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.

Dog Day Afternoon...

The small joy of a teensy tiny hotel room coffeemaker are percolating next to me, as I sit in a small 'suite' in Jefferson City MO.  My fridge has the staples, my suitcase is leaned up against one wall, my tee shirts are stacked in anticipation.... of a brand new hairy, woofy, drooly roommate.  He or she will prance or slink into Room One twenty-nine, hours from now.  

The trip from home to St Louis started very early Saturday morning, and it was great to spend the day with my dear friends there, and ther families, and their dogs, who were looking at me -- small dogs -- with l;argew clear eyes and short fast-breathing breaths, saying, 'you have no idea what you're doin', man!  but pet me, until you do!'

It was also a rather frenetic last week or so in San Francisco, trying to finish all that could be crossed off a lengthy list, before arriving in Missouri.  

But I finished.  

The drive to Jeff City from the Gateway City was easy -- flat and green, hot air past us, two hours of billboards and McDonalds; churches and porn shops.  The fellas treated me like a king and, when they dropped me off for class, took one of my keys, ran to the grocery, and stocked me up a bit (since they had a car, and I do not) at a grocery store called Hyvee.  I thought I caught Hyvee once on a roadtrip.... maybe not?  Hard to recall.  Anyway, the guys were incredible -- utterly supportive, loving, brotherly... and it was fantastic to have them here. Then they took off... as I sauntered shyly into orientation.

Of course, I was -- as ever -- 30 seconds late.  I'm always 30 seconds late.  As I write this, I am eyeing the clock: I am 30 seconds ahead, but will lose a minute soon.  Maybe I won't spellcheck and will get there in time.

I walk in and it feels like Mississippi or Amarillo -- southern accents abound.  No one there speaks ANY Hebrew.  City folk... there are a few of us, and it's all the 20-30 somethings. 

There are about a dozen of us receiving dogs in this class -- fewer than I thought -- and The Diabetics include some folks my age -- well, I still say people in their mid to late twenties are 'my age' though I am closer to the age of their fathers, truly... Some are here solo like myself, one is with her mom, another is with his wife.  

Then there are the families.  I sat next to a mom and dad from a southern sunshiney state -- likely a good deal younger than me, but with the done Florida hair and stressed faces from dealing with their three year old's Type One, that makes them seem a decade past me.  There are a handful of kids.  

We sat in class, excited seeming, still, rapt, watching each other and the woman who runs the camp. There are a few "oh-oh-OH!" types among us.. and also a few snarkey eye rollers like me, with the good sense to be present and real and polite -- and learn something. 

But she is tough seeming, smart -- knows her way, and it's the only way/  It's her show.  Her husband was polite and quiet and seemed to have a big heart too -- they must, to do this consistently, right?  Her daughter -- she has a gaggle of kids, more than a few of them Type One -- watched attentively.  She's a teen with a diabetes dog of her own, a gorgeous yellow lab sitting under the chair.  We sat in class for four hours of orientation stuff, basics, with a few breaks.  The kids at one point were herded by a trainer into the hall, to walk stuffed dogs on leashes.  At that point, the yellow lab popped out in front of the Headmaster's daughter, and stared at her, HARD, unmoving, as if she was holding a piece of steak out front.  After about 45 seconds, the daughter noticed the dog, whipped out her blood tester, and tested.  Her mom stopped talking.  

'Where are you?'

'100, but I guess I'm about to get low.'

'Great! There's some juice back there...'

'Good dog!' the daughter said, and gave the dog some treats, as she got up to fetch some juice.  Then Mister Magic Lab circled and sat back under her chair, nose on paws.

The room howled; I nearly fell off my chair in tears, and couldn't think of anything but that moment as we drove as a group to a BBQ restaurant for a dinner and such.  

Monday... we meet our dogs.

I see the ramp ahead

So, it appears to be July. I think I missed April.... and May.... though June, I recall. Specially the end.

I am, of course, gearing up (waaaay up) for Diabetes Dog Camp. I hope I have a good bunkmate. I hear we play a lot of shuffleboard, and the chicks from the Girls Camp come over every other Saturday.

In truth, I really haven't much of a clue what to expect.... the three weeks... of canine immersion... seems extravagant, extreme, -- but I know it's said to be necessary so this dog alerts when I do get low and high... and isn't just a pricey pet. Yes, there's a reason for these T crossing I dotting days (and daze).... though mentally/emotionally... believe I'm removed a bit, and will remain so, until I arrive.

And that arrival is... this month, a week and a half from now. I fly to St Louis on July 12th... and am eager to hang with two dear friends and their families. My final dogless hours will be spent with several pals -- men who know me as well as anyone on earth -- who will then see me directly off to this new life, this utter, madcap, made-for-a-nonsensical script adventure. Neil and Jimmy and maybe Brett will drive me to lovely, humid Jeff City MO... drop me off Sunday morning The Thirteenth... and off to class I will embark.

While it's only days... um. Three hundred twelve HOURS (still good at arithmetic!) until I head to MO... I can't quite wrap my head around exactly how differently my life might be shaped, upon returning. I mean, I'll have a dog sitting next to me ... everywhere. EVERYwhere. Every WHERE.

Can you imagine?

It's gonna be A Thing.

