me -- Owner (dammit!)) ... and then whisks her away for x-rays.

Tam and I fret. Well, not really. We read Dog Fancy and gave each other a Horse Quiz in Equestrian Cosmo. (Didn't realize there was such a magazine -- unreal! Tamara likes white horses. I like black horses. Odd but true fact!)

Then MK the vet calls us in, and we look at Chewie's 2 x-ray views. Here's what we saw (for real):

* Enough poop to build a small beach hut, "knockin' on the door, ready to come out! ha!" -- according to our HILARIOUS and now more-wealthy veterinarian;

* A 2 1/2 inch "tree seed" (????!!!!) -- which the funny funny rich rich vet "removed from Chewie's rectum. "Did it hurt when you removed the tree seed?" Phil asked. "No," said the Vet, setting down her copy of Kiplinger's Personal Finance and calling her broker. "Darn," said Phil.

* No glass. None whatsoever. "Maybe it passed through?" said the Rita Rudner of Bay Area vets. "You should keep your eye out when she poops -- if there's any blood, call us right away... and you can watch for glass. If you really want to know, you can get some gloves and look for the glass in her poop." I don't think, i think i said, we're gonna repair the glasses. I don't need the lense pieces OUT OF HER FREAKING POOP. Sweet geezus.

We are given meds -- 3 pills a day for five days -- and told to get "regular Pepcid." Chewie is happy. We go outside. She makes a huge poop. I don gloves, craft a small hut out of it, crawl inside and weep myself to sleep.

POSTSCRIPT: The next morning, I see Chewie chewing on her rope bone. But -- alas! -- she has fooled the villainous owner once again! Under the rope bone is Tamara's blackberry charger cord. It is chewed to bits, and off to the Radio Shack we go, Chewie pitter pattering happily, healthily along my left side.

Song of The Post: "Maximum Consumption" by The Kinks (runner up - "Girls Just Want to Have Lunch" by Weird Al Yankovic)

City sidewalks, busy sidewalks...

I apologize that it's been nearly two weeks of acclimating to our New Life... without a single blog post. This process -- re-fitting into my old ways and places and folks, in this brand new manner -- a duo, however un-dynamic -- has been exponentially more formidable than I thought.

Chewie was fantastic on the plane, jetting back we had a window seat, the row behind the exit, with my bare feet on her furry sleepy back, and the middle seat woman not minding Chewie rolling into her footspace from time to time; Chewie was not afraid, at all, of the landing gear machinations or the bumps here and there -- but from the get-go, once landed, things felt dfferent fr her. She is a country dog -- born and bred -- and she was in the Big City now, like a pretty girl in a metal music video.

And it clearly felt upside down for her, to her, about her. While she was primed, geared up with new smells and sounds and scenery -- and so darn many dogs, everywhere, at every turn, large and small and in between... while that was all cool... you could see in her eyes that everything she'd ever known, wasn't here. I was the only link, and she'd only known me three weeks.

She seemed sad.

She got along well in my apartment... for about three hours. Then she pooped in it. Yes -- another dogwaste blog entry. The obsession continues...

Turns out, that my landlord -- when asked if there had b een any other dogs in the apartment, thought i meant dogs owned by tenants -- and the answer was indeed, No. However, the landlord himself had lived in our space... and owned an old hound... who'd peed everywhere.

So after I emntioned to Chewie's trainers that she peed twice and pooped in our apartment... totally out of character for her... the trainers insisted that another dog's waste stains/doodster remains HAD to be in there.. and voila! Twas true. She was simply marking terrain. So now, I am blacklighting the pad, finding and cleaning said stains with a vinegar - water solution + Nature's Miracle, so Chewie doesn't lift anymore.

She is otherwise doing OK potty wise -- if by OK i mean pooping mostly on city sidewalks swaddling with chatty coffee carriers and meeting attendees and bustling businessfolk, in front of gazing passers-by. Chewie is enchanted with city streets, city dogs, city dogwalkers, city traffic, city lights, city leaves blowing by on city parkways, city sticks and rocks, city mud, and city pigeons. She is most enchanted by the sidewalks, were she makes most of her country turning to city tinkles and such. We spend 15, 20, 25 minutes in the grassy parkland near my apartment (2 blocks), near Tamara's apartment (1 block), and near the newsroom (2 blocks) -- yet, she just plays, mostly, rubs her nose in the grass, chases birds, rubs my leg with her snout and paws (odd but true), and looks at other dogs and owners. After I ask her to Go Potty! fifty or sixty million times, and she doesn't, we leave... and she invariably squats and pooped on a sidewalk -- usually in front of a mansion. Once, she did it in front of very nice Greek restaurant, with people walking out with leftovers, left gagging. Another time, she squatted in the middle of a major street -- the WALK sign was flashing, and since she takes more than eight seconds to do it, i had to drag her across, ahead of itchy cabs. Additionally, San Francisco is, of course, a city of many hills.. and Chewie likes to squat and pee thereupon... thus creating a ChewieUrea River all the way down, from Pac Hts to Lower Pac Hts, or from wherever, to wherever below. Streams of ChewPee.. down, down.... down.

File it under my lessons learned: Urine is liquid, and it runs.

Oh -- I am NOT ass wiping. Nope. Jenn... I am off that train.

But I am still using a canister of wipes every three or four days... to clean up the messes on the sidewalks. Grass is so much easier! Oh glorious grass god... get going in attracting Chewliet to your easy bulls eyes!

Access has been mostly ok. Not many inane comments -- though not many means, in effect, that there have been a few. Two unauthorized pettings -- both today: one at the DMV, the other at UPS, where we picked up a package from her Papie in Chicago, who sent her bones and a neato water bottle we can share.

On the first night, the guy at the Korean BBQ place tried to keep us out, but we stood firm -- law is on our side -- and ate what may or may not have been a tainted meal.

Guy: No dogs allowed!

Tamara: It's a medical service dog!

Guy walks away. We remain in line.

Later, Same Guy: Really! Sorry! No dogs allowed!

Me: It's a medical servicew dog!

Guy: I am allergic, and this is a small place.

Me: I'm sorry. It's state and federal law; I'm allowed in. She'll be fine, under our table.

We're next on the waiting list, sitting down, Chewie perfectly quiet and content, an angel at our feet. I take my certification card and the law card with CA law on one side, the federal statute on the reverse.

Me: I'm not trying to be a jerk; it's the law, if you want to glance at it...

Guy: I know the law. It's ok. (waves me away)

Me: (sotto voce - If you know the law, why'd you try to kick me out?) Okay. Thanks.

But Tam and I thought they maybe spit in our food?

People ask what's up... sometimes brightly, sometimes, with inane openers like, Is she a seeing eye dog?

Um. Your eyes are green, and... no.

... and wherever i go, i am stared at, gazed at, and questiuoned, though nicely. Chewie is the center of attention, unendingly. People invariably assume I am training her to be placed with someone else. So be it.

The newsroom has been amazing... supportive in every way. I mean, they have to be, to an extent... but they're beyond supportive. Excited; happy; enthused; admiring; itching to have Chewie get more acclimated, and comfortable, in her new life, so I can take the vest off for a few minutes here or there, and they can pet her soft face and play some newsroom fetch. She mostly sleeps, though -- eats a bone, chills out, bones some more. She's out of the way. Occasionally she gets up and walks around on her own, trotting back waggingly when I snap my fingers.

This week, a TV crew from another local station -- not my CBS brethren upstairs -- came to our newsroom, filmed Chewie at work and me at work, separately and together... and the local reporter Bob macKenzie did a piece on us. I never saw it, but you can probably find it online. KTVU is the station.

And my pal Doug in our newsroom did a story on Chewie and I, using some sound I brought back, of Mykaela, from the program, and of Shannon (Gwen's mama). They sojnd good. Email me if you'd like to hear them and I'll forward them on.

We're getting there. She's still wigged out from all the newness--- she's nervous and jumpy, odd at times, eating a lot or nothing, pooping on sidewalks, thinking odd thoughts, seemingly... She's not quite herself.

She's also exceedingly clutzy. She picked up her bone last night, and cracked her skull on Tam's coffee table -- it would have knocked me out. She fell off a little ledge in a park -- THUMP! -- flat on her side, slipping on wet grass. She slides like mad across hardwood, and bumps into my legs scooting down the street. I have stepped on her paws... though her new vet here says her toe, is mending nicely.

And *i* have a hard time fgetting to work on time, at 11am most days -- despite waking up at 730. There are so many walks, training exercises, feedings, medications, baths, toys to play with and fix...where's the Phil time? Where's my stuff?

I look forward to the routine becoming routine. Right now, life is upside down -- as predicted.

Thanks to Angela for the newsroom pics.. and the SOTP is "Hard to Handle" by The Black Crowes:

We passed.

Chewie -- on her birthday -- passed the certification test "easily" -- none wrong, not the easy stuff we hadn't practiced, and not the hard stuff that she was taken in for extra after-class work to get better at... none of it was problematic.

We're coming home, diploma and ID badge and certification in hand.

Now, this is not an ending, of course... and our training will continue in earnest, for some time to come.

This is just the end of the beginning.

True, I'm quite sad to say goodbye to these folks -- the diabetic kidsa and their parents, Michele and her kids and husband; Kim and her family; and my friends Jenn, Shannon, Neal, and Kim and Kristy... sad to say goodbye to everyone, but I know I'll see many of them again, and be in touch, in consistent communication, online and otherwise, in the days and weeks and years ahead.

What a blessing.

