RIP Kitty.

Today we said goodbye to kitty. She had a name, it was Princess. We just called her kitty. I'm not sure how old kitty was, maybe around 10? Dunno. Can't remember. I do remember she came as a kitten, a little kitten pulled out of the dump. Lots of dump feral kitties, the lady with a possum in her freezer, she catches 'em young and finds them homes. We took kitty, and Laia named her Princess. I think the intention, Princess become another house cat, live in the house, sit on a pillow, eat cat food from a can.

Instead, kitty lived kind of a spartan life. She had a job, eating gophers. Kept her on as a professional assassin. Although in the last year, the death machine seemed a little bit slower, took more naps. Had a dog crate to sleep in under the patio, never really took to being a housecat. We just let her be a her own kind of wild, got used to her comings and goings. Total ass kicker of a cat, and also always kept the yard free from Pistachio and Peppers and those cats from over the back fence. Sometimes, during the freezes, tried to get kitty to come inside, be a housecat for a few days every winter, except never would take. Would feed her on the table, keep her dog-safe, but inside wasn't her thing. Kitty was wild, and just liked to live in the yard.

Kitty was part of the landscape. You look around, you can always find kitty somewhere. Usually. Sometimes kitty took leaves of absence, but always came home. Dogs, might chase her, but usually she didn't run. Stood her ground, only Gustavo really disturbed by Kitty just standing there. Ruby never took to having her in the house. Kitty, your life always overshadowed by dogs, and I apologize for that. But you're different. You're a cat, and I think you liked to be sort of wild, in your blood, bred at the dump from generations of wild ones.

She always left the gophers outside in the yard, for us or the dogs, whoever wanted the parts she didn't need. Gustavo even learned it was super funny to bring in kitty's remnants, hide them under Gary's pillow if he was sleeping in on his day off.

Me and kitty, we liked eachother. I could pick her up, carry her around. Not many other people could say that about her.

I knew the other day, when kitty came back from a few days off, that she was very, very sick. You can tell. Happened real fast. Didn't have much hope for a prognosis, but took her in anyways, for that just in one in a million case it's a thyroid issue and could be patched up with some pills. But kitty had already made it pretty clear, clear as day, that she was ready to come move to the house to finish up her time, too sick to be wild anymore and needed some help. The other animals, always waiting for their sign. Kitty, holds it up in my face and says it's time. Still dropped some fancy dime at the doc's, just to make sure, owed that much to her from a lifetime of service.

When I dropped her off at the doc's, came home and cried because I knew. When the doc called me, took a picture inside her and could see. He said he hoped it was something else, but yeah, I was right, she had a big cancer living inside her and it would be hard to try to make it go away. I thanked him, and I went outside and dug a big hole, next to where my old cat Civ lay, buried after she died on her own in my lap at age 19. The doc shot her up with stuff to make her feel ok overnight, and I brought her home so she could have one more night to be wild and one more night to be free. Kitty wouldn't want to go in an office, inside walls. Wanted to be outside, in some sun, just to lay down and not have cancer stomach anymore.

Kitty, she needed help to move on, my friend the vet came over in the morning. Now lays out there under the daisy bush, out where she liked to be.

Three dogs, eleven legs, and one sick cat.

3 legged dog is not available for viewing.

While I was having a weekend, if by weekend you mean I was at work then I painted the new chunk of my house, all these people were in the AKC Nationals, the big festival for AKC agility people. Lots of people I know were becoming super champions. They were in some far off land, of North Carolina, I believe? Holy smokes, that is a far off land. They drove their motorhomes and flew their dogs in planes and off they went to win great big prizes like new Frigidaire refrigerators and Samsonite luggage sets and coupons for lifetime supplies of pancakes from IHOP's. That what you won you guys?

Something like that?

My weekend had it's own bling and sparkle and fun. If by fun, you like playing Pet Nurse to the small animals. Sort of like becoming a giant agility champion, except actually, nothing like that. Pet Nurse, has to figure out why outside-sorta-feral cat all of a sudden drops all it's weight, wants to either lay in ball in direct line of dog-chasing fire or come frantically running into the house to leap onto desk and meow like Satan has it's tail. Something wrong with that poor cat big time and going to have to go to the vet. Just saw it on the roof screaming at invisible monkeys, has got to be some kind of crazy sick.

And poor sweet Ruby went from ok-not-hinky to 3-legged hopper in no time flat. Been off and on doing random painscreams, then being sound enough to do a little bit of agility or run on beach, then next day not then next day yes. You saw her just yesterday, demonstrating style points as part of driveway pole fiesta. But Saturday night painscreams herself out of the blue and disappears in quivering mass of weepy under the bed, not to be seen until the next day when she only walks on 3 legs. The leg that can't touch down the right front, which is her old bad leg, not the more recent new bad leg, which was left front. So what is new is old, yet once was new.

Sort of like '80's jeans.

I am a bad dog owner. I just compared my dog to acid washed jeans with zippers in the legs.

But at least I didn't compare her to poufy hair with mile high bangs and stacks of black rubber skinny bracelets and lace bottom leggings. I would never do that.

I also didn't rush her to the emergency vet but instead shoved some rimadyl down her gullet and let her huddle like a miserable pile of sad all night. See how it goes the next day. And the next. Augh. Always the animals get sick when you do something like buy a giant glass sliding door and have to pay someone to cut a huge hole in your rotting wall and just stick it in there. Last time we really tried to figure out what EXACTLY pains Ruby, MRI's and UC Davis and such were mentioned. And I just put her on a leash and give her nice kidney busting anti inflammatory chewy treats.

I think today, we actually go visit a real doctor, instead of someone who just plays Pet Nurse on the internet.

Dos y Dos Para Tejer con our Amigo, Gustavo.

Susan Garrett, you won't sue me, right? This isn't your 2x2 method I'm regurgitating here, because I haven't seen the movie. Or read the book. I do like Canadian music though! Do you love the Sadies, Susan Garrett? Or Black Mountain? Total stoner music. Loud, loud, loud. But I digress. Because today, we are going to talk about the systematic way I'm re-teaching Gustavo to weave. To tejer. And I'm going to call this method Dos y Dos. Because Gustavo speaks Spanish way better than English and we are trying to make this Clear as Day, Gustavo. Simple. Easy. Anyone can do it, at any speed. Spanglish or English.

It's a multi pronged attack. Attack, I say! For our method, we need first of all, a chicken.


A chicken? Does Susan Garrett use a chicken? Pollo? No se. I didn't watch the movie. But Gustavo likes a chicken, and chicken we use. The secret of this chicken? It is hollow. Long ago de-stuffed by dogs, yet the now hollow cavity is a handy place to hide some string cheese. And also, Gustavo really likes to play with the chicken. And eat string cheese. And for this method, your dog has to be super happy about running to get something. El pollo, totally fits that bill


And you need some sticks. You can also use 2 set weave poles. Or your regular weave poles with bases and just stick tupperwares over the protruding impalement objects left over when you pull the poles out of them.


Sticks are nice because you can drag them around in the car and pull over every time you see some nice grass and you want to do some dos y dos poles with your chicken. Explain that one to the nice officer.

The other prong of attack is driveway weaves. I have been setting up 2 sets of 6 into totally weird, crackhead configurations and challenging everyone to just do them. Because Gustavo has stellar, super fast 12 poles already in the driveway. So we gotta turn up the heat here. This is hard for everybody, even el tejar perro extraordinaire, Otterpop.


Stuff like that.


And that. God, my driveway is such a ghetto. Don't mind the garbage cans. Just you wait though. Til that porch is painted and for the surprise that starts happening next week when, surprise, Brian is going to rip the back wall of the house off and put the sliding glass door in. Remember how I didn't go to the USDAA Nationals this year because I wanted a sliding glass door? Aloha Bobby AND Rose, sliding glass door on the way as long as the house doesn't fall down when Brian rips the back wall off. How's that going to affect weave poles? Hola!

Um, did I digress?


Anyways. Those 2 sticks, I started working around the clock until Gustavo was running like a madman into them from anywhere I stood, or us running together at mad speeds from anywhere. And every time he did it right, throw el pollo. Gracias, el pollo. Uh, I should mention by around the clock, I'm not doing these, like instead of going to work or sleeping on the couch or staring inside the refrigerator waiting for the pie to appear. Like I pretend the grass is a clock and Gustavo needs to go into the weaves from every single number.

In a few days, we added 2 more sticks. I like to call this part, Dos Mas. When he could run through them straight on, started changing the angle every day. Making it more offset, still running at them from anywhere, as super fast as we could. Goal Being, MIRA! LOOK AT THE STICKS, Gustavo, and run fast into them because you see them. MIRA!


Simultaneous with that, driveway poles on crazy angles. Fun for everyone.


Backwards and forwards.


Trying not to cue to go find the other set. Ruby. Ruby likes to learn new things. She cracks me up. She is the Operant Dog. This shows total proof of cheating and cueing her to go out and find that other set. I suck. I admit it. I suck, yet will also have a sliding glass door. You got one of those?