To wit:

Thing 1 of 2

Scene: Night, streetlights abound, on a busy San Francisco street, bustling as hipsters and hippies and homeless folk amble hither and fro. A man walks out of what appears to be a movie theater. He is holding a dog leash. A dog is on the leash. They are both wearing snarky Urban Outfitters tee-shirts.

MAN: I dunno, Frank. I know that the whole show was about the give and take of love and loss, acceptance and required grace... but I don't think it translates when they break up their marriage, for seeming nothingness.

DOG: Come on, buddy. Big was an asshole! Of course that's what was gonna happen! I don't know why you don't believe that! Speak in platitudes about love if you want... but sometimes it just comes down to who's a good guy, and who's a bad guy. (beat) Big WAS a bad guy!

MAN: (getting worn down) Alright, fine. But was it really believable that they have Charlotte poop her panties? Seriously? This isn't South Park....

DOG: (indignant, knowing) Dude -- that's what I DO. I poop. Outside, even. I've been saying for years that Hollywood ignores it... and I'm glad we're getting mainstreamed a bit. So back off with your "it doesn't happen." I'm a DOG, man. It DOES happen.

(they keep walking)

DOG: Are we hitting the bar or is it a Netflix night? I think "Turner & Hooch" came today.

(DOG sniffs the air as MAN slows to a halt, looks yonder)

DOG: Dude! You're low! <<>> I KNEW you shoulda finished the popcorn... Dammit. (Louder) Here's some glucose, pal. Lets roll. (BARK! BARK, BARK!) Taxi!

(AND... scene)

THING 2 of 2:

Scene: Radio station newsroom is a well lit, cubicle ridden, carpeted office space. Several professional looking people are standing around a long, curved table, with a pile of newspapers, shuffles of paper, and a few coffee cups and soda cans strewn. Others briskly appear and leave, including one thirty-something man with an unshaved face and a rather silly laugh. Shouts, computer printers, ringing phones and a general low thrum of bustle fill the air.

MANAGER: Okay, people.. top stories today -- We've got the Sierra wildfire, the Mayor's Viagra plan, and the bicycle theft spree in Berkeley. Any other ideas?

ANCHOR #1: I really think we should do something about Barack Obama's shoes. Why would he wear that not-so-taupe and less-than-black leather color loafer? It's almost reddish. Is he actually a communist? Or, -- I heard this on NPR -- a self-hating liberal Jew?

( Thirty-something man appears at the edge of the frame, looking harried, holding more than a few pieces of paper and chewing on a pen cap. A DOG is next to him. Both he and DOG are wearing Converse Chuck Taylor's and olive-colored pants with frayed hems. Each chew gum. DOG holds a Sugar Free Red Bull in one paw, and gestures with it as he addresses the gaggle).

DOG: Did you guys see Olberman's Special Comment yesterday? It was all about shoes on the campaign trail. You know: comfort versus substance. Then he showed a picture of Cheney campaigning in 2000 -- wearing Keds! ZING!

ANCHOR #2: I saw that! Pretty interesting! Maybe we could talk to Olberman, or someone from Politico?

DOG: Cool. (turns to 30SOMETHING) Hey bud, wanna try that? I've got the number on a post-it near my jar of treats.

30SOMETHING: Yeah, great. I like it... (looks in the opposite direction of treats jar, which is downstage right. DOG stares at him, cocks head, sniffs air)

MANAGER: What else? (DOG looks back at MANAGER)

ANCHOR #1: I know we did an oil prices story this morning, but I don't think we can ignore it this afternoon. It's $175 a barrel! Anyone have a fresh angle?

DOG: I called my Kibble company this morning to ask about the prices -- I mean, I work in radio! I can't afford venti chai latte prices for a bowl of horsemeat, capeche? They're like, 'we're looking into local production -- to cut shipping costs' -- but I think it's B-S. They're Chevroning all of us. Even the Bichon Frises, who eat like one friggin' spoonful a day -- are paying through the ASS --

MANAGER: (thinking hard) -- Oiling up of dog food prices! This could work ...

DOG: -- and it's crazy big money, Boss. We canines 'heart' food! (BARKS knowingly)

(everyone nods appreciatively)

MANAGER: Let's get on this. Pooch, you need help making calls?

DOG: Naw. (sniffs the air, nose high) ... Um. (sniffs, quietly woofs, catching it in his throat like dogs do) Wait a second...

(DOG looks left and right -- sees 30SOMETHING sitting down, head in hands, rocking a bit -- DOG bounds to him, growls an affectionate but purposeful growl-into-light-bark, and licks 30SOMETHING's face with knowing vigor)

30SOMETHING: Hunh? Dog food? Whuh? In the Newsroom? Who?

DOG: No worries y'all! I've got him. (unzips man's camouflage backpack, pulls plastic bottle out, flips it up in the air; man catches it -- clearly not their first such maneuver) On second thought, sir -- why don't you call the Kibble people? I'm gonna watch my bud here for another minute... gotta be at it by drive-time! (licks 30SOMETHING again)

MANAGER: Got it. I'm on it.

(Everyone crosses to opposite downstage direction. Newsroom hubbub continues. 30SOMETHING and DOG stay seated. 30SOMETHING pets DOG, who circles and lays at his feet)

(AND... scene)

===============

Seriously. This is where I'm headed? Everywhere I am, a dog is too. Saving my tuchus.

Life is upside down, soon soon soon.