I am quite excited to get back, can't wait, as Chewie gets a big-city whiff for the first time, on her 366th day of life. I'm also psyched to get back into the newsroom Monday, and see everyone, be 'me' again, as me as me can be, plus one.

And, by way of transition... to quote Mohammed Ali:

Me? We.

Indeed, I wouldn't have been writing this if not for the support, deep and lasting, profound and emotional, written and oral, financial and influential -- of so damn many of you. Thank you from here, and I'll see you -- this blog will of course continue, as Chewie's adventures in San Francisco begin -- I'll seeya on the other side.

We're off to graduation, and a Happy Birthday bash of sorts for Chewie... who had a bath before the certtification exam, and seems rather pleased with herself. Late tonight, Jenn and her mom Kristy are driving us to St Louis prior to my early morning flight to SFO. Three Califrnians, two dogs who've never been to Cali but are going there -- to live -- tomorrow.

Fantastic.

I saw all of this, this 'path ahead,' a few weeks back, in the first or second post... and this feeling i have right now, was a part of my prediction.

But I didn't realize how proud and blessed I'd feel (maybe because I usually feel prtoud, and always feel blessed!)

I mean, I knew I was going to be grateful for my family and friends who helped guide me here, to this experience, in so many ways... but I didn't know my profound gratitude and emotion would be so palpable, and I'd be so lucky with a crazy cute smart little dog, and I'd be so stoked to get out of this bubble, and also so changed, positively, for having been in it, confined, swamped with work and busy-ness in such a different-than-usual manner -- dog stuff! really! -- as it was such a rich, vivid, positive experience, and I've collected more than a few new, solid friendships. I didn't know, all of that, back then.

Now I do. Here I sit, a lucky man, again.

Thank you.

More -- much! -- very very soon.

SOTP: On Chewie's 1st birthday, "Fluorescent Adolescent" by The Arctic Monkeys, off the 'Favourite Worst Nightmare' album

Whiz Kidz

Chewie thinks I am dominant. She's slightly fearful of me -- she has a stronger-than-usual desire to please, compared to other puppies.

And therefore, she doesn't yet lick me very much. Generally, she's not too much of a licker... and she hasn't touched many others here (a few times, out of vest)... so her licking prowess hasn't quite been displayed.

There's only need for her to lick me, to ramp up the Alerting. Chewie has alerted me twice -- once, to a low, and another time, to a 100 point drop in my blood sugar level, from 190 to 91, which then levelled off at 95 and stayed there (but i didn't go low -- low for most is 80 or under).

When these dogs are learning to alert, we do scent training when we get low (whether they alert us, or we discover the low ourselves, via symptoms and then a blood test). We very specifically get our scent to their noses wit face to face interaction. Then, they're supposed to lick us -- and we praise. Problem was, Chewie wasn't licking much. She'd maybe lick my hand, but not my face. The trainers thought it might be, as happens with puppies, that she saw me as such a strong Pack Leader, that she didn't think she was supposed to lick me.. and therefore did not.

But there is a remedy, and it comes in a can, and tastes great, or awful, depending on how discerning your little tasty buds, on triscuits.

It's Cheese Whiz. Or, as my canister says, Party Cheese.

When I get low, wherever i happen to be, i spread it on my chin, and lips, and do the scent exercises with Chewster. And lo! behold! she licks me, licks me madly.

I did it in the back seat of Shannon's car the other day, in the parking lot of a bowling alley (we were going bowling; i bested Obama)... and then yesterday, we did it in the detergent aisle at Walgreens. There was c whiz EVERYwhere, and i had no napkins. When i finally met my friends later, there was dried cheese whiz (even worse? perhaps) on my chin, and, oddly, part of my earlobe, someone told me in the hallway.

Whatever works! Making out with my dog in public... apparently... may just work. It's gross -- especially with the added 'kink' of processed squooshie cheese being pooted out of a metal canister -- but we are, in fact, a new couple. And new couples kiss, a lot, anywhere they can. We're in this together! We're a team! We're falling in love! (And we love cheese!)

SOTP: "New Love" - Ziggy Marley & the Melody Makers

Chewie (with an I-E please), the Leo

The votes are in. Chewie with an IE won. Next time, i'll have to ramp up my voter registration and get-out-the-vote operations, because only eleven people voted. "Chewie" -- though -- had a majority, pulling in six votes, from both red and bkue states. Illinois was a true swing state, telling the tale.

So, Chewie it is.

Meantime... we were given all known information about the dogs this week.

Chewie is a Leo... and turns 1 year old on Saturday, tomorrow, August 2nd.

The party planning committee says they may step up. We already had some stuff on the calendar, as it's graduation day... our last day here, as we drive with the ever-generous Jenn and Jae and Jenn's mom to St Louis Saturday evening, before flying home Sunday... but we'll see about the singing.

Today's Chew's last day under one!

As for what we can learn:

Leos born on August 2 have an edgy personality that makes them interesting to others. They are often extremely good-looking individuals who have a desire to shock others with stories about their wild past. Even though these stories are often exaggerated, they see them as part of their "legend."

August 2 people believe that there is no such thing as having too many friends. They often lead an exciting yet troubled love life. They aren't really made for domestic bliss and seem to prefer playing the field for many years. They fall in love in a big way and often break up in a storm of recrimination.

Children and Family

Family is not usually a critical matter in the lives of August 2 individuals. As parents, they can indulge their own youthful nature by becoming part of a child's world and reconcile unhappy memories from the past through the healing miracle of love.

Health

August 2 people live life to the fullest. They are rarely careful about their diet and seldom, if ever, get enough sleep. They require plenty of vitamins and minerals in order to facilitate their good health.

Career and Finances

August 2 people like professions where they are on display. They have an outgoing, joyous personality that lends itself to success as a performer, model, or attorney. They are good at making money and even better at handling it. There is plenty of potential for becoming wealthy, as long as they have the discipline to follow through on their creative ideas and concepts.

Dreams and Goals

August 2 people see no barriers to making their goals come true. They want it all and have the chance to achieve their dreams if they keep their enthusiasm at a high pitch. Their one professional failing, lax work habits, must be corrected.

Famous People born on August 2nd:

1932 Peter O'Toole (actor)

1939 Wes Craven (film director)

1964 Mary-Louise Parker (actress)

Leo Itself:
As the sun moves into Leo we see a lot of stars, maybe not always famous but all in their own minds. The Leo men are as royal as their sign being accepted and sometimes worshiped by most around them. Both men and woman are of the theater, they are the best and the most believable. Here are a few examples; Jerry Garcia, Mick Jagger, Bill Clinton, Walter Payton, Connie Chung and the list goes on. You will learn more as we look into the individual days that make up the Leo legacy.

SOTP: "Dog Got A Bone" by The Beta Band, off the album Three E.P.'s

Strong Gazes

Chewie is okay, limping slightly, but cool. We spent the day at a kids' theme parkey place yesterday, and while she was a little freaked at first by the loud roller coastery zoom zoom noises, she settled down fine. Watching me closely with her wide emotion-filled eyes, but seemingly fine, even pleased.

The trainers and their kids, as we played games and licked ice cream cones and walked and talked and relaxed a bit, tried to 'steal' our dogs -- with some success. One girl, Jennifer, a teenager, was playing air jockey with her mom in the loud game room. She had Buster in a downstay, her foot on the leash, but reached forward to slap the puck, leaned off the leash, and when she came down, it wasn't there... and one of the trainer's nine year old kids (following instructions) had made off with Buster.

She wigged out a bit and they brought Busterboy back... but the lesson was clear. Michele, in fact, says she gets two emails a week on average, about service dogs stolen -- and it's in a public place nearly every time. They are well trained non-biting dogs, worth a lot of money. She has been stern -- and we have been non-believing: People WILL try to take your dog, touch your dog, step on your dog. They will be pissed you have it in a public place; they will ask you why, since you're "not blind." They will deny you your federal civil rights -- try to keep you out of this place and that.

And, they will pick up a not-held leash, and walk away. Which is why the dogs are trained to stay, even if being pulled, unless you give a command. It is the hardest thing for them to learn -- to stay even when being dragged. But they're supposed to plant their feet, not move, like a cartoon Fred Flinstone trying to stop his car -- supposed to BE, in fact, dragged... and never break, never walk with the dogthief.

So, that lesson was instilled.

They tried to steal every dog, successful sometimes. They targeted Chewie but I got the game and had her in my sights as I played skeeball and dealornodeal, that crazy in the groove! dance game, some shoot em up stuff. Chewie was great -- she looks at me when approached by someone else, her eyes lasering in on me, wondering, quizzical, waiting for me to speak, which I do, to listening ears.

They did manage to 'steal' her, at the very end, when we were sitting in a large laughey group eating hamburgers and drinking sodas. I went up to get more tomatoes, and said, I'm watching. Don't take her unless you wanna pick up her poop. (It's always about poop, isn't it?)

Spooning diced redfruit on my angus, I watched as they did, in fact, swipe her, and hustled her off somewhere I couldn't see.... so, i had a few minutes of Chewielessness.

I did not enjoy it.. though i must admit there was a wee bit of freedom.

Yes, i was playing tough, by not going after her, not doing the freakout that everyone else had done -- i'd learned my lesson, our lessons were instilled... and i was annoyed and didn't go after her. Ate. Cleaned. Packed up. Walked out to go home. Stood by my car until they walked Chewie happily over. I wasn't playing their childish games (and acted a bit childish by not, i know).... though i was happy they DID say she wouldn't budge, had to be dragged, and resisted the way she is supposed to.

Good girl.