Here's the little hombre now. Vaya con dios, con much gusto, Gustavo. Andale! Rapido! Y mira that pole.

Found the picture in my computer from exactly one year ago, today.

Some days, it's hard to think of Timmy in focus.

It's sort of blurry and foggy, trying to remember when he padded around the house, spinning his circles and wandering into walls.

Even harder to remember when he could run, through the house, on the beach, and in the forest. How he thought he was doing agility because he was tied up with the other dogs and barking with everyone and going through a tunnel. How he liked to wander around at the barn and sometimes just walked into a pasture already occupied by a mean horse. How he went everywhere with me, shotgun in the front seat of my truck. How we'd be walking and he'd find an old, moldy burrito and run away to scarf it down. How he liked to get out of the yard and wander around the neighborhood. How he knew dogs weren't supposed to step on paintings on the floor of the studio. Or bark in the mac lab at calarts. Or jump out of the basket on the back of my bike.

Timmy just did what he knew how to do best. Be the best dog.

Systematic mayhem.

We tried to use the Linda Mecklenburg system at Dirt Nite last night.

For about 2 minutes. Because I didn't read the whole article and mostly only know what I've seen people do that come from far off lands to big trials. But it's sort of backwards arm from Greg Derrett arm and you face the dog and it made the dogs go backwards in a threadle and that was that. And now I let my Clean Run subscription run out and I'll never know how the story ends.

So I also didn't watch the Susan Garrett weave DVD. Or read the pamphlet. But, I guess that's what I've been teaching Gustavo. I drive around with stick in the ground poles and stick em in the ground and have him blast off from all the hell all over and back and go through them. He can do 4 of them now. Basically teaching him when flat out ass hauling, to go through the first poles he sees. Emphasis on first. Just not happening from a recipe. With rules.

Gonna take my sticks to the forest next, and the beach. Gonna take those sticks everywhere you can carry 4 plastic sticks with spikes on the bottom. Anywhere Gustavo likes to run, here comes me and my sticks.

Not sure how close my rip off of her method is to her real method. I know my attention span of a flea would rather go sit in a bar and listen to Canadian bands than watch that DVD. But I do know my method is based on one important thing. Gustavo loves to run really, really fast. It's just that simple and that's what makes him tick. So I have to teach him a way to see those first poles based on his Gustavoness. Haul ass and rip and just learn to look for some black sticks stuck in the ground, everywhere you love. That's the system.

Wrong tool for a crappy job.

Last night, had the dogs down on the beach before the sun went down. Saw a lady I know there. I know her just because for years I see her there. Walking around with her 2 dogs. Talk to her a little bit, we look out for rangers and she followed the whole Ranger Danger saga up in the field. She walks those dogs, lets them run, every day, rain or shine. A good dog owner. Always seems a little sad. A little bit lonely. Never talk to her for long though.

See her last night and only one dog. Whenever you see that, first thing you always think is bad. Dead dog. I've learned that over the years. Sometimes it's not. Maybe sick or a sore leg but usually, people like that, show up missing a dog and pretty much you know. It's dead. I knew that when I walked up to her, so I ask real quiet, where's your other dog?

Lady starts to cry. She's a little lady. Frail and thin blonde hair and always such a quiet voice. The missing dog, it's a bad dog. Long runs on beach, what she does for that dog to try to make it better. She's mentioned that in passing but we've never talked much about it, how she might fix the badness. Usually I stay out of people's business, I guess. I know that dog has bit people though, and when she starts to cry, I pretty much figure out where the dog went before she tells me.

You ever read Jon Katz books? I first read one and sort of liked it. Total city guy, clueless about dogs and farms and he goes and gets both and tries to learn how to have border collies and a sheep ranch somewhere cold and north east. He writes as if he has a bunch of wisdom to tell you about dogs and life, really you realize this guy, complete nut job out there on his blizzard sheep farm and his life run by border collies that maybe he don't manage quite right. Anyways, in one of his books, his dog bites and he ends up euthanizing it because that's the best thing he can think of. It's super sad, but the more I thought about it, I thought, you asshole, Jon Katz. Up there on your farm, they don't have muzzles, don't have big enough pens, don't have better way to manage your aggresive dog? Like you bought a damn sheep farm for your border collies. They do a good job for you, and that's the best you can do?

This lady, she tells me how her dog flat out bit 6 people. Wouldn't let anyone touch it besides her and her daughter. Was never going to be submissive. Submissive, dominant, always buzzwords something might have gone south in the training. I'm compassionate to her, and I give her a hug there on the sand. She's totally broken, almost going to just collapse away in the evening wind. She doesn't have money. I don't know if she tried $80/hr consulting with the aggressive dog trainer over the hill. I'm pretty sure not. Although wish I could have told her about dog trainers like that before she went and figured this the only way she could fix it. Maybe it was.

She said, "I just told myself, you euthanize sick dogs, and she was sick in her mind."

Later on that evening, I'm wandering through Trader Joe's. Not a good place to be when you're tired and hungry and all these weird snack items keep appearing at you from the shelves. Things with black mushrooms and truffles and fried peas and sugary peanut butter goodness. The meat display catches my eye, and I see this steak or chop, all bloody and raw, and wonder if that's a golden ticket to consistent weave poles. Or undoing the arena willies. My training challenges I've been thinking about. My bad dogs. Otterpop seems sick, hasn't been quite right for a week, ran away with her frisbee again today and just didn't want to do anything except lay there and chew on it. Was barfing on Monday. Gustavo, seems like those 2x2 weaves are starting to take, will he ever know how to do 12 poles in a trial? Ruby, heard a pain squeak from her jumping up into the car today again, and didn't run down on the beach, seemed weak and shakey part of the time as we walked away from the sad lady.

All these problems, trying to be creative and fix myself, best I know how. Otterpop, definite behavior problems and I am working on it, I am. I really want to fix that dog. I think that lady did too. But I'm not sure she found the right set of tools. Not sure I have them either. Whole right tool for the right job issue. Plagued me my whole life, whatever I do. Never quite the tool I need. But always soldier on. Even if the job comes out sort of screwed up, but usually that ugly patch holds one way or another.

Maybe those dog agility videos if playing on giant, widescreen bar tv's when the band is playing.

I had a dream the other night that I was at a seminar where Linda Mecklenburg and Greg Derrett were both presenting their handling styles in a confrontational, loud, mean screaming match against each other. Sort of Jerry Springer show style. Totally not Oprah guests. It was in a classy resort with carpeted hallways. They were nearly coming to blows in some kind of ballroom with dirty plastic chairs.

Um. My non dog agility friends, the super geek threshold on this is maybe like a dream where Facebook takes on Myspace. Oh wait. That's real, it won, right? Or like you are stretching bezier curves in your dream, trying to trace the delicate shape of a perfect letter R. Or the Sadies vs. Black Mountain. Both Canadian, but this edge of geekdom to know both those bands and all their stats and in your dream you can list the family tree of every band every guy in each band ever played in?

My dog agility friends, you all read this Mecklenburg vs. Derrett in the March issue of Clean Run. I skimmed it. I am thinking of not renewing my subscription because I can't work up any enthusiasm for reading about dog agility and the ugly little diagrams. Oh wait. Are you reading about dog agility right now? Are you enthused? I am reading the history of luxury goods right now. Maybe not right this second, but every time I can find my glasses. I'm on the part about the silk spinning for Hermes scarfs and slave labor in Mauritius and how Louis Vuitton took over Japan and that is just so much more interesting.

I never print out the Clean Run exersizes. I just always make my own. Think of some skills I want to work on and drag crap around til it looks right. Osmosis from lessons I've taken over the years? Stuff I pick up when I periodically breeze around the internet? The articles in Clean Run totally put me to snooze. I think I am not a good dog training geek. I just dream like one. Maybe it is the super geeks that make the World Team. Non super geeks, write about Canadian bands on their dog agility blog.

So Linda Mecklenburg vs. Greg Derrett? I don't even know the Linda stuff. Different arms and just a different way of doing everything. Fewer front crosses. Need to go skim that article again. But I didn't know Black Mountain either, just the Sadies. Found myself in sea of guys dressed in black and plaids with way more tattoos than me. Felt naked without a neck tattoo. Certain guys I know, know the name of every guy in the band and all their stats. Yet somehow I'm the one who ends up dancing on top of a barstool after watching David Carradine in Death Race 2000 on the bar tv with a Canadian bass player. Also starring Agent Cooper and a young Sly Stallone and it was the bass player who figured out Willem Dafoe. In weird fiberglass Corvettes where they get extra points for everyone they kill with while driving across the country. Yet then became BFF with Sean, bass player of the Sadies because they are just super cool. You've heard them. They've been soundtracks of important Team Small Dog training videos. All of us, great pals by the end of the night. Super loud Canadian bands, playing in the front bar of a crepe restaurant? This is what dog training geeks do?