I went and got a haircut last night, in the mall... and Chewster was perfect. I hardly even thought anything of it... just walked to the mall, as i'll do in the real world, walking anywhere... brought her inside, laid her down until my name was called, as she watched me with her big brown eyes, walked her (as people stared and stared and stared -- if you hate being gazed upon, you'll dislike your service dog handler status) to our station, and out her down to my left, away from the swaths of human hair (ick) on the ground, most of it the deep browns and black colors of Chew herself. I sat down, not holding the leash. It didn't reach. I looked. She was staring at me, waiting for instructions. I got her up, swept a hairless path away with my sneaker, and put her under the stylist's counter, holding the leash in my lap. She was perfect throughout, sniffing a bit (and told No), watching me closely, and checking out the stylist swing her long dark-and-maroon-streaked hair about, looking back at me, and laying chin-in-paws.

Real worldy, that was, though we're not quite there.

On the way, I heard not one, not two, not three, not four, not five, but six -- six! -- little kids start crying because they wanted to 'pet the doggie.' Some parents look at us and know -- "You can't!" they till their little tiny kid. "That's a working dog!" ... Good Mommy! God Daddy! ... and if the parents look as if they're gonna ask, "Can Junior pet your pooch?" i jump in first, say, "Hi!" and then, to MY girl, "Heel!" while miving briskly yonder, knowing eyes are on my back.

I can't stop for everyone. Some people walk straight up to you and ask about them. Some people walk right up and put their hands out for the dogs to sniff; I pull her back and say something to the effect of, 'Please don't touch her. She's working.' -- though I do it as nicely as possible.

I was walking down the hotel hallway one night, grabbing my forgotten notebook, and walked past the father of one of the kids in our class. Another child, parentless, sprinted past the both of us... and when I got to my door, he came up behind me -- he's a fellow White Sox fan, and I thought maybe he was gonna give me a baseball score -- and said, Just so you know... that kid just petted Chewie as he walked past... he got past YOU, and put his hand on Chewie's shoulders, and patted all the way down her back to her tail as he ran past.

Just so you know.

Not that it's a huge deal, though if it happened fifty times a day I'd have to takes some steps to avoid or correct. But, it's gonna happen. My eyes (especially MY eyes) cannot be everywhere. But my sharp tongue will not, will never, hold back.

I think we'll be okay, on Monday, heading to a newsroom off a city bus or train, zipping around downtown, buying coffee and lunch, then groceries and such. Living. Having a day. Then an evening. Then, if blessed, doing it again, again, and again again.

I do, I do, I do think she'll be good, watching me, while we walk and live, play and work, being watched constantly, being seen and recognized, by many eyes. It'll be me doing my thing, as ever, and Chewie, listening best she can with that bright little pulsing doggy brain, over and again, one day at a time.

SOTP: "These Eyes" by The Guess Who.

Restricted Anew

Chewie is a lunatic.

She likes to jump off the bed to play fetch. High and hard and far and fast, she jumps jumps jumps, off and on. She was cleared to jumop after time off for the toe... until now. Here's the latest:

We were playing fetch last night -- and videotaping it... it's a training exercise (eventually, i may teach her to 'fetch' juice out of the fridge)... and she flew off the bed further than usual to grab her phallic sock tennis thingy (it's a baton-shaped tennis ball that she loves, covered in one of my socks that i was wearing when i went low. it looks ridiculous)....

she flew off the bed to fetch, splayed oddly out on landing (didn't stick it, as the nbc commentators will soon say in beijing)... and then walked to the toy, which rolled to the fridge. She then started whining -- loudly -- sadly... Shannon sad it was the saddest thing she's EVER heard. Chewie whined and cried and turned and left her beloved phallus toy sock ball, limped to me, sat in front of me, and whimpered. it was almost midnight, and i told her it was okay, and patted her head and such, freaking a bit. shan was freaking, gwen was concerned too.

we were gonna call michele, but shan said, see how she's walking first... and she was walking fine. not limping. so i didn't call.

then we played more (not as active) games... but later in the evening, she limped again... and jenn (not i) called michele, who said, tether her to the bed and go to sleep, no more playing, i'll see it in the morning.

she was walking fine this morning, slightly limping -- at first we thought it was a different paw, but upon inspection, it was clearly the same one. slightly swollen, not much. a slight limp, after having none -- hardly noticeable unless you're seeking it.

so... she's ok... but she's not allowed to jump off the bed for two months. sixty days. we shall restrict her, yes we shall. the firecrackerface.

she's gonna be PISSED...!

so, despite this mishap, she passed a run-thru of the certification test today, did great... as did jae and gwen and odie... among all of 'em... so, we're getting there. two more days, after today. is all.

SOTP: "There She Goes Again" by R.E.M., off of Dead Letter Office

Endorsement Opportunity

Chooey is getting a few endorsement opportunities. As her manager, I am weeding through some scripts and options. If y'all have any thoughts, please let me know, at

feedback-chewiefanclub@ labradoodledandy.obama08.ledzeppelin.squatspotter.chuckwagon.
mtv.dontyoudaretouchmyservicedog.fox.chewster-the-movie.net


Here's one of the offers; I'll scan another later:

SCENE:
Suburban home, one tree, NO visible foreclosure notices, crisp white picket fence. Steam rises from a pile of something below shot level, wafting onto the porch. Mean Guy enters shot from front door:

MEAN GUY: (note: casting agent is hoping for Roger Clemens): Arrgh! Who pooped on my lawn? Grrrr!

Dog Owner and Chuey walk into shot from screen left. Closeup of D.O. as Chewy sits and tail wags adorably. Chewie sniffs the air, tail stops wagging, as she looks at the steam. Speak to CG folks about steam coloring, as yet undecided.

DOG OWNER (Tobey McGuire-type): Not my dog! And even if she did, I'd have cleaned it up with new Doggy Diapers! And no one would be the wiser! (smiles like a dink)

Voiceover, of either Gene Hackman or Tom Brokaw, depending on availability (see schedule, attached as page 3D): Doggy diapers are better than those old-hat blue bags. When you're carrying a blue bag, EVERYONE knows there's a lump of shit (check with legal; alternative: "poo") in your bag -- and it's even hard to find a garbage bin willing to accept it.

CUT TO: Garbage bin frowning. Research of this is possible.

DOG OWNER: (as Chooie turns sideways, then rear view -- head away from us, butt at screen front, with her head looking at us over her shoulder, like an astronaut in a pre-mission, thumbs-up, "It's a go for a Tuesday launch!" photo) But with Doggy Diapers, you simply slide the flexible foam cover -- made out of petroleum by-product and out-of-circulation Chinese currency -- right under your dog's rear fecal producing chamber! (check with legal; alternatives: "derrier" - "caboose" - "tooshie")

CUT TO: graphics of Snoopy squatting, as Woodstock and Pig Pen slide a Doggy Diaper under snoopy's backside. Graphics animate the sliding action of the diaper apparatus, but the "waste" appears as a Medicare supplemental prescription card invoice, and a Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee donation card).

VOICEOVER: (If Hackman hasn't stormed off the set by now) Doggy Diapers not only CATCH the doodie... but once you have it, the Diaper Attachment folds up into this handy likeness of a Starbucks cup! No one knows you have a Venti pile of poop in your hands!

DOG OWNER: (Holding two coffee cups, and dog leash.) No more embarrassment! Now, when my dog's a chick magnet -- (Loni Anderson and Jaclyn Smith walk by, grinning giddily, gazing at Dog Owner. CASTING TO CHECK if they're still alive, and/or if a more youthful market can be targeted) -- I can work MY magic! (Runs hand holding leash through his poofed out suburbiafro)

VOICEOVER: Just make sure you keep track of which cup is yours, and which is Roverette's!

CUT TO: (Mean Guy looking quizzically at a coffee cup. Scratches head. Picks scab off needle mark on arm.) Grrr?

CHEWIE: (Giggling like she's had three cosmos) Woof!

VOICEOVER: Doggy Diapers! Available at Wal-Mart! Now, with 33% less of our usual carbon footprint!

###

SOTP: "Beercan" - Beck, off Mellow Gold

Waterworld

[ NOW! WITH MORE CREEK VIDEO! ]

Sorry to disappoint you, Kevin Costner and Jeanne Trebleclefhornethorne whatever-her-name-is fans -- this post ain't about a sequel.

It's just some video from all The Dogs playing in a creek in rural Missouri, last weekend... chasing sticks, eating rocks, sniffing poopyholes, barking at fish, splashing and flashing and drinking god's gifts -- by which i mean, crystal clear agua (if by 'clear' i mean elk- and fox-urine infested H2O).

We've had a bunch of field trips lately -- up The Creek; seeing Heath Ledger's profoundly entertaining performance (Chewie likes Michael Keaton better than this guy, but *i* bought the tickets); sushi and a crowded mall in Columbia -- you show me something in central Missouri to do... and we've done it!

Apologies: sorry the last two posts were about canine waste. My life has changed. Today, Jenn's mom said 'Look at what you're doing! You've come a long way! hee hee hee'... as i dug a little tiny piece of moldy tree bark out of Chewmama's mouth, while simultaneously scrubbing Some Other Dog's soft caca from The Chew's flank, with a wet wipe -- after Chewbama rolled in said shit. Dis gus ting. But necessary, that evil -- that gross Doodie Most Foul.

So, few posts as it's been busy as heck as we train and train and train, prior to Saturday's written and action testing and, Chewie-willing, our graduation. I haven't had much time to do anything but wipe my dog's hiney, feed her, scold her, pet her soft fur and drive around with Shannon listening to The Beta Band. It's been quite an experience, as i mention ad nauseum... homesick though i be... and I'm pretty happy with the way Chewie has learned, bonded and ra,ped steadily up, and up. And let me tell you, she's ecstatic with the way *i* have progressed. It's been 16 long, arduous, and at once fun and frustrating days.

I am getting ready -- nervously -- to take her into the real world -- my true, day to day existence... which is removed from this here bubble. Far removed. A short time from now, in a land far, far away. And it will be different -- pottying her before I head into work. Explaining my legal rights to restaurant managers who say, No Dogs Allowed. Calling the cops for backup (i've always wanted to do that -- I am gonna snapily, snarkily Sipowitz the HELL outta some of the snidest of San Francisco snootie snoot snoots) when i am refused entry.

It all changes soon... but the training has in fact just begun, and will continue... in the world. Wowza.

So -- sorry I haven't much been gettin stuff on. Here's some Chewmanheimer video, by request.

Song of the Post: "Stop" by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

Wiped Out

First, I realize that this post will once again deal in the delicate matter of canine bodily produced waste. I apologize if this offends anyone.... uh... wait a second -- no, I don't. If you don't like it, don't read it. It's high time someone realize that most of the organic world poops! Just about everybody! Someone should write a book about that, perhaps with a simple, funny, meaningful because it 'tells the whole story" title!

Get on it.

Moving on, there are some things i do in the middle of the middle -- Missouri -- that I don't do elsewhere. Things like:

* scoff at the coasts
* fear the onset of scurvy
* discuss the Civil War as if it's a contemporary political issue
* mutter at people in Yiddish
* talk about hunting deer
* curse at the lack of poop on the horizon
* hunt... for vegetables and fruit... and the exceedingly rare (yummy) raw fish
* praise the mighty, sudden, rank but long-awaited appearance of poop
* wonder why god hates me because she clearly is inficting punishment, by making it hot out.. which quickly softens and renders more nasty aforementioned poop
* talk about frogs
* make a tearful public spectacle of myself, as i drop newspapers and soda cans in the garbage
* eat nachos, because it includes three of the food groups (bread, protein, and vegetables -- if the jarred- jalapenos are in season)
* call San Francisco "Frisco"
* call Chicago "Chi-town"
* call Saint Louis "the City"
* clean a dog's ass with a wet-wipe

Let's talk about that last one for a bit.

Jenn, she of the wild Jai shepherding chill but crazy chickdog.... wipes her dog's ass. I'm talking about the anus. I'm speaking directly of the icky little dank hole under the tale, from where the poop apparently emerges. She wipes it, Jenn does. Every. Single. Time. Jai. Poops. Why, oh why god? Deliver me from this evil.

WARNING -- INTERNAL DIALOGUE AHEAD:

Okay, so Jenn wipes. M,aybe she likes to wipe it? No, she said she doesn't. She just does it, and, um. That doesn't mean that I have to do it too, right? If Jenn jumped off the roof, would I? (beat) Maybe. What does Jenn say?

I decided to investigate. I sat down with Jenn, and asked her, Wherefore? Why?

Jenn:
I do it because Jai licks me and Jai also licks herself, and I don't want to get poop on my mouth. And I sleep next to her. Clean is better.

me:
Ew.

I looked down at that moment and Jai sat, looking freshly scrubbed and smelling of dafodils. Meantime, two feet away, Chewie sniffed her southern hemisphere, after dropping the muddy twig she'd been gnawing. She finished with a snort (Chewie, not my dear new friend Jenn) and looked at me. "Yessirree!" she probably thought. "Lick 'em if you've got 'em."

And at that moment, I changed from a slightly odd and mildly creative, open-minded and -hearted dude with a blessed many pals, and fevered optimism, to a slightly odd and mildly creative, open-minded and -hearted dude with a blessed many pals, and fevered optimism, who wipes his service dog's ass every time she drops one.

The end!

Good story, eh?

Song of the Post: "Shake Your Rump" by the Beastie Boys.

So, here's some video of the CuCuCaChew, having a little fun. Shannon as cinematographer. Chewie as herself; me as ass-wiping leash holder.

Urine Luck.

Chewy doesn't pee very much. And I spend an inordinate amount of time telling her -- beckoning her -- begging her to do so.

It's not so much when we're here, around our home base hotel. But we do a lot of training in The Mall (it is that generic -- a bland, overly air conditioned place housing a Sears and JC Penney and a subway in the food court -- which is Our Hangout -- our being, our clique of Adults In Class -- Jenn with Jai and her mom, Shannon with Gwen, and Neal with Odie and his wife Kim (Neal's wife, not Odie's -- sorry, anti-same-sex marriage folks -- this isn't grist for your mill of intolerance).

It's a pretty cool thing, too, to hang out with three new people my age, all Type I, with stories to share and more camaraderie than I would have expected -- and the kind of knowing looks and nods during tales told and suggestions from someone who knows that I didn't know I missed -- but I do, now, need. There's no going back. Jenn and Shannon and Neal will be -- are -- my friends... and in a truly unique manner. It's pretty freaking cool.

(It's been an epoch and a half since I hung with a Type I my age.)

So, we go to The Mall or, Wal-Mart or, Barnes & Noble... or somewhere else to train... or Chili's last night for "dinner"... -- I was at all of those spots yesterday, all of tyem, all of them. It felt like two suburban weeks... and prior to walking into the 62 degrees of each spot, from the 91 outside, I am jackassedly parading outside on some little strip of yellowbrown grass between the parking lot spaces, vast and oil dropletted and burning feverishly, angry at humans, this grass is. I am walking Barack Chewbama back and forth, imploring her to do it for her, for me, for America: "Yes we can... urinate! Yes we can... take a ZING! of a whiz! Chewbama, yes we can.. avoid the heartbreak some of the other handlers here have felt, as their dogs, seemingly fine, just walkin, talkin, lookin about all cool like, suddenly squat and lay (lie?) a load -- in The Mall, in Wal-Mart, in other places where Poop Isn't Welcome. But you and I Chewie... you and I have our sleeves rolled up and we're going to take on special interests, we're going to dial back the high oil prices (which affect shipping costs for poop bags), we're going to make sure health coverage for folks who get sick by picking up poop, covers all Americans, we're going to create good jobs (dogwalking, dog grooming, pooper scooper manufacturing), and we're going to start... we're going to begin... we're going to set a new course, on a (dog friendly) bridge to the 21st century's second decade... by taking a friggin' Pee. Right. Now.

Yes we can!

Truth is: no she can't. She never peed yesterday until we got home. She watched Gwen pee a few times -- Gwen would walk on the grass, squat with focus, like a golfer on the 18th with TV cameras rolling, pee, and walk back towards a blissful Shannon, who's stand giggling for a minute or two, and then bored savagely, wghile Chewie itched, looked at me wondering what we were supposed to be doing, scratched, sniffed a leaf, looked at some kid walking by, walking and sniffed and fake squatted, lay down and roll in the yellowbrown grass, sniffed, sat still. Gwen's like, wtf is she doing? Looking at me, Chew, Shannon -- Gwen was bored.

And Gwen's (remember?) a dog.

So... Chewy is not peeing. She's a standup comic, but the whiz canal -- is bashful, in front of me, other dogs, rocks and sticks, stuffed and satisfied Chili's patrons, Wal-Mart's union breakers -- everyone. So: urinate?

No, we can't.

Today's exceedingly appropros Song of the Post (SOTP): "Dried Up" by the Ass Pony's, (off the album Lohio).

It is a sad song about young love. Like mine with Punky Chewster, and my worry over her (yeah--) dried up doggybladder.

And here's some vid outside Barnes & Noble, after Chewie had refused to pee four times, and before she'd refuse to pee four more times (let me tell you this: if you're going to have a bite with your pals at Applebee's, say -- our choices are rather limited, so give me a break -- and your dog hasn't peed since John Edwards was a presidential candidate -- you'd be nervous too. She's going INTO applebees. I mean, Chilis. Wherever it was. They have margaritas and wacked-out drinks for non-children the color of pee. Do YOU want to be the guy blamed for something raw and nasty? Nope.) where Shan and I shot training scenes of Gwen and Chewy.

J.C. and Chewie, sittin' in a tree...

P-R-A-Y-I-N-G.

So, Sunday morning, Chewie and i joined all the Christian D&D's (put your 12-sided dragon dice away: I'm talking about dogs and diabetics) for a solemn walk, a down-stay to the lord. Should that be capitalized? I think lower case l is good for me. I'll cap Love or Led Zeppelin or Lady, the good-but-not-great song by the (caps) Little River Band. Anyhoo.

(BTW -- yes i realize i'm a few days behind... but this is a busy process -- the busy-ness is kind of hidden and surprising, sneaks up like an errand-filled Saturday, when all of a sudden it's 5:15 and you haven't even worked out or finished your book or called your parents. I mean, it's non-stop in ways that make you unable to recount exactly where the time goes. For example, Jen and Shannon and I just video-trained about a third of the daily video training tasks we were supposed to shoot -- one third ! -- and it took 100 minutes. It's lengthy, time consuming, hilarious and maddening, at once).

So. We met in the lobby at ten Sunday morning (and by 'we' I mean the Christians, the Jew(s) and the canines). My alarm didn't go off and Chewie has taken on her handler's PhilHandlery sleep patterns -- up till two, scramble for a mid morning bone or tennis ball or bowl of kibble -- so we showered and put on our Sunday best. By which i mean, no flipflops.