One band, punk and rockabilly and Beatles and Beachboys and bluegrass and super fast. One band, atmospheric and Pink Floyd and super creepy girl singer and head banging and a fight in the crowd. Neither system more correct, neither one is the right one? One is faster, one is louder. I only know BFF Greg Derrett, but maybe I could be pals with Linda too. Loved the Sadies going in but came out with ears ringing from super headbanging sounds of Black Mountain. Asked the Sadies bass player about dog agility, but he hadn't heard of it. Not sure if Greg Derrett likes either band or has a neck tattoo?

Um, and my point was? Susan Garrett likes these bands and dances on Canadian barstools when they play up there? Almost wacking her head on the low, tin tiled ceiling? If I could do the Linda Mecklenburg I could decelerate Gustavo into poles? I think there was a point in there but you know. I just like loud music sometimes. I just like running around fast with dogs. I like to keep it simple. Was that it? That many margaritas and it's just gone.

Diary of a Dog Show

Sunday morning, 3:30am
My super punctual alarm clock in my brain goes off. Unfortunately it is SO super punctual that it is one hour early.

4am
I am just awake now so I get up early before the real alarm goes off because what the hell. It is super windy and stormy outside so since I have to drive all the way to Santa Rosa might as well leave early so I can drive nice and slow since all my timing of how fast I can get to dog show places is based on flat out, manic speeding.

4:15am
I let the dogs outside and only 2 dogs come back inside. One dog is doing insane monkeybarkscream outside for the enjoyment of my once sleeping neighbors and clearly has some kind of animal in his sights.

4:20am
The monkeybarkscreams are now coming from not in the yard but down the block. FYI, I have a nice fence that no dog has ever jumped over. But I am pretty sure this is what happened since when I was hissing so whisper soft yet pissed off at him to stop screaming and come in I could see him frantically boinging up and down trying to get whatever critter he was trying to get at.

4:30am
Have you ever had to stand in the pouring rain, nicely trying to get your dog to come back in from the neighbor's yard, when that dog is totally sure now he is in super big trouble and wants to stay in the neighbor's yard and also is where CAT is? Before you have drunk any coffee? Have you? HAVE YOU? Do I just have totally bad dogs? And the neighbor's light switches on?


5am
We are on the road. With unmatching socks on and let me just tell you now. I have not wiped my frown upside down. It is very frowny and I am saying bad words under my breath and I am wet.

5-7:15am
I have all these super profound thoughts and good ideas yet cannot jot them down due to the driving fast on freeway in the dark on wet roads issue. They are promptly all lost as soon as I pull into the fairgrounds.


7:30am
We are having a nice walk under not raining sky when there is a super loud gunshot noise from the air and Ruby goes into complete and utter fireworks mode. Crap. Poor Ruby. Why does everything have to happen to Ruby?

9am
All 3 dogs have done their first run! All nice and prompt and they all kind of run one after another. Let's see. How do I describe their runs? Let's see if this is a good description. At 9am on Sunday, I decide I will quit agility and perhaps even starting now and just drive home and I will become an artist again and just spend all my time in my garage painting deers and so forth like I used to before I started all this dog training nonsense.

Perhaps we backtrack.


8:15am
Otterpop is acting bizarre and bratty when we play frisbee and won't bring it back and is just being a dirty old switch. Hag. She seems happy and excited besides that and is tugging ringside and all jazzed to go and as soon as we step across that magic colorful tape strung between fence posts into the magical land known as The Ring, she just shuts down and I do like 3 obstacles and am like screw this, Otterpop. This is not fun for either of us and you can just go sit in the car. The dog likes agility everywhere and playing and barking and having fun EVERYwhere except in this ring at this moment and I am just like fuggit.

8:30am
Ruby has a run and it is kind of all over the place, although she does seem sound and not crashing through all the jumps or refusing the a-frame or poles which is the red flag but we have about a zillion off courses and a backjump and just mayhem. Her timing is weird, that makes my timing weird which turns my handling to a puddle of melting poop. I mean, I am like, shaking my head and wondering how it got to and that just makes it worse and it's just a really bad run.

8:45am
Gustavo goes out and just starts screaming around this course like he has been shot out of a bazooka, and weave poles? Hello, goodbye aloha adios and he is screaming off to the tunnel and you are supposed to do a table to stop the clock but he is gone like a flash out of the ring at the end instead and what just happened?


11am
NQ stands for Not Quitting agility. Also No Q. But at least now we're not quitting and skulking around making new wrinkles. Although I break all these CPE rules because really, CPE is sort of retarded and I just don't know the rules that well. Such as in the class Fullhouse, it is not just getting a million points like gamblers with Otterpop who is running ok-fine now, and there are certain obstacles such as jumps you need 3 of and oh well because I did a bunch of tunnels and poles and contacts. And Ruby does this one and I do actually do jumps with her however when you stop the clock by landing on the table in CPE, if your dog skids off of it because it's like 4" high, DON'T put your dog back on in their down which is an automatic reflex, because you will be disqualified. The judge taps me on the shoulder and calls me "Miss" to tell me this in sort of a pissy, passive aggressive way. Oh hell, CPE. I didn't mean to! And Gustavo goes screaming around his standard run but the poles are off the a-frame and they are just not happening. There are only 6 of them, and he is blowing by and blowing in and then they are done and you know what, I just moved on rather than make a thing. But good startline and contacts and everything else.

Noon
I run leashes for an hour and am impressed by Karey and Katrina's ability to time, scribe and nonstop chitchat running commentary the whole time. Also I notice hardly any dogs can get into those 6 poles off that a-frame at this level. Also I see the cutest dog in the world which is a border collie and a wirey, scruffy terrier and has an awesome handler and too bad she isn't my best friend and can help me train my dogs.


1pm
I learn a lot about motorhomes and allergies and how everyone is like, yeah bummer about those weave poles, bummer about weird ring psychological phobia issues but doesn't have any like instant, fast magical ways to fix those things in the next 5 minutes.


2pm
Gustavo has another super run but that has an off course, surprise, tunnel. No more weave poles in any of his courses. Otterpop has 2 mediocre runs, Colors and this other one, Wildcard, which is sort of like colors but different. They're sort of uninspiring to run but I am trying my hardest, and Otterpop is just so so. Pops out of some weave poles. So not Otterpop. She is just having a really off day. And this is CPE with the nice, space allowing judges. Ruby gets one of her stupid Colors Q's though on this 9 obstacle course. It takes like 10 seconds to run. She actually likes stuff like that and zips around.


3pm
Last frisbee game of the day because Gustavo had a really good run. Yeah, there were no poles. And it was one of those dumb short ones. But it was a really good run. I used a really long leadout and picked the option that seems hardest for him. He handles it beautifully. He just needs like a whole day of classes to take the edge off. And since Otterpop is being weird and hoarding the frisbee, him and Ruby are yucking it up with a tree branch and it's nice for them to play while Fatty just lays there and chews the corner of her frisbee off, giving stink eye to everybody. Not sure what claw scraped up her craw today but hopefully Seether goes back in it's box soon.

4pm
We are outta there. I didn't help pack the trailers because I am a bitch. I never checked anyone's Q's and stuff. But I do know Ruby should have gotten one on that Colors. Everyone had some Q's I guess but most of the runs, really, pretty flawed.


5:45pm
Lumpy Father Serra points out to me, Go the Coast Route, so we turn down and take the scenic ocean way home. Driving from Santa Rosa, wow. Beautiful landscape everywhere, was clear in San Francisco and beautiful and one of those we are so lucky to live here moments the whole drive. Also there was no traffic which helps make you feel all warm and fuzzy over our insane property taxed landscape.

6pm
As soon as Gustavo can somehow see oceans and beaches out of his crate window, monkeyscreaming ensues. I find that I can quell it by singing along with the O Brother Where Art Though soundtrack using a lot of hillbilly inflection.


6:15pm
He stops so I quick find a beach I can take him to for a reward for being quiet. There's one, a nice steep path down a pullout I've never been to. A passel of German tourists explain to me in sign language and their english and my german that I have to use a rope to scale the cliff. My german consists of english with what are hopefully not obscene hand gestures. Back up to the car we go. I should mention I'm wearing clogs and it's muddy.

6:30pm
Davenport Landing Beach. Gustavo being good, let all the dogs out there to run. They run promptly up to a group of pot smoking hobo picnickers and try to eat their picnic. I am able to divert them and throw sticks for a while and they have a good run.


7pm
We are Home.

If there's a Sunday this weekend, then there's a dog show.

The Colors quest continues. This Sunday, we run up to Santa Rosa, where running equals drive super fast at 5am past the lumpy Father Serra, Killer of the Indians Statue, through Golden Gate Park and across the Golden Gate Bridge and right by Brody's house and past Petaluma to the covered arena by the racetrack. Rumors abound about rain. Which means one of those days where dogs sit in the car and a lot of running through rain to where there's no rain and then back through it and really, all around sort of wet. Even though every other day, sunny bright skies and I have a giant bucket of yellow daffodils to prove it sitting on a dusty, dry, cabinet at the barn. But just not for dog agility day.