I lifted Chewster into Shannon's car. Gwen was already whimpering. Maybe she feels like a sinner, too.

We all hung out on the grass parkway in front of the Bible Baptist Church for a goodly while. An accidental tinkle or even an icky poopoo in a big box store is one thing. But at Heaven's Gate? What Would Peter Do if a pooch pooped? It was too much to think about. I was speaking in tongues.

That's just what They need: a Jewish kid from a progressive city, with confetti still floating down from Mount Sinai after the same-sex marriage ruling, and the star of david tatted on his shoulder, marching in with a service dog spy to a Sunday morning service... listening to a sermon about 1st Kings 17-45.... and having said Jewish pooch, lay down an icky sticky, unrighteous Pew poo.

So we pottied for a good while.

Problem is -- and it is a problem -- that bathroom going, for Choo, is a spectator sport. She watches all the other dogs. There's Jai, squatting with perfect posture -- and there's Chew, transfixed, and looking at me as Jai saunters away to Jenn's great graces, -- looking at me as if to say, 'Not bad! That was perfect form! I'm gonna try that low-to-the-ground method myself one of these afternoons!'

So Chewy watched a dozen dogs squat, and then looked at me like, 'No encore?'

"Go potty cuckoo Chewchew!" I said. She looked around, saw that the stage lights were up and everyone was filing out of the room, and circled to squat.

Thank god, i thought.

We filed into church. Men in suits greeted us. We congregated in the lobby, were given some instructions by Michele, and filed in.

It was a large room -- the precise size of the temple I grew up going to -- and we sat in the three back rows, dogs 'under' the pew in front. I was on the end, next to Shannon -- god gave me the last seat in the house, i guess in case my Judaism, or Chewie's bladder, started leaking and we had to make a run for it. I only know her a week, but i know chu hates pitchforks.

I read the Bible as the Pastor -- a guy younger than me, I'm told -- read parts of it. I checked out my Bar Mitzvah portion -- Genesis 41 -- about Pharaoh's bad famine dreams, interpreted winningly by Donny Osmond -- I mean, Joseph -- who then prepares Egypt properly.

Genesis 41 is about preparation... problems and answers... effort and energy. It's about making what looks like a mountain into more of a molehill, by thinking first, and taking purposeful action.

It's about the consistent issues and problems one will encounter -- some you can view; some hidden behind a seemingly bountiful path -- and realizing that answers exist, and they're before your very eyes.

But your eyes must be open.

I sighed, thinking about this, pleased with myself, and no longer even a little bit afraid of very much. Ready for the small, i think i am i think i am, and ready for the large.

Just then, Chewy rolled over and was in the aisle of the pew in front. Luckily, no one was sitting there. I went to that pewfront and rolled her back. 'Stay!" i barked. All of the dogs looked, and some kids. Each D&D was there but one -- there was one rush-out. (Maybe someone did have an encore for Chewster.)

The sermon started and that's where I was lost.

I had questions:

Why is he yelling at me?

Does he not like us?

Is he serious?

What? Did he just shriek or squeak?.. or both?

Can you keep it down? Someone's trying to take a nap under the pew, capeche?

Why are you mad at me?

Are you voting for Obama?

Where's Mel Gibson's pew? I want to ask him about that love scene in 'Braveheart': Did you really kiss that French actress -- Sophie Marceau -- or was that a stage kiss? Dude! Can you tell me?

Can I go now?

There was some really loud loudness -- America is broken stuff, and JC can fix it -- and i respect the right to have such belief. But I was also sleepy, and felt badly when he was asking anyone who wanted to be saved to come up front and kept looking towards the D&D's -- whom he greeted several times, thanked us for coming. I did feel badly. Please! Someone be saved! So he stops yelling!

No one went. He claimed it's the first time in a good while that there were no saves. Well, I thought, maybe you should practice your manners instead of yelling at 150 people scattered about in jeans and polo shirts (which is mostly what was worn).

During the 'say hi to your neighbor' thing, none of the dog people left but me. 'Stay!' i told the converted reform pooch, and shook hands with some of the flock. Chewie watched me. Chewie went back to sleep.
.
Below there's a few little tiny surreptitious video from Sunday morning. Chewy won't soon be at church again -- am not (yet?) dating a churchgoer -- so i thought i'd post it in this Baby Book.

Also... we have a new feature, by special request. It's called 'Song of the Post' -- and for this here version, the SOTP is "Jesus Is Just Alright" by The Doobie Brothers.

Good luck y'all!

In My Head

Sorry I've been a bit late, not posting.... I'm busy trying to keep my blood sugar level while training a dog to sniff out lows. Interesting, isn't it, that the best weeklong stretch of control I've had, has been here -- in the company of Fellow Diabetics, where I'm safest to crash, where the lowness will ultimately HELP me avoid the torn jeans and bloody knees, the wild conversations or slow digital audio editing, the sprints to the mountain dew machine and ninety minute phone conversations with flo, -- will help such avoidance by prepping a dog for duty?

It is an odd thing to be around diabetics... to see people dial their pumps or fill syringes and prick their fingers -- things I mostly do privately. It's all whipped out here. And it is an odd thing. Neal, on the first night -- who's only been diagnosed about five years -- said that right away, how 'understood' he felt. And I hadn't -- don't -- feel MISunderstood... not now anyway. (During the surgeries was another story -- though I had an exceptional teammate, guiding me, and good friends who while they couldn't completely get it, did a fraternal job trying... and family, doing the same...).

But as time has gone on -- this now ten days here feels like fifty, on many fronts -- some obvious, some less so -- I have been noticing the diabetic cameraderie more. It's intriguing. Community always is -- it's why I love cities -- with the vast and various options for community, about items tiny and voluminous.

I have spoken about diabetes with teenagers before, when i was just passed teenagerhood myself. I found it rewarding. But i also had, at the time -- not as much now, though a bit -- some unresolved, untethered notions about this disease, how it came to me (and comes to others), how I feel about it (and how others feel -- both about my being a diabetic, in how it affects my relations to them -- and, how other diabetics might feel insofar as it affects them, every second of every day -- and changes, however unnoticeably to the non-diabetic world, how they relate and talk to, date, kiss, get angry at, laugh with, and process life's valleys and hills and hills and valleys. It affects the hard ground just below your foot, as well as the horizon. And only those who get that end up being close with me -- even though I have a cornucopia of friends -- god, am I blessed -- and many of them haven't had overt discussions about this stuff with me. Which is fine -- I bring it up as needed, and 31 years down river, the rapids have smoothed. (How many metaphors in one paragraph? Many metaphors in one paragraph. I'm high on caffeine, as Chewie chews a ribeye bone, safe and dirty). (Just like I like it). I need not process this stuff every day. I do it when needed, with whom I choose. Dating someone new brings it up. Friending someone new has it rise. Seeing a friend or family member I haven't seen in a bit raises the notion. But generally, friends might hear me say, "I was low today, here's what happened..." or see me whip out a syringe... but it's not a front-burner-topic.

Though it's always in my head -- it must be, for good health, and anyone who loves me, or might so love, learns to be grateful for that "in my head"-ness.

And that's why being here is cool, even aside from the furry lunatic at my feet.

It has come to my attention...

So.... it's true. Chewy is my co-pilot, and, besides Chewie cameraderie stuff, I still have something to ask Harrison if I ever run into him: why on earth no "Regarding Henry 2"?

And there's this: Chewy isn't exactly an original name. Or idea. Or blog subject.

The other night, one of the too-friendly (it is nice, yes yes) women at the front desk asked me for Choo's name. I am still not sure if I'm supposed to say it -- some of my classmates say, Don't! Someone could call her and steal her away! But I'm -- yaknow -- overcommunicative.... and a name is what it is: meaningless without the substance behind it, without manner and knowledge and background and foreground. So, I say the name. Her name. Out loud.

To the hotel chick I say, Chuie. She says, that's a good name. I say, sure. She says, my parents have a lapso apso whose name is Chewy. I stop and pay attention now: what? She says, my parents have a... and i interrupt, I heard you -- my god -- that's so freaking random... it's Chewey? Your parents' dog's name? She says yes! It is! Unh huh! ... like it's no lightning strike deal that her folks (who are probably my age!) and I, have doggies with the same name.

I want -- crave -- unique.. and it's as if she's heard the name a thousand times.

I say, do you know any other Chewydogs?

She says yes. I think I do, she says. I slap my forehead and move on. But I stop and whirl: how, I ask earnestly, do they spell it? Like the granola bars, she says.

Then... I had the Chelsea Handler show (yes -- we're related) -- on the other night -- (holy muther do I despise hotel -- ie, non-dvr-able, ad-addled cable television) -- and her opening bit was about she and her pal, her sidekick, doing this and that, runnin around WeHo or wherever, snarkily, godlessly, ordering lattes, pulling fishing line across pedestrian walkways and making fun of non blondes, non hots, not cutes, non cools.

And her sidekick's name... Ms Handler says, is Chewy. He's not a dog, thankfully. It's a little tiny stocky dude. No, he doesn't look like me. Yes: he's adorable, like my Chooey. No, he doesn't spell it with an "ie" -- which is leading the Spell a Ladyservicedog's Name Poll. (Please -- again -- send me an email if you'd like to weigh in - philhand13@gmail.com).

So I got to checkin' out the Chewie's here and Chuy's there... and there are more than a few... and there's one limping little dog here who's PISSED. Like her handler, she itches and scratches (yeah) for wit and wisdom. For, originality.