It's ok. Ruby's going to do a run, see if she can get one of those pesky Colors things so she can have a CATCH. Otterpop and Gustavo, can practice, practice, practice and just have a nice day doing some agility. If nice means sort of damp and muddy and cold. And maybe even nice WEAVE POLES, if your name is Gustavo.

Oh, you were like, "Hey, How's Gustavo's Weave Poles?"

Oh you weren't, except I'll just tell you because that's what dog agility ladies do sometimes. Too much information, usually when there's a little bit of an obsession about a Training Issue. I would say his weave poles are a training issue. I'm trying to go totally David Carradine and very little grasshopper over the whole thing. Deep breath, and that someday, he just does them. Just grab that pebble from my palm. You want to see some killer weave poles, visit my driveway. Hot damn. Anywhere else, when he's speeding, just blow by that entrance. I think to the point of we go back to some wires. So will be interesting, what they look like in Santa Rosa, but my prediction, we walk the planet, where fear is the enemy and trust is the armor, and if the weave poles happen, grasshopper has learned the ways of the Master. Except wait. Isn't the Master a shriveled up 1000 year old bald monk?

Grasshopper ran away in the field this morning to uncover a treasure quest of a giant pile of Burger King garbage. Snatch that pebble from my palm then run away and eat the Burger King. Father Serra, he was a monk and look at him now. A lumpy cement, finger pointing monk, sitting forever above a bathroom, pointing out at Highway 280. David Carradine? Any lumpy sculptures of him, flute playing, all quiet before storm of serious kung fu ass kicking?

Anyways. Kick some ass, Gustavo. Snatch that pebble, have us some zen, and then you just use the force and into that first pole you go. Weaving through the plastic like breeze shudders through the bamboo, so gently in the sun. You close your eyes, grasshopper, and the pole is there and like the water flowing through the stream, you go there too.

Crotchedy blah blah from an old coodger, whatever that is.

So, I might call you out of the blue, and you answer, and I'm like, "Huh? Um...Hi! Right!" and then babble on some chit chat for a few minutes, all about dogs are good, Gary is good, horses good, weather nice, business ok, no not much art, yep to a dog show, then hang up sort of mysterious and you're like, why did she just call me? Left scratching your head for a minute, then back to whatever it was you were doing before I disrupted your life with my vaguery.

And I'll just tell you right now it would be due to the fact I somehow turned blind as a stump. I go to dial a number in the phone and your little name looks like blurry ants running across the teensy tiny phone screen and I think it's someone else's name and I call whoever I call. Which is frequently becoming not who I am trying to call. And I don't even like calling people in the first place.

Don't say, "Did you try to use the voice command thingy?"

I tried to use the voice command thingy. That's the other reason I call you sometimes out of the blue and hang up on you super fast. Or have the pleasant random chit chat.

Voice command thingy hears me say, Call Gary and she's British and says back to me, Call Vice President Joseph Biden. Crap. Next time I call him, I just hang up super fast. Hope Secret Service doesn't call back when my number pops up in their phone. I just won't answer.

I hate using the phone. Unless I'm stuck in traffic. Did we live lives once upon a time where we couldn't make all our calls in traffic jams, waiting to go by a wreck, possibly caused, by some jerk yacking on their phone? Was that a long, long time ago, back before weave poles had wires to help wayward dogs in finding the entrance? When dogs had to cowboy up and just go through those poles? Back before cupcakes, when cakes were big, hearty fellows weighing at least 4 lbs? Back when there was no evil arm, all arms created equal and everyone was ok with that? Back when all the dogs were wolves and the people just hucked bones at them in the back of the caves and hoped they didn't eat the babies?

Anyways. Grandma crankety. From now on, she just sends email. Isn't 40 supposed to be the new 25? Or wait. Am I backwards? The new 55? I read that somewhere, except I didn't have my glasses on.

Teaching your dog to turn-a primer.

So yesterday, Gary came home and he's all, "Where's my cupcake?"

Referring to, a genuine, real cupcake that was his. All his. And it was gone. Along with the other cupcakes.

I'm all, "Uh, evil robots broke in and ate them all."

He's all, "*&!!**ing Evil Robots!!!"

So I bring this up because I used the 3-d modeling software to make some nice models of how you want to get your dog to turn.


This is turning your dog to the right.


This is turning your dog to the left.

I hate those evil robots. But super useful to understand the turn command.

Let's say you have a dog, like a Gustavo, and he's on your right, and you want him to turn right. Like to go into a tunnel. Or 1000 miles away for a gamble obstacle, which could someday EVEN BE WEAVE POLES! But maybe not weave poles today.


You can do this first time with their toy. Or some treats in a thing you can throw.


Here's the secret. If you are turning your dog right, Use Your Left Hand. Their head turns first.


Then the rest of them.


Then they're all the way turned, chasing their toy.

Troubleshooting FAQ-If your dog turned into Otterpop by the end of the turn, they are probably chasing a frisbee. If you gained 50lbs during the winter, you better start doing A LOT of turn teaching, pronto. And avoid the whole evil robot problem by just not bringing home the cupcakes.

It is love, but in a frightening sort of way.

Walker and Kelsey came down from the wilds of Oakland today.


And Sealy and Boy Howdy. Walker and me, we wear the same shoes. He doesn't think it's uncool to have the same shoes as me though. Thanks, Walk!


Sealy, she's doing pretty good. Kelsey waves at her since she can't hear, but she can still run around a little bit and have a good time at the beach.


Boy Howdy, he's always got the leapies. Boy Howdy could TOTALLY come live with us. Not sure why Kelsey doesn't do agility with him, will never figure that one out. I know you've explained it to me, Kelsey. But I still have hope of someday, one day, all my friends decide to take up agility. You have the car, the wardrobe, you can run, and would have a super triple champion with Boy Howdy. As long as there are no s-q-u-i-r-r-e-l-s at agility. Is usually squirrel-free, Kelsey! Come to agility!


Otterpop loves Walker. This is no little thing. Otterpop used to like 6 people in the entire universe. Now it's 7. I am not kidding. She hates almost everybody. Once she likes you, she LOVES YOU and you actually might become scared. Because it's just weird. She hates 99.9% of all humans and then randomly selects someone and LOVES them forever. Not loves. Not likes. She hates you, or she LOVES you.


See, he's sort of afraid of the LOVE. Smart boy.


This much, Otterpop? You LOVE him this much?


LOVE. Or else she thinks she has brainwashed him and he is part of her plot to overthrow whatever it is her deluded, evil little mind has planned. Her and her minions of 7. I am included in there, but I am pretty sure she hasn't brainwashed me. I possess the squirter bottle that stops howling, control when she gets meals and I keep their chewies on a high shelf only I can reach. Ha! Take that, Otterpop. I have taught you the recall and the leave-it and in return I keep you safe from agility judges and everyone else that you don't LOVE.


Oh yeah. She thinks she has complete control over his brain. He is her zombie.


Um, Otterpop? I think he doesn't really care.

Dog show vs. Horse show.

Both go dawn til dusk.

Dog shows sometimes have a couple horses outside a fence, or none at all. Horse shows, lots of dogs hanging out. Way more 12" dogs at the horse shows. With plaid coats.

I never have to sit on someone's naughty dog at a dog show.

Dog shows, the ladies break into tears in the privacy of the ladies room. I mean porta potty. Non consolable, and can be chalked up to horomones. Horse shows, big weepy faces tend to be on kids on their way out of the ring after an off course. Usually getting a mom to feed them a sandwich helps. Blood sugar and perfectionism.

Dog shows, you just do your own thing before your turn, during your turn. Your every move not scrutinized by your trainer. Trainers relax and run their own dogs.

Horse shows, trainers, man oh man. Let's just say, need WAY more coffee the next day.

The nuns are quibbling at the feed store.

This morning on the way to work, it was errands. Errands usually equals buying food for a lot of animals plus Home Depot. Besides small dogs, there are house cats and barn cats and the feral cats and the horses that all need to eat. Most of what the horses eat comes on giant semi trucks a couple times a year, but they still need big bags of food you fling in the back of the car, just like dogs and cats.

So at feed store numero dos, where I pick up small dog food and cat food for everyone but the feral cats, there are some nuns in the parking lot. Why don't the feral cats get food at the nun store? They get whatever's on sale at Safeway is why. And usually there aren't nuns there. But today there were, and they weren't good at parking their giant white station wagon. So it was hard for me to throw my feed bags in the car. But what are you gonna say? It's nuns.

The nun driving was really, really old. The nun trying to get out of the massive white wagon was too and couldn't walk very good. They were quibbling. You ever hear quibbling nuns? Every sentence starts with Sister.

"Sister, something mumbly mumbly mumbly mumbly."

"Sister, I am TRYING TO get out."

"Sister, mumbly mumbly mumbly old lady voice something the Pharmacy!"

"Sister, if you had pulled in straight I'd be able to!"

So I ask the less mumbly sister who doesn't seem to walk real good if she needs a hand. I mean, good god. You gotta help nuns out, right? Even if you still need to go to Home Depot. She has on white sneakers and gray, bare legs and this foldy black dress skirt thing and the black head thing over a white head scarf. Tiny little glasses and gray skin.