Then there are the competition-by-blog (all real):

http://www.chewydog.com/

http://www.geocities.com/pugdogz1/

http://verychewy.com/

http://www.chewyjunior.com.sg/

http://bitsofmarshmallows.blogspot.com/


A few people have called her (not to her, bc they're not allowed to engage her... but, to me)... Granola Girl.

They say it, and I stare at them unblinkingly, blankely. Or stare at the computer or text, similarly.

They, eager to explain their funny funny joke: "She's gonna live in San Francisco!"

Me: "Um."

(and, scene).

Another person chatted me, "How's Pelosi's broken toe?"

I made a face and typed. Hunh?

"Female? In charge? San Francisco?"

I do a director-ordered eye roll and type, "Chewy wants a timetable for troop withdrawal, but stem-cell's her pet issue. (Pet?) A cure brings freedom from her indentured servitude. And health care. She can be set free."

The 'friend' wrote, "That's so cute! Troop withdrawal! Hee!"

Lord.

I guess I'm pretty much for sure going to be Princess Leah for Halloween.

The Scanvenger Hunt

Hello friends; hello family:

Dog camp is fun. Today we had a scavenger hunt. It was neat. But also boring. All the parents and kids were there. We had to find stuff and take funny pictures. We went to the state capital building and ice cream shops and different stores and the mall and Lowe's and the Post Office and a park and a mansion and other places. It was very hot. The dogs were hot. The people were hot too. We were all hot. Have i mentioned the heat? It was more warm than it is on the surface of the sun. I learned about the sun in science class. I also learned about the equator, and Jefferson City appears to be on it. Seriously: someone call Al Gore because there seems to be an emergency here. So, yes, it was hot and we all sweated a lot. Some of the kids didn't wear shoes. Everyone smelled. Especially the dogs. And the kids' feet. And the adults' underarms. And clothing. The dogs were all panting. Everyone drove around Jefferson City trying to fund the things we had to find. I wanted to go back to the hotel. I miss San Francisco. I wanted ice cream but didn't have any because Chewie took too long to walk to the ice cream parlor because of her broken toe. When we got there everyone was finished. The carbon footprint of a dozen people driving around Jefferson City for a scavenger hunt must be more steep than a shoot for a Hummer ad. Chewie was very warm and her toe hurted her and I had to lift her into the back seat of Shannon's car every time we got in, and every time we got out I had to lift her too, so she wouldn't get her toe hurted again. Actually, it was very sad when I lifted her because she wanted to scamper like her friends the other dogs, but she could not scamper. She could only walk slow. And pant. A lot. Gwen was in the front seat with Shannon and she panted a lot too. But at least she didn't have to walk very slow in the hot hot amazonian surface of the sun oppresive to high heaven heat. Does god hate me? Is that why it's hot? The heat! Why the heat? Woe is me. And woe is Chewie. And Chewie's toe. Sometimes I call her Chewchew and people laugh. The dogs laugh too though I know they think I'm weird. Picking up poop in the thousand degree inferno of a weather system here is gross. Seriously, it's disgusting. I can't imagine wanting to do that. Golly, was the scavenger hunt a smelly game. My nose almost melted. We were split into two teams for the scavenger hunt. Our team was the best team, and we won. We kept finding stuff, even though we were bored. Some of the parents on our team really wanted to win. What a sad commentary on fulfillment. I was carrying Chewie a lot and drank more water than anyone else. I wished I could pee on the grass too, from all the water. But I couldn't. One of the dogs on the other team pooped in Wal-Mart (for real! I'm not pretending!) and got in trouble. I'm glad Chewie didn't do that. It would be so embarassing! If she did poop in a store, I'd hope it's not a bookstore. And I'd punish her: I'd save up my allowance for a toe removal operation. Or change her real name to Chewbacca. In court. (For real!)

Back in adult human mode:

If you want to continue with your boredom, check out the following: On top is video of Gwen, Shannon, Chewie and I on left, on one of our car treks. Gwen is gorgeous, and she whines cutely, and when Shannon gets out of the car, Gwen follows her closesly with her human green eyes, and sometimes whimpers. She kills me. Chewie would nibble her tail if I let her, though Gwen's an alpha and would rip her a new one. (And one thing Chewwoman does not need is a new one. She does splendidly with this one. Just ask the parkway outside the grocery store. Holy Toledo).

Below, a thirsty labradoodle in the most unnatural of habitats -- a scorching sidewalk in the middle of America. NASA would have a tough time engineering heat shields to protect against this heat. The video itself? Might be the most boring 45 seconds in the history of humankind. Or puppykind.

And third and perhaps least, a brief, mind-numbing video of our winning, UVA-ray sucking squad of sweating smelly scavengers. Yay. We are inanely on a baseball diamond. Standing there like Civil War statues. For ten seconds. We drove there for twenty minutes; it took ten to get in place (and find my camera, which was hidden in my pocket), and we stayed for ten seconds. Earth will explode several days early because of our CO2 emissions.

And whose tuchus do I have to smooch to find a recycling bin? Honestly. We could build a missile defense shield with all of the Dr Pepper cans i see dripping over themselves in the garbage here. Double-u to the tee to the F?

Do NOT post on Youtube!

This is us being Us, verifiable, unabashed, Usness. Chewie and Phil. Phil & Chewy. Trying to learn. Learning to try.

Oy vey.

It's also pre-broken toe. (See "Playin' Rough; Pettin' & Frettin'" -- below -- if you missed that).

We're commanded (yeah) to shoot a 15 minute video every other day. This is Video 1, scene 2. It is an embarassment. Shannon and Gwen shot Chew and I; we shot them, though, as mentioned, Chui walked into about every shot.

It's not as good as The Shaggy D.A. -- with a much-worse plot, an untalented writer, and Suzanne Pleshette and Tim Conway nowhere to be found -- so don't get excited.

Jesus. Awful, eh? We shall improve. But not in this video:





Or this:

Playin' Rough; Pettin' & Frettin'

Chewy and I are relaxing this morning... and will be relaxing all day.

The Girl has a broken toe. We were at the emergency vet last night, until about midnight. She's okay -- and while our training will be slowed -- and her Alerting won't begin until she's better -- it shouldn't set us back too far.

After dinner, Chewy was out doing her business. I'd been low, and we did the requisite breathing exercises to start to teach her what *i* smell/taste like when my blood sugar drops... and after, we went out to do it. She went, and we kept walking around the building until we came to this gazebo area, where a bunch of folks were hanging. It's about 8-30, 8-45pm... and we're chillin. Two of the dogs are running -- Jen from California's dog, Jai, a cheeky chicky bright shepherd mix... and Odie, a 3 year old, usually slow moving Collie male, who belongs to Neal from Oregon, and his wife Kim.

I took Chew off vest -- i wanted to run her a bit too -- and she goes and plays, and they're running hard. It got a bit rough -- at one point, Jai tried approached another dog -- a black Lab named Tank -- who is -- and who's with a 4 year old and her parents from Florida -- who had a toy under his legs.

(This is like canine soap opera stuff. Boring, but you can't turn away.)

Jai grabbed at it; Tank grabbed at her, for a split second, with that loud intense double barking that scares the quiet, crickety night and low thrum of chatter. Tank went inside and Odie and Jai and Chewster, then, again, pranced and galloped and tried to buck the imaginary kittens off their rodeo-twisting dogbacks. They were running hard -- with some apparent nips and dog play... played some fetch, 3 on 1, as well... for about 15 minutes, maybe 20.

After, Chewy was standing near me, panting, looking around for a rock to eat likely since I seem to stand near a lot of delicious igneous (and don't even ask me about the scrumptious sticks i attract)... and Kim, Odie's handler's wife, who's a vet tech (and reminds me in wonderful ways, of a dear friend in Vancouver who's the same) -- Kim noticed Chew had her right rear leg raised.

A first.

What happened? Kim asks me. I am dumbfounded. I don't know, I say. She was fine... when we came out here... though when she was doing her business, I was on the phone with my pal Tom in Oklahoma. Maybe I missed something??...

We walk her up to the gazebo and lay her down, and Kim feels her right rear toes, one by one... and the outside toe is a little... 'crunchy' feeling when we wiggle it. There's something off. It's not smooth. Chew reacted slightly when we moved it -- as if it did not in fact hurt all that much -- but that, I'd later learn, was just adrenaline.

We lay there and I petted and fretted for a while... left Michele a message... talked to some folks... and Chewy is still unabashedly Chewie during this, looking to eat rosebushes and red stick mulch. But when we went inside the hotel, to walk down the long carpeted first floor hallway to our castle suite, her right rear leg was held high.

She was three legged.

Yes, it's cute, but it ain't funny.

She was off vest and still moving slowly -- usually, off vest and she's skipping around without my direction. We got to my room, each sweating, and she lay down near the doorway, and her eyes suddenly look very sad. I lay and pet her, fretting more, and tell her she's gonna be okay.

Michele calls when she gets back from her errand -- 10-45pm -- and her daughter Alice -- who's 15, and trained Chuy, and in whose bed Chuiy slept for 35 or 40 weeks, until last week -- imagine that bond broken? God. Alice loves this dog, and it's in her eyes daily -- but she's also very proud of having.... um. Raised her. Thank goodness for her; for them. ......

So they come and feel her toe, Michele's talking to the emergency vet as she walks in, and she feels it, and says, "Let's go. Alice, carry her out. I'll pull the van around. Now."

Alice picks her up - she's 52 pounds -- and I am scrambling behind. We go out front. We're waiting for Michele to bring the van, and I say, 'I just walked out without all my stuff!'