Sister though, she don't want any help. She just wants my shopping cart. Now. The look she gives me, Holy Sister Mary Dagger Peeper. So I finish flinging all the bags in and wheel it over to her, sort of push it so it props her up, and slowly, slowly, with mumbly Sister harping at her and her harping back, she gets out of the car and slowly, slowly pushes that cart into the feed store, little shuffly steps with her white as white can be off-brand sneakers.

Sister number one pulls out of the parking lot in front of me and floors it. Man oh man. Mumbly sister, who looked to be about 150 years old, she is off like a shot. Her car like a fleshy, white tuna. Off to more nun errands. For a second, I just want to follow the nun. But I don't. Just go to Home Depot instead.

Just another night.

On my block, there's a guy that was standing there, waving his arms around like a dramatic thespian trying to make a very important point. Had a kid's bmx bike leaned against John's fence. John used to own a flower shop then he became a parking lot attendant. His house needs paint worse than mine. It's across the street from the flat house with the buddha on the porch and all the weeds. Guy with the bmx bike, standing there howling about not being able to find something. Never found out what. We just keep on walking by. Guy had giant fluffy hair all kind of stuffed into a crocheted hat, and a striped shirt.

When we were down on the beach, some people had a giant kite, like a big orange fish but with wings and a long tail. It crashed down, and was laying there. Gustavo saw it and had a major meltdown. Worse than I've ever seen. Mind, so blown. At first it was sort of funny, a giant beach, a giant fish on the sand, and a tiny dog immobilized due to the fish, barking his tiny head off with a giant monkeyscream. Hardly anyone else on the beach except for us, the kite people, and the black and white dog chasing a tennis ball from one of those plastic things. The tall wife and the short husband.

Me and Ruby and Otterpop finally circle back to Gustavo and the fish kite with wings. Otterpop dragging a giant stick, as usual. I go up and touch the kite. Nice kite. Sorry it crashed. Gustavo comes closer, still barking. Otterpop's hair all standing up on end, she is spinning circles and Ruby looks confused. No one really gets why he is so worked up. They're all business as usual. Giant flying orange fish, whatever. But there's this whole danger vibe going on and I see Otterpop going to the dark place. The look in her eye. Too stressed out, man. So we go.

Walking back, the lady who stands on corners sometimes with her lunging dog in a dog coat, just standing there, she's walking through the field. Lunging, overdressed dog sniffing in the grass, and the lady is on her phone. She's always on her phone. I think there's something wrong with her and something wrong with her dog. I see them up ahead, and break into a run. We get up some good speed, and run by them. They don't even notice, we fly by like a flash as fast as we all can, and run to the end of the path.

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Postscript-This is a link for a video broadcast fundraiser for rabies vaccine research this weekend. I don't know much about it, agility lady extraordinaire Katie sent it to me and asked that I pass it along. If you are interested in rabies vaccine research, you may want to investigate this:

Northeast Rabies Challenge Fund Live Stream

Dirt Nite in a dirty little nutshell.

Since the most loyal Team Small Dog reader and our good friend Mary missed Dirt Nite, here's the summary of all things that happened. Because I know this is what she would want.

I got there late and the porta potties were moved somewhere else.

We put all the stuff out there. It was heavy and dirty, as usual.

We had beginner classes. I got mad at a dog that ran out of my class and out to the field to chase a horse and everyone got to see Laura get mad, run all the way down there, drag the dog back, and banish that dog to it's car. Surely mortifying the handler.

Someone in the 7pm class brought chocolate chip cookies because her dog won a costume contest and it was his birthday. They were homemade. Dog birthdays, whatever. However, cookies!

Rob brought no border collies and I decided that I'm not running Gustavo for a while in Dirt Nite. And Mary was gone. It was just so, quiet. We could hear the sounds of little birds and so forth.

The moon came up and it was orange.

It was sunny and nice then it was dark and got really cold.

We had tunnels with all the contacts and it was discriminatey.

A lot of the courses, something like jump jump jump poles jump tunnel tire bunch of jumps table couple jumps teeter tunnel jump a-frame. You know how they go. I did a lot of front crosses. I can always find a place for a front cross.

It was weird just running 2 dogs and I only ran Ruby some because I'm trying to make her last. I did let her do an a-frame, it's been months I think. She was happy, happy, happy.

Cedar had some dog biscuits. Cayenne missed a contact. Otterpop was barking. Izzy was perfect.

We packed up quick and everyone drove out the gate in a single file line.

I made a video too. It's not about dirt. It's just about.

The time has changed so we get to go to the beach after work, and also, I saw the DEAD RACCOON with it's bleached little skull and hand bones.

Now that it gets dark later, more chance to get to the beach after work. Ruby has to think about this for a minute, but I think she's basically happy about it. She wasn't so much into running and chasing, and went off to do a project.


The other 2, they're happy and they're gonna let everyone know about it. Loudly.


And with running-barking.


And leaping.


And much more loudness.


And then by doing a hoochie dance.


And that scarey stare until you throw the thing.


Which turns into a scarey stare when running after the thing.


This goes on and on, because it's not even dark yet. Thank you time change. Also, walking back up, Gustavo found it. The dead raccoon. Just stiffly sprung over a log, up by the cliff. Not putrified.

This is what they're wearing as the economy comes crumbling down.

Haven't been up to the forest much lately. Between rain and work and teaching myself to walk like Jermaine from Flight of the Conchords, dogs haven't had a good forest run in a while. So yesterday morning, in the sun, drove up to the easy forest for a walk. Run. Walk.

A nice thing to remember is that even though it's sunny, doesn't guarantee weather actually hot and dry. So short pants and slip on sneakers without socks, perhaps not bestest hiking costume for yesterday. As I'm walking by frosty grass remembering, March, not quite yet summer. Also to the dismay of other hikers, which today, is mostly wizened old guys in dirty camo ensembles with unusual, waterproof backpacks, I'm displaying very white chubby legs sticking out from short pants. I think this means Spring is springing yet not completely sprung.

Today, many mud crossings to just walk the forest path! Ingenious hikers on the trail before me had created very Indian like little systems of tree branches across the muddy bits to avoid walking in the muck which would have been super had I been able to walk like an Indian and stayed on the tiny tree branch systems. Also due to the time change, somehow was wearing a wrongly matched red plaid shirt with a brown and orange sweater and forgot to brush hair. Karl and Deb, who, you guys, were eating breakfast with me before this walk, Did you EVEN NOTICE this and NOT SAY ANYTHING? Like Hi! Laura! Dressing like a CRAZY PERSON? Did not notice til I get home. Neither Karl nor Deb nor any old wizened camo guys found reason to point this out. I wear this outfit the rest of the day however. That we are in a global recession seems like an ok reason to do this.


So along the lines of we are walking across tiny tree branches on mud like an Indian, this walk, Team Small Dog visits their Native American roots. However much roots we got. Quiet, hunterlike stalking, me and the small dogs, walking through the forest. So right away, we stalk right up to our first forest creature of the morning. Big and fat forest creature, the size of 2 border collies stacked upon themselves. Surprised us as much as we surprised it. Two thirds of Team Small Dog luckily attached to leashes, so as not to try to pounce on it, because not sure how fast can run, creature known as the Wild Turkey. Yes. In this forest, we turn a bend and there's a big fat turkey standing there. Gobble, gobble, gobble and off it scurries into the bushes, tries to fly and almost whacks itself on a tree branch. Turkeys, sort of the lame-o of the bird world. Otterpop and Gustavo, totally unglued because this is something to chase and almost whack their heads on tree branches. Turkeys, have those beady eyes, wedged into tiny turkey head with leathery old turkey skin bagging around it. Fly like fatty helicopter dinosaur from the ground to oak tree branches and like to sit there until they fall off. This one vanishes, down a bank and into the brush.

So now I'm like, pilgrims, Indians, sticks and turkeys, we keep walking all silent like the Indians. Native Americans. You know what I mean. Nice and silent, let's see what other forest creatures we can surprise out here. So silent walking, 2 tiny sled dogs pulling me along, Ruby trotting along side. Get up to the part in the trail where I always let the mayhem duo free, and moments before I let the rippers rip, we see the next forest creature. Another one of those Everyone Surprises Everyone moments. It's the Forest Lady of German Shepherds! We've seen her before. Gnarly ass german shepherds, attached to all kinds of hardware. This time there are 2 of her, one lady per German Shepherd. Which is a good thing because we are pretty sure they eat small dogs. The shepherds and ladies turn tail quick, garbed in their dominatrix safety ensembles, run the other way, then hustle off to the side of the trail and plotz the dogs, facing away from Team Small Dog, execution style.


These dogs, perhaps trained a little bit Magic of Cesar style. They get a leave it and a yank for their plotz, then each of their ladies stands almost on top of them. A soft kick to the head of one ensures no small dog hors d'eorves action as we hustle by. Hustle we do. We've seen these dogs before and not sure why they get the major hold down treatment when we walk by, but pretty much happy that they do, I guess. Get safely past them, so everyone gets to run.

Usually when the dogs are running, Ruby stays around me, Otterpop and Gustavo are off. Off and off and off and not always sure where they go, you can only hear the crashing of tiny dogs through brush for so far. I decide, since it's silent like Indians, not going to whistle and call them today. They should be the ones checking in with me. Not vice versa. I'm just walking here. They're the crazy runners. So Ruby and I, silently trotting up the path, slipping through mud patches, trying to stay warm. The runners actually not too bad about checking in before flying off another bank or up a cliff and on a scent. Little heads pop out of the forest, find us, then pop back in and off they go.


We get up to the clearing where the spring box is, everything wet and muddy and water everywhere. Big leafy ferns and actual sun patches getting in through the redwoods. A nice place to hang out a little while. And what better forest entertainment than finding Otterpop a tree branch to fetch. Which is always funny for a few minutes until she goes obsesso on the branch and will try to drag it up any bank I throw it down, out of a creek and gets that checked out zombie look in her tiny little stink eye. Muuuust Haaaaave Braaaanch. She eventually drags it off behind some stumps to hoard it. I try to grab it and she just drags it away. Next part of the walk, very enjoyable for all 5 of us now. Laura, Ruby, Gustavo, Otterpop and Our Branch. That dog is little, but weirdly mighty.

Eventually rip it out of her mouth, and back we walk. Me in this outfit, the dogs a little bit of tired. We stay quiet the whole way back. Not sure what the dogs are thinking about. I'm wondering about all the money and where it's going to come from. Except we stop for a minute, and it's a clear view all the way out across the Monterey Bay, and you look through a field of flowers at it. And for that minute, where I can see every single bit of sun hammering down on the sea way out there, dogs don't think about turkeys and I don't think about collapsing economies. When it's time to stop looking, we practice walking super quiet, all in a row, almost like we're invisible to every jogger in their hoody that comes upon us, until we get back to the car.

Top Ten Lessons Learned At Sunday's Fun Match

When Team Small Dog is in a crappy mood and writes gray stories about dead racoons, all the Friends of Team Small Dog also go in crappy moods and no one is happy. Therefore we have a responsibility to figure out how to carry on teaching Gustavo 12 genuine weave poles and keep all our readers happy and free from dead racoons everywhere. Sorry my friends I saw and met at the Fun Match. Did not realize I was screwing up so many people's days! No more navel gazey blah blah blah sad stories. Keep calm and carry on! Ship Shape! Put that Fun back in Funk! Fun back in Fungus! Fun back in Malfunction! Fun back in Superfund!

Gustavo's weave poles, a work in progress. Which may be working it's progress backwards and sideways rather than consistently forward. In his gazillion runs, we varied from hitting the entrance the second time attempting, third time attempting, having complete drive-bys and finally progressing to a late entrance, having total and complete drive-bys on the poles with the chunky funny base in one ring that never resulted in completed poles, to one random totally nice set of poles with a correct entrance the first time through.

The cheese and spinach croissant from Emily's bakery, really good. I quit my boycott of her place, bakery owning Mayor of Santa Cruz who threw down the secret, evil deal with the State Parks over the whole Lighthouse Field thing. Because it was on my way and I'm trying to get over it.

Otterpop still has startline weirdness issues at fun matches that involve frisbees out on the field with her. This was her main thing to work on and while she certainly put the Fun back in her Fun Match, boy is that an uphill climb to make the agility trial startline as fun as practicing agility and walking out to that startline.

Ruby is just not sound. Even though she seemed ok the other day, one jump at the Fun Match and land and hinky hinky. She did not have extreme Fun except during napping in the car and walking around and stealing treats from people.

Kathleen certainly built forest agility paradise at her house. You guys should all go there. Heart Dog Agility. She teaches lessons, has fun matches, and holds seminars at her forest field.

Most people do not reward their dogs enough, even at a Fun Match. If there can be Fun in a Funeral, then for godsakes, put some Fun in agility. Agilfunty. Whatever. Just give your dog a prize! Some of my students there, so hard for them to realize that at a new place, their dog might be, let's just say, not so fresh. Somewhat stinkier than what you were dreaming of. Dreaming of, they march out on that field, and ka-BLAM! Instant perfect dog. What you get, maybe not so much. Hi! Me too! Reward the behaviors you want and you know. If we were all Susan Garrett, we'd all be Canandian Christian Vegans and wouldn't that be, somewhat, not so diverse?

Super top competitors, still come to Fun Matches. Moe was there. Everyone should buy her DVD because she is awesome. And there are super great competitors who still have issues, working them out at the Fun Match. The amazing corgi who has been competing for years, has blazing speed but has yet to hit a contact in a standard class. The superfast little sheltie, always on the mark, yet needs 4 Gambler's Q's still for an ADCh. My smooth handling border collie friend who doesn't always have contacts, still after all these years. All of us, hard workers but still chipping away at getting it together.

Otterpop only does an out so far to a teeter totter. She spent the parts of the fun match not practicing running full speed off startline practicing gambler's type sequences at a distance. Which went pretty good. But not great. But maybe good enough to get some of those pesky Gambler's Q's at the trials coming up the next few months. Unless the teeter is involved and it is far, far, away.

Gustavo, so cute even when totally screwing up. He did improve and settle in, each run. So first run, self releasing the dogwalk contact and all he did was dogwalks until contacts good. Next run, contacts! However, no weave poles. Next run, sort of weave poles! Sort of went on like that until he'd done maybe 8 or so runs and just started melting down back to border collie screaming and random running around and was time to go home. But wait! Not dead racoon! Perfect startlines, smashing a-frames and no running away into the forest for the most part and a few sequences, dyn-o-mite. A nice feature with Gustavo, if I say, "Hey, can someone hold my dog?" and it's Gustavo, EVERYONE comes running over. If I say this, and it's Otterpop, people quiet and sort of avert eyes as if noticing brand new worms, down in there in the dirt. It's OK.

A treatise on defeating the bummerness.

Allright. Yesterday, all whiney and Susan Garrett causes unmatching socks and the island to move locations again. Then I figured if Locke can go down the abandoned well, turn the gears on the thingy that resets the island's location back to Hawaii with a ghost glowering at him AND a fractured tibia, then I could just buck up and get my head out of my ass.

If you don't watch Lost, I'm so sorry, and don't try to start now because it will make even less sense than anything I ever tell you. I think you can watch it in order online though, starting with Season One. Take notes. The rest of this to follow, very doggy, my non dog agility friends. One of those philosophical moments of analyzing dog personalities. To train them. In the grand scheme of things, so very shrimpy in terms of importance. In the scheme of figuring out how dog minds tick, a little more aha.

So even though it was gray and squishy outside, took the dogs out to practice on the way to work. Since it rains like every day now because of global warming and droughts and payback from every sunny day we had when everywhere else, snow, the practice field is a bit, uh, damp. To put it delicate-like. And the driveway up to it, uh, sodden. Also putting it delicate-like. I so very graciously use my friend's agility field, where she teaches agility and keeps her sheep. She shares the field with a bunch of yahoos and their giant trucks. They use part of the acreage to store motorhomes and boats. And drive their giant trucks around. So there's agility, sheep, boats, motorhomes, giant trucks, and mud out there. Welcome to Watsonville. The giant truck guys love to drive across the field in the mud and make even more mud. They can't get at the agility stuff, sometimes I worry about those sheep, but mostly they seem like harmless, monster truck lovin' mud makers.

So through the mud we slog, me and the little black dogs. At least mud sort of blends on them. The field, sort of sloshy, grassy, frothy, and squishy. Because I am tenacious, and determined, and have slogged through all that mud already, who cares, still will do some practicing. Also, want to figure out what it is that makes Gustavo not like Dirt Nite. He's either over the top screaming, quietly glued inside a crate concentrating on not screaming, or having little weave pole meltdowns and running slow. Happened one time too many and I am determined to solve this mystery. Because that mystery, really not fun.

When I practice, so different than running them in a class situation. No pressure. No people. Only watchers watching me, 5 sheep, the cow across the way, and some yahoo guys in their giant muddy trucks. Sometimes do courses, but usually pick a theme and make little sequences to match the theme of the day. Themes, planned on the car based on something that seems weak. Or maybe a good song on the ipod. Today's themes, fast fun speed over jumps and fast tables. Non contacts today, decide to do Gustavo's poles only if he is ON. Since the poles made him OFF the other night.

For the jumpers theme, just make a few little sequences that have tight turns, sending away, pulling in, front and rear crosses. Throw a bunch of eggs in one basket, and try to make that basket stuff that might be hard. Easy to practice stuff we do well, hard to remember to practice stuff where we have to really, practice. Remind myself before I start, reward the best things every time you see 'em. Always remind myself of that one. And here's where the way we practice, so different than running in a class. This is how Gustavo learned, and why shoving his square peg into a round class hole might not be the right fit. Just because most dogs go in a class, and I am a teacher of classes, doesn't mean that he is necessarily a class dog. Might be shoving that square paw too shovey HARD into the wrong hole there. We'll see.