Go get it, Alice says. I sprint back, grab my backpack, take off my around-the-hotel-compound shorts that don't hide my boxers, and pull on jeans, and sprint back. Chewy's in back with Alice, I climb in front, and Michele peels towards the vet, 15 minutes down the highway, past the state capital building.

Vet's a middle aged guy who's not happy to be out of bed, but he's smart, Michele says, and good, and knows all of her dogs.

Chewster! he says. What'd you do, silly goofus? Didn't I just see you?

I had carried her inside, and put her down, and she looks at me and stands there, kind of looks around to all four of us human beings, one by one.

She knew she was where she was.

After Doc watched her walk a bit -- limping gimpily, looking utterly silly, but still sweet and curious -- just not as curious... I lifted her onto the x-ray table. Alice held her, i looked at her eyes and patted her, Doc placed the foot, and Michele pressed The Button. ZZZZZ sounded, and we lifted her off.

X-ray #1 verdict: inconclusive. A thin line that could be a fracture could also be a fold of skin; intuition at this point, Doc said, is No Break. I breathed easier.

I should say... I was indeed quite nervous about this. Firstly, when dogs are ill in any way, they don't alert, and training dips. And not alerting is okay once alerting is starting to happen... but at the beginning, i was afraid they'd send me home until October (the next class), or switch to another dog -- and I'm already... attached to her.

One can fall quickly, eh? (Don't I know it). (Again, and again). Falling for someone... or a dog someone... is both a place, and a process.

I'm falling.

True: I'm not sure if she's calling ME 'daddy' yet... but I didn't want another dog. And missing a day or two of training is one thing; a week, is another, and I knew they'd be assessing. Is Chew gonna hang in a newsroom, trek up to Napa, ride the N-Judah, prance in Golden Gate Park, see the Pacific, chill in countless coffee shops? Fly to LA to visit all my pals, head to Chicago to see my folks and niece and nephew and brother and sister in law, all of my friends and friends and friends and friends and blessed, loving, hearty, homestaying friends... I wanted Choo there with all of em, each of em, all and each and every.

So, the 'inconclusive / no break' chatter lifted my heart.

She sat next to me, waiting like we all were for what's next. A bird shrieked; a cat howled. Chuey being Chewy would mean she'd react, ears perked, eyes darting, looking for magic birdcat.

She didn't. She sat, sadly looked at me. Phillyphil, her eyes said. Let's go.

X-ray 2 required her laying down, and Alice lifted her, rolled her expertly (she's 15... and will be an amazing vet someday), as Doc splayed her bad foot. I patted her, whispered, wondered. ZZZZZZZ. Took her down. She bounced three-leggedly towards the Cat Room, bit we caught her and went to wait.

X-ray #2 verdict: probably a break, though still inconclusive.

I was looking at another x-ray on the light board. Doc noticed me. "That's a ferret elbow," he said. "Jumped off a high table." I shook my head. Where in hell am i?

Michele and Doc had a good rapport, too, and i had utter confidence in him... he was tired, and unhappy not to be sleeping as we neared midnight, but he was cool. They had a funny little makin' fun of each other thing going. I laughed along; Alice just smiled. It wasn't funny, and i was worried, but I liked that they weren't stricken. They weren't, so i wasn't.

Just like they teach us that Your Emotions Travel Down The Leash, to the dog -- if you're not confident, the dog won't be; if you're anxious, pooch will be as well -- Michele and Doc being as cool as they were, kept me okay.

X-ray #3 was again a lay-down, and it came back with a clear, Broken, verdict. Hairline fracture with a chip of bone, off.

She also has a bite mark on her thigh, and it felt warm, and bruised -- she was likely wrastlin' around with Odie or Jai, and got playfully chomped, and maybe her toe caught in a collar. Just a guess. Just a fluke. Life's a fluke. What a word. What a world.

We weighed her -- 52.1 pounds; still growing -- and Doc gave her some narcotics-by-injection, and some meds (anti-inflammatory) for three weeks -- which will, i said softly out loud, include time back in the Bay Area, Chewster's new home, hopefully -- she has no clue what a city is like, and she's gonna be like a belle just off the bus, bright lights reflecting each way off her eyes.

She's to stay off the leg for a few days -- we'd go to class, but not to the Mall for our field work, and none of our videotaping exercises... just the scent work (using my socks) and teaching her to bump my hand with her nose when i put it out (which will be an Alert signal eventually).

We have two days off -- Michele said it could end up being good bonding time, and be a disguised blessing.

Doc said this should heal completely, and NOT cause arthritis later -- and also, her favoring it for a few days, will not displace her hips negatively, either, which could have happened (and would have if it was an interior toe). If that was the case... they might have switched out dogs. Why train and bond with an alert dog that would have it's span of alerting shortened by several, or even many years?

Lucky, lucky, lucky. I breathed silently.

We drove home, and back in our empty classroom, nearing 1:00 a.m., Michele taped her leg with gauze, just to keep the toes bunched right. Chewy tried to eat the tape, but i stopped her... and when we finally got to my room - she didn't need the bano -- she hopped right into bed, and lay flat, sighing, Woe is me. Though she did wag as I called her Good Girl and scratched her ears. She again started to eat off the tape on her bum toe -- green medical tape, with a white cover -- looked kinda cool, like a sweatband. I wouldn't let her eat it, though, and soon she was zonked.

They said she'd be groggy in the morning, and she was. We kept on sleeping -- she didn't seem to have to go out -- and we caught up a bit on rest... I was overly affectionate, and she was sweeter than honey, even more than usual... I woke up a few times, and she was looking at me, and I'd open my eyes and she'd wag, wag, wag, wag, wag. Cutest. Thing. Evuh.

Today, we went to class -- everyone thought she was extra cute, and she was walking pretty good on three legs, hoppity hoppity sniff, hoppity hoppity stop, hoppity hoppity hop. She was chill, but we did the few things we could. Then we came back here and she's asleep after a viergous nylabone session.

We played some hard fetch Thursday night; she was clearly improving.

Hopefully, she'll be back able to walk and videotape and such by Saturday. She likes the video. Shannon, with Gwen the big brown lab, shot Chewy and I yesterday... she was okay. But when I was shooting Shan and Gwen on video, Chewy kept getting in the shot.

We did this "food temptation" stuff, where they toss food at the dog -- turkey slices, which they love. It lands inches from their nose. If they move towards it, we snap the collar. If they grab it, we rip it from their lips. It's heartbreaking... but Chew was good at it, incredibly. She would lay there with three pieces of turkey.. right there. And when a fourth came, she'd sit up and look the other direction. 'Three I can take, Mister... but four is my boundary, so I'm gonna bust my gaze yonder..'

When it was Gwen's turn, Gwen stayed, but Chewy trotted in an nabbed the food. I grabbed it out, and she looked at me as if to say, She's not allowed to eat it and i already passed the test... what the heck? Why waste good Schnucks turkey slices?

She wandered into most of Gwen's shots, like Borat with the weatherman in Mississippi... and I'd snap and say, stage whispery, Chewy! Get! Over! There!.. and she'd look at me, see the red in my eyes, and lay down.

We'll return to that stuff, hopefully Saturday. As she rests, we're renting a bunch of Sandra Bullock movies, and i'm making my special liver flavored popcorn.

She'll be okay. We both will.

Paparazzi Submission

These two shots were taken about 5 minutes after we met, when i finally moved her head off my lap.  We were a mess: her vest didn't fit quite right.  I had turkey sandwich breathe; she had liver treat breathe.  I wore my special Green Outfit (I;m encouraging composting; she's from Missouri, and doesn't know from it at all), but she's colorblind and didn't even comment thereupon.  

A mess.

So she was in my lap, and I had her sit, a half foot away: I'm a sensitive man, and wanted to look at her and pet; touch a little, talk a lot.  You know: get to know each other first.  I'm not that type of guy.  I'm easy, but not that easy.

You're right.  With Chewi, i'm that easy.

3.5 GPA @ Petco

We had a late night, eating a nylabone, watching the all-star game.

it was also an early morning.

i think chewy's doing alright.  we passed our public access test at petco -- SOMEone wasn't studying during our two hour free time prior, and instead was running in circles, but we still made it -- so now we're allowed in public.  which means, the grocery last night (odd -- many looks -- several questions answered -- everyone nice)... and walgreens today.  big day planned!

The test was just walking about, stopping and staying.  tw hard parts -- staying during the 'tempted stay' -- I put her in a Down, Stay, and she stays.  Then one of the trainers says, Chewie!  Com on!  Let's Go outside!  Chewie wanna treat?  Chewie wanna pottie?  Come here chewie!  come on!  let's go play chewie! -- and she has to stay.  She did it every time -- she looked sick to her stomach, in that 'what do i do now?" way that friends get when weighing Quit My Job or stay here? or Breakup or Keep trying? or Hybrid or Cheap Accord? questions.  -- and, I was allowed to say, over their calls, Chewie.  Stay.  Chewy.  Stay.  Stay!  Chewiestay!  chewystay, staychewie.

The only time she broke was the last time, when Michele said let's go play like eight times in a row (in 5 seconds) and clapped her hands.  So, B+ -- like law school; i'll take it.  Eventually, to graduate, they do that test, with the lead (lead = leash apparently) dropped (it was dropped this time; she was free to run)... but they have a stranger come and PICK UP the leash (lead!)... and walk off with her... she's supposed to stiffen, feet straight, not move... and get dragged (it'll be on a store floor -- slippery).  They say, security and such.. sometimes tries to move these dogs... and she's supposed to listen, obviously, to only me.  My command is everything.  