Always first out is Otterpop. Who is becoming more of a tug freak now than just frisbee chaser. I love that. When we practice, sheep for an audience, she is tireless, fast, and has become this amazing agility dog. In a weird way, like a little mini Hobbes in how I handle her. Even though she's the size of his head, if Hobbes' head was shaped like a meatloaf. She just feels so, trained. She gets the crowd going. The barking starts, but Otterpop just tugs and runs our sequences, then gets to play frisbee. Which is actually today a scrappy, tattered piece of orange cloth. It's just so, fun. March, already funner, starting now.

Next out is Gustavo. Who runs across the field in a frenzy and back to me then across and away and holy smokes. OK. He goes back to sit on a towel. Not ready yet.

Ruby comes out. She goes all tugarama over her little bag that has Cheese Chunks in it. I'm sort of not getting whether she is sound or lame. She doesn't look bad like she did. She does look weird. Jumping way up over the jumps, but a smooth canter stride down to it and on the land. She is sure happy about coming out and doing it. I jump her really low, and not too much. Try not to do many sharp turns with her. Don't know Ruby, if you're holding up or not. But you know, you're making March funner for us both, right now and you can do some agility.

Otterpop again. Tug, run, jump, tug. Otterpop, so not made for agility, a fatty little tank, shaped all wrong but you know what? Fun! HA! Take THAT, March!

Gustavo again. This time, no frenzied run out. Get out the tattered scrap of frisbee and he goes into his tugging border collie mode. With monkeyscreamgrowls. This cracks me up. Mud truck guys, look over the fence and here's this lady in muddy pants, hair all up in a wad, swinging a teensy, tiny black dog around on a shred of nylon. Dog making teensy border collie sounds, lady making some kind of crackhead weird noises. Dunno what. Who cares. Fun!

Start him with a couple jumps, attack the frisbee. Couple more, attack the frisbee. Few more, until he's doing a whole sequence, and never a bobble, never a freakout, never a stop, never a worry. Only cares about the agility. Because it's fun.

So back and forth, keep exchanging dogs, everyone plays a long time and practices a short time and plays and practices. Do some table/poles sequences, poles and jumps, and Gustavo misses one pole entry. One. Fast tables only. A dogwalk. BLAMMO, hits that contact so fast and stunning. Chases a frisbee, gets him some cheese. There is never any slow, never any worry, never this face he made in the poles the other night, going, Huh? Utter confusion and bummer-ness.

The mystery solved? Maybe, it's not rocket science. When we just practice, so much time spent playing, running, and that's how he learned. Gustavo is a dog who lives to run as fast as he can on a beach, in the woods. He's so not serious. Gets confused really quick. Learns things in a different way. Loves the way he learned agility, which I figured out just for him. Doesn't turn on and off with a switch, like Otterpop, at the sight of a frisbee. Doesn't freak out for some treats, like Ruby. He has to feel the love. He has to do some running. Has to know you're having FUN. And then he shines, as bright as flashing strobe lights on the disco ball. Little tiny disco ball, up there over the flashing dance floor, the brightest one, that can spin so fast, as long as the music is loud and everybody in the crowd, super groovy.

If I try to compare him to Susan Garrett stuff, to my friends with their super puppies, to just "Normal" dogs, well, yeah. He's different I guess. A little non conventional. My fault. I didn't try to make him that way, I just had to find a way to teach him that suited his personality. Have to stick with that, have to stay true to him. No matter how he turns out, no matter how they all do, the way we get there, never, ever gonna be not fun.

Perhaps some insight into why Team Small Dog, not making it to IFCS Champion Team this year.

A nice thing you can use a blog for is like a time machine. I used to live on this island as part of the Dharma Initiative and we had to go back and forth in time all the time and boy, did it give me a headache. Wait. Actually, not. Those are the people in the tv and they are the ones stuck in time. I don't live on an island, never crashed a plane and so don't look hot in castaway low rise trousers. But I CAN go over on the right hand column of this blog, and see how much fun I was having last March. With my shorter hair and skinnier stomach, but basically having the same exact life I am having this March, but more fun. Last March, skinnier and laughing, ha ha, funny in the photos. This year, blobby and flabby and all I want to tell you about is gray. That doesn't seem right, does it? Shouldn't life get funner, not crappier?

Did we know about the recession last March? Did we do more situps and eat less candy? Did I envision that I would be having such weave pole troubles with Gustavo as I gleefully taught him weave poles in my driveway? Did I know Timmy Best Dog was going to die in 5 months? Grandma horse Jane soon after that? That life would just sort of roll along and in one year, what was I thinking?

If you had asked me last March, what life would be this March, I would have told you that we'd be off of the island and John Locke would be alive and Charlie is a real asshole and don't trust Juliet the blonde obstetrician. Wait. Not real friends. The people in the tv. Really I would have told you Gustavo would be the next agility superstar and Otterpop cured of all her hangups and I would actually be a size 4 and Oprah was going to discover me as her new favorite thing and invite me to the Santa Barbara ranch and then just decide I should have it. And give me one of those giant caramel covered apples all pre-sliced because she thought I was too skinny. And that Ruby would be all cured of her aches and pains and back on the path to agility greatness. And we would magically, poof, have figured out how to buy not just any ranch but a super best ranch. Or actually, Oprah's ranch.

Instead, everything a little bit less shiney than I thought it would be. A little fatter. A little worse behaved. A lot worse in the weave poles, with occasional motivational issues. Less sound. Less awake. Less money. Less friends. Leaving the house without even making the bed. And using NON MATCHING SHEETS/PILLOWCASE/DUVETS. My god. The bar has dropped that low.

And then comes a straw, which maybe doesn't break a camel back. Am not now, nor will ever be a camel, and going to take a lot more than a straw to break this back. Going to take one crappy, nasty, mean ass horse to do that. However. If there was that whole straw scenario happening, it would be from the Wicked Voodoo Queen Herself, Susan Garrett.

Susan Garrett. Now in my email every day with a helpful tip to be, well, more like her. She is a shiney Canadian Christian home remodeling vegan with world champion dogs and her own pond. Her emails, supposed to be helping me be Exceptional. Just like she is. So I get her emails, and I actually read her blog. It's a blog which is hard to read, in the way it makes my skin crawl of her perfection in dog training to my mere ass sucking methods. And her inspirational blah blah blah which I read and think, holy cow, thank god my mind doesn't work like that and then without skipping a beat how I am the lamest excuse for a dog trainer that I know because my mind says go get the dogs and throw stuffed animals at them from the couch while you watch the real estate channel instead of teaching 2x2 weave poles in the living room. And then I have to read the WHOLE THING, which is saying a lot because I am so not a whole thing reader. Total skimmer of most things on internet. Especially blogs. OK. Maybe don't read her whole thing, but much of it. Even though I'm thinking, I hate reading this. I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.

And here's the part where I have the inspiration ending paragraph about how, goddamnit, I'm just going to shake that frown upside down and go out and work on that little doggy's poles and go make some more money and WASH that floor. Because I'm a hard worker and tenacious and by golly, I can. I can fix Otterpop. I can make life Beautiful and Better. And I should be thanking Susan Garrett for trying to help me improve my life, not stomping my foot and calling her a witch.

Like hell. But I could be a one eyed-one armed, toothless old hooker, living in squalor with cockroaches for friends. Could be her instead of just having a mediocre month with sheets that don't match. Hell. Could be Susan Garrett. Trade with either of them?

The thought of that, sending me right now to go dig out some stupid, matching pillowcases.

The raccoon, she may be putrified, if you even make it that far.

Took the dogs down to the beach early in the morning. Rain clouds were coming in, and wanted them to run a while before they were cooped up all day. Was a cold, sharp wind walking down there. Late enough that it was light out but early enough that the light was all battleship gray, all stiff and the light of a day that's unforgiving. Didn't even know if we'd find any beach. Even at low tide, in the winter, sometimes the beach held under by the surf. Water is gray and loud and slaps itself right up to the cliff edge. Slaps hard and mean and isn't a joke. Not a sea you can go to close to. Stay up above it and hope it doesn't come for you and sweep a tiny dog away. No one has a chance when the beach taken over by the sea.


Tide down enough that was a little patch of beach left, stunty, with dirty poofs of foam blowing across it in the wind, like someone spat on a giant dandelion and those puffs scattering, ready to make weeds now in a thousand new places. When the beach is small, have to make extra sure there's no bad dogs down there when you let small dogs go. Not enough room for small dogs to run somewhere where mean dogs aren't. Or even dogs that aren't mean. Big dogs, pushy dogs, dogs with people who don't get it. Pitbulls that belong to the hippies that sleep in their cars at the parking spot up above. Dogs with no boundaries. We like to have our own section, own private idaho, where everyone who weighs less than a good sized ham can chase seaweed and not be smashed by blundering heavy paws and heads. No worries of being picked up with strong white teeth.

One man down there with a schipperke. Another little black dog, the bear shaped cousin of all mine, chasing frothy white chunks blown up from the surf line across the sand. Runs around and plays with my dogs for a bit, mostly Gustavo, the ambassador of small dog goodness. He likes the schipperke. He likes everybody.


I don't much talk to folks there. No good reason not to, just don't. He starts to come up by where I'm picking up stuff to throw for the dogs, weathered guy, balding head and faded tan clothes. Wonder for a minute, how this guy comes by a schipperke. I could ask, I should ask, but I don't. He comes over by me to shoot the shit for a minute. I throw a seaweed stick for the dogs, with the wind, not against it, so it sails really far before slamming into a rock.

He tells me something first I don't hear, sand and surf and wind in my ears. Storm should be coming in any time. I am mostly hoping we can make it home before the rain starts up hard. I sort of ignore him and squint out at the sea, like it's got some kind of answer.

He says it again, and I smile back and nod, even though I have no idea what he just said. He could have just asked me if I have any meth to sell, and I'm all, uh huh. Sure. Nice.

He comes in closer, and says it one more time. "Dead racoon, over there, washed up by the rocks."


I make that face I make when I forget to edit. The one that gives me wrinkles in all the wrong places. "Dead Raccoon?" New wrinkles. People with botox, don't get those wrinkles.

He nods. Has those old guy eyebrows that sort of fuzz over old guy eyes.


My face goes all cronky. One day, will get me some of that botox. "Eeeww. Never seen a dead RACCOON on the beach. That's totally gross. Weird."

He says something else that I lose in the wind. Something, something, something and "PUTRIFICATION."

Sort of lost me there. Either raccoon is putrified, or it isn't. But it's just too loud and cold to find out. People with botox, probably don't hear about putrified raccoons first thing in the morning.


Dogs play for another few minutes, and then he grabs the schipperke, throws out a Have-A-Nice-Day into the wind, and heads up to the stairs. I throw a few more sticks for everyone, the amber seaweed bulbs that make for the best dog sticks. Otterpop takes hers and goes and lays down far from me, hoarding her one little seaweed when there are 40 million more scattered across the wet sand. Sky looks darker and darker, and I figure that's it if I have any hope of making it home before the rain hits. Just wearing sneakers and a sweatshirt. I'm not much one for stuff like Rain Gear. Always nice to get good and wet before going out to a wet day at work.

Call in the dogs and walk by where he said the raccoon was. Wondering why it was down on the beach, came down there to die or washed up from the sea? And if I am going to see putrification and if anyone will try and roll in it. They don't usually try if I'm right there with them. Leave-its work great unless I'm half a mile away, like when we find carcasses on the long for miles beach, further down to the south.


Didn't find the raccoon. Small seal carcass there, right where he said the raccoon was. Maybe a young one. Or just a stunty, runty, seal. Has soft, short fur, like seals have when they're dry, which for seals I see, is usually when they're dead. It's not putrified, it's all there. Some small little seal, washed up at the rocks, almost up at the cliff edge. Either went there to die, or washed up dead. Maybe a young one, lost it's mom. Either way, if tide stays low enough, will lay there and rot, parts of it will putrify, right there in the sand. Or more likely, since the storm is coming, surf waves sweep in and wash it back out to sea.

I look around for a minute. Is there a raccoon there, too? Did he really think the seal's a raccoon? Raccoons, just so gross. So wrong. Don't belong on the beach with the dead seals. Need to go elsewhere to die. For some reason, just sounds really disturbing, that somewhere up there, by the dead seal, maybe also a dead raccoon. Don't know why this is bugging me so much. Just seems so dumb. That you would mix up a seal and a raccoon. Or that a raccoon would be dead on the beach.


We just kept walking, went up the stairs, and started the walk home with the wind at our backs.

5 Ways to Blow Gustavo's Mind.

Oh yeah. For a sweet, chill little dude, he can get all trippin'.


Dog in the Mirror.
Get a mirror. Put it on the floor. WHOA TRIPPY! Dog in the mirror! Make for extra trippy by standing behind him and he sees your face in the mirror then he turns around and sees your face not in the mirror then he turns back around and he sees your face in the mirror. WHOA SUPER INTENSO TRIPPY DUDE!


Garbage Can on the Street.
Put the garbage cans out on the street. Put him out in the front yard. WHOA TRIPPY! Garbage Cans in the STREET! In the STREET! WEREN'T THERE BEFORE! And now they ARE!


A Bag Blew into the Gutter Across the Street.
Stick him up in the window sill. A bag will blow by in the breeze and get stuck in the gutter across the street. WHOA TRIPPY! There is a bag there! And before there WASN'T! Now there IS! Blow your MIND!


A Cat is There.
Take a walk. On our street where cats walk around everywhere. CATS! Everywhere! WHOA TRIPPY! Cats! Get em! Cats! CATS! CATS!


A Border Collie is Doing Dog Agility.
Go to agility. Tie Gustavo up to the fence. Do agility with a border collie, or watch someone else do agility with a border collie. WHOA TRIPPY! Border collie running fast! Fast! FAST! Go get em! FAST!

Team Small Dog Reviews the movie Milk, even though you've already seen it.

Sometimes, we are very ahead of the curve. So fashion forward, that we are years and years ahead of what is going to miraculously pop up in style after we're over it. Like remember that time Grunge Wear was super fashionable and we had been wearing it for like, YEARS? Or how chunky goretex sneakers and saggy jeans with down vests are coming into style in about 3 years from now, mark my words? Other times, blissfully unaware of the style, such as super tall boots with high heels which we are now aware of and forgot to buy. Other times, just behind. Which is why we didn't make it to see the movie Milk until after it won it's Oscars.

Was on the to-do list but having a super busy schedule of falling asleep at 9pm on the living room couch really puts a damper on going to the movies. However, finally saw it. You know, that whole Sean Penn kicking Mickey Rourke ass in Oscars inspired me chug a gigantic, caffeine and sugar laden coke for dinner and off we went. Leaving the dogs to listen to the new idea for calm, stress free, non howling dogs when we leave of Classical Music on the radio. Totally weird, leaving the house and cranking up the Classical Music radio station. Didn't even know there was such a thing. Hope you enjoyed those violinic symphonic sounds, dogs.

You already saw this movie, every single one of you, I'm sure, so do I need to review it? You already told me how good all the acting was. And you saw lots of San Francisco and Sean Penn with a New York accent and Josh Brolin who was the good guy in No Country for Old Men but has the bad assassin guy hair from that movie in this movie where he is the deranged bad guy! And all the super '70's clothes which is maybe my favorite era of fashion design. Mustaches, stripes and denim all around. That whole Anita Bryant thing which I remember, even, but not sure in junior high was clued into the fact that it was a Major Civil Rights upheaval. Just remember this thing that Anita Bryant was evil and wanted to fire all my teachers. Not sure if I thought that because all my teachers were gay or I had the facts wrong in the '70's but there you go.

All the stars of this movie are great. Sean Penn, super genius usually. Although who totally irritated when he was a director with that stinker of a movie Into the Wild. Just be super genius actor and beater upper of papparrazzi, Sean Penn. James Franco, super adorable. He was one of my students a long time ago, teaching a digital media class at Cal Arts Summer School. Digital media, not his thing. One day, fell asleep at his computer. So we gathered every single student around him and just sat there staring at him for the longest time until he woke up. Sorry, James Franco. Glad that helped you not become a computer geek, making your little pictures in photoshop half heartedly and you moved out of art school on to bigger and better things. But always knew how to get away with anything from that super adorable smiley face you make. Emile Hirsch, super irritating as the guy who dies in the bus in Alaska being directed by irritating director Sean Penn, but super awesome in this movie.

Gus Van Sant, who kind of looked like Dan White at the Oscars, some of his older movies, my favorite movies ever. Very apt timing somehow of getting this movie to come out during another big civil rights travesty for gays. All the flash back and forward old San Francisco to now San Francisco totally creepy, because even though this is basically an inspiring, heartwarming film about a tragic murder, still showing that there's some super messed up values in our country when it comes to basic, human rights. Milk, as a movie, sort of more basic of a movie with occasional cheesy moments, but that was ok. Because there might be some parts of the country, Anita Bryant land, where cheesy moments make movies about gay rights come across more warm and fuzzy and palatable to an audience that votes with their movie ticket monies and usually prefers CheeWowWow movies.

On the dog agility lady scale, there are very few ladies, and very few dogs in this movie. There is the Glinda the Good Witch lesbian campaign director who appears in her magic bubble and totally works magic and helps Sean Penn win office. And you do get a lot of scary Anita Bryant footage that you might even remember from tv, and in the beginning you see that Sean Penn and James Franco have a dog and then it vanishes. Most people in San Francisco have dogs I think, so you just figure it's out with the dog walker a bunch. Can't tell you to go see this movie because you already did, but I just decided I would write a review because it's a really good movie. And, fyi, the classical music station my new thing for leaving the dogs at night because was ZERO howling when we got home. Possibly a coincidence, possible from them being bored to tears into sleep, but there's a little dog training hint for you, thanks to Milk.