I better study my commands.

Chewie!  Learn about stem-cell research!  

Chewy!  Fetch my insulin but bring it here in needle-less form!

Chuey!  Grill some salmon while I toss a salad!

Chui!  There are no cabs!  Let me ride you to the Mission!

When I posted this a bit ago, it said here, 'Must off to class,' but i arrived at class, and everyone laughed.

What, i said.  

You don't have to be here till noon, they said.  Unlike yesterday, when i was in a hat and flipflops... today i am showered.  (Though again in flipflops).  We were also early, even for the people who ARE supposed to be there.  It goes unnoticed, apparently. 

The class is split up, they said, into our half-groups -- for more ibnstruction.  That's not till Wednesday! i said, scoffingly.  

They laughed again.  We socialized for a minute and now we're... heading to walgreens.  someone might also get to play with her new Kong toy, purchased at petco after test passage.  Who's my B+ girl???!!!??? WHO'SMYBEEPLUSGIRL??  

Oh, last bit.  So, Chew is tethered to the bed, on leash, overnite, so she learns to sleep next to me and doesn't wander off to do whatever she would.  Leash around a bedpost, hooked to her regular collar (she also has a soft lead collar, around her snout -- it's not a muzzle tho everyone asks if it is... she can eat and bark -- i havent heard her bark still! not even once!  -- and stuff with it on.... so, she's tethered.  next to me.  she must be right there, in close proximity, exceedingly close, nowhere but close -- all night.  

[ INSERT FAILED RELATIONSHIP JOKE HERE ].

She also has a toy there in case she's awake and I'm not, or bored.

[INSERT FAILED RELATIONSHIP JOKE HERE ].

OK... so, she's pretty good at it -- 

[INSERT FAILED... alright, yeah, we all get it -- ha ha ha].

-- but so far, she's not in (INSERT -- geezus, i've created a monster) the Right Position.  Um.  whistle.  so.... i have to instruct her... to be in... the right... position.  So, anyway, i haven't had a low yet -- even in daytime -- so we havent practiced her most vital role (it will take time -- more even for her, given her youthishness).... Last night, i was gonna read in bed, and she was laying down the bed, and then scooted up near me... on top of the New Yorker... so i didn't read.  Turned on the extra innings of the ballgame as she chewed a nylabone. Sweet.

Anyway, here were some possible titles to this post that we decided against:

The Glory of the Tennis Ball

She Looks at Me Like I'm Odd (& I'm already used to it)

Chewing! (on many things and being told I'm not allowed by my human master)

Everyone Poops.  And we mean EVERYone.  And we also mean POOPS.

Kibble, How I Love Thee

I Am Playing You Like A Fiddle

Let's Nap!

Someone Seems To Like Frogs

Show-me Frequent Urination in the Show-me State

Obama vs. Hillary, again -- Obama wins, again.  

We're Chew, we're Phil -- We're super duper chill.  Unless we're hungry.

The It Girl, Next Door

It's a girl.  

Chewie -- or Chewy -- or Chewi -- or Chuey -- or Chui... (I'll sponsor a Spell Phil's Dog's Name contest, later...)

I am sitting in my hotel 'suite'... with a panting, beautiful chocolate brown labradoodle at my feet.  She's the youngest pup in our class of a dozen -- youngest, funniest, wildest, sweetest -- like a standup comedian, hard charging mommy with career, and Olympic hopeful rolled into one.  She's trained -- they all are -- but a little ... how do you say... rambunctious, maybe rough around the edges -- the Poodle intellect is apparent, but not as much as the happy go lucky lab-ness.  

She is beautiful, and sweet, and I'm pretty much in love with her.  (It's something in the air...)

This morning, our first full day, we had first aid class and some other do's and don't basics.  I was exhausted -- up late, up early -- and sat with caffeine in hand for the full three hours.  Walked to walgreens on our 90 minute lunch break... this is ruralamerica, wal-martville -- not a walkey place, but i managed, sweating all the while, walking on grass medians, since sidewalks aren't to be found.  

It was my last hour of freedom before we met our dogs.

The conference room of the hotel is small, usually configured like a classroom, with four rows of about eight chairs, snacks along the counter in back, and a dvd player and TV on a cart up front.  But we moved all of the chairs into a circle, and formed the most communal of shapes. Headmaster Michele (and the trainers -- which include two of her teen daughters) was speaking softly, talking in soothing tones, as the trainers started to bring the dogs into the room, one by one.  Kids' dogs first, adults' dogs last, each at a time.

The trainer would walk the dog to the center of the circle (which was small -- say, 25 feet across)... and introduce the kid, to the dog -- kids wide-eyed next to mom and dad, parents snapping pics, everyone aglow, dogs In Vest, On Leash, quiet, sweet, submissive in the trainers' hands -- and then, in those of the kids.  

Josh, Michele would say... This is Fido.  He's a 2 year old lab, he's pretty laid back as you can see, but he's ahead of most of the dogs when it comes to alerting, and is very quiet, waiting for commands.

Denise, meet Toto.  She's 2 1/2, a shepherd mix, who's not the smartest of the dogs in your class but may in fact be the most loyal.  She's a pack leader, kind of like you.  I know you ride horses, and she likes horses too.  She also likes mud.

On and on it went.  Cameras were passed back and forth to get shots at different angles... everyone amazed, two dogs in the room, then four or five, kids finished, and the adults' dogs started to get walked in -- six dogs, eight, ten: once the introduction was made, the dog was put in a Down, Stay at the feet of the new owner (or new owner's mommy or daddy).  They allo seemed tired, nervous -- like all of us.

The 20- and 30-somethings congregate, as ever, in one corner, and I offered to take a shot of Gwen, a gorgeous brown lab, said to be quiet, but alpha, who's placed with a 20ish woman from Denver who's never owned a dog before.  Gwen was not posing well for my photograph -- she was staring at her new mom, and looking about; finally she gazed my way, I snapped and put the camera down, and felt something on my leg.

It was a furry face, soothing brown, deep and rich... with a little bit of light copper in the whiskers.   Brown pupiled eyes, sweet as a koala's, wanting, waiting -- saucer huge even if squinty, but wide open.  Soft wavy hair.  Slowly wagging tail.  

'Phil,' they said, 'This is Chewie.  She's a chocolate labradoodle, just a year old -- she's the youngest dog in the class, y'all, by a long shot.  She's a puppy, but she's bright, and thinks everything's a game.  She's extremely affectionate -- you're gonna have to watch that, so she focuses on alerting you -- but it'll be fun.  She plays games.  And she loves rocks and sticks."

The rock and stick lover was looking at me.  I patted her head.  I wished I had a stick in my pocket.  I scanned the edge of the room (really) for a piece of quartz or granite. 

None to be found.  So:  "Chewie," I said.  "Chewie!  Hello.  You're very pretty.  A very pretty lady."  

She sat and opened her mouth, and scrunched and rescrucnhed and re arranged and re re re arranged her snout on my leg, her nose in my belly, her eyes on mine. 

"Put her in a down stay!" said a trainer.

"Down," I whispered.  "Down, Chewie!"  And I moved my hand down, like a magician might at a kids show, waist to floor.  

She went down.  "Good girl!  Stay!"

I petted, and petted, for the next hour.  Chewbacita wriggled a bit.  (She's named after the Star Wars character; when her hair's shaggy, the kids think she looks like Harrison Ford's best bud from '77).  I patted.  She licked and looked, wriggled and seemed to be smiling a bit.

Michele talked to us, pooch stuff, as a dozen dogs lay at our feet, being petted, some scoochin around, an occasional position shift, but most of them good, sweet, clearly trained, unproblematic.  Two alpha girls growled once.  A trainer shouted.  They shut up.  

Over time, Chewy (Chuey?  Chui?  Chewey?) was indeed a bit exciteable -- she looked at each dog, looked at everyone, and got in trouble for some butt sniffin' (when the dogs are In Vest, they aren't supposed to butt sniff).... but she also was utterly cuddly, affectionate, wanting to be petted, putting her head almost into my hands.  She kept trying to scuttle another inch closer to me on this hotel conference room carpeted floor, closer, closer, scooch, scooch, over and over again.  She was sweet as all getup, and kind of looked like two dogs I well know: my parents Portuguese Water Dog, and my dear friends part porty part.. something else.  Each of them girls, sweet eyed, snuggly, but with a rambunctious streak.  

Chewie looks a bit like Laney and Rose.

I kept saying hello.  Using the word, "hello."  And roughling her head, like Santa does a 5 year old's.

Eventually, we all had to parade the dogs around in a circle, in front of the class -- heel, sit, stay, break.  My dog -- the puppiest of them all, though the prettiest girl, the It girl of this class, if only because as I very timidly -- for me -- walked, with apparent shyness (or nerves), in this everwatched circle, Chewie looked like she was in a Revlon commercial from 1976: she pranced, head high, tongue wagging, flipping what would be the dog equivalent of Charlie's Angels hair hither and fro, knowing she was seen, playing the part of the pooch class girl next door.

But: 

"Rough around the edges, arentya Chewie?" shouted the head trainer.  Chewie stopped and looked at her, then at me.  

"Heel," I said, and she just leaned.  "Come on!" I said, and she came on.

"You're gonna have some work to do Phil.  She's like one of those smart, flirty 5 year olds, who shimmies her shoulders like she's 15...."

I have some work to do.

She's at my feet now, after a hard outside, Off Vest, Off Leash romp, and a good hour of fetch. Girl Next Door is in my room.  Again.

I mean, Finally.