The Drive at Five

Never get into a car when the sun is near the western horizon.  Overhead: OK.  Set: absolutely.  But to drive at rush hour is madness. 

First of all, there is no possibility for a breeze across the snout because the car is not moving.  The only thing to waft through the nostrils is cigarette smoke from the driver sitting in the car a meter to the left.

The din of fifty radios blares through the ether.  It’s hot; it’s stale; it’s boring.

By the time the outskirts of the city are reached, it’s dark, so there is nothing to see along the road.  The mosquitoes are out so the snout stays firmly pressed up against the closed window. 

The definition of longing.

No, to be worth the trouble at all, road trips must begin in the morning just after nine.  Windows down, traffic thinned–nostrils full forward in the breeze under a pair of flapping ears.

Management, take note.

Chow.

On The Road

Road trip beginning today. 

Stay tuned. 

Back next week with plenty of “Nose-Out-Of-The-Window” details…

Chow!

A Dog Song

From the artist who brought you the four-paw-portrait above (for full portrait, see the “about” page), A Dog Song:

Chow.

Sensory Overload

My Contessa was on the hunt for something special.  We walked into the heart of the city and up a small side-street near the Pantheon. 

I could smell it coming from 500 yards: scented candles.  Juniper, hyacinth, rose, even bubble gum.  Gag.

I followed her up and down the aisles as she smelled each candle trying to decide on just the right scent.  I could have helped her with that if she’d asked.  I am the KING of ’scentedness’, as it were.  I am a dog.  Duh.

I have an idea for a new kind of pet store, geared to dogs, of course.  DogCo, Dogs R’Us, Dog Planet.  Why even mention other species?

And inside?

Chow.

Berlusconi’s Harem

Silvio’s in trouble, again. 

This time her name is Patrizia.  It seems she was wearing a wire when she dined with the Prime Minister on the night of last November’s U.S. Presidential election.

And a candlelit dinner was not the climax of the evening, so to speak.  Apparently, instead of dessert, Silvio instructed his guest to “Go and wait for me on the big bed.”

And I say: What’s wrong with that? 

I love big beds, though generally I tend to sleep near the edge, just on the inboard space behind one of my people.  Better to stay planted n the mattress that pushed to the floor after midnight.  But, I digress.

Patrizia said that she only one of 20 women invited the first time she attended a dinner at Berlusconi’s Roman residence the spring before.  The evening of the election, there were only 3 women at the table.  But, Patrizia’s the one who got to spend the night on the big bed.

Must have been her personality, no?  I’ll bet she does awesome tricks.

 Sit. Stay. Rollover.

Chow.

Ciao, Chow

OK.  I’ve received a number of corrections since I started this blog concerning the spelling “Chow”.  People seem to think I am misspelling the word.  Hello?

I am a dog.  I hear the language of humans through canine ears.  I am Italian, yes.  But I am a dog first.  Just as humans are humans first, then Italian, French, American, second.

When I hear “Ciao”, it is similar to the Pavlov response…(now that was an easy experiment, no?  I mean, show a dog a treat and he drools…duh)

To me, “Ciao” will always mean “Chow”.  And why not?

Who in this country doesn’t think about food all the time.

This IS ITALY.

CHOW!

Allen! Allen! Steve?

Of course, all dogs know that every creature speaks some sort of language.  Often it’s difficult to decipher, especially those animals coming from Britain.  I mean, what an accent.

What many don’t know, however, is that groundhogs are extremely nearsighted….

Witness:

Chow.

Why Dogs Go Deaf

First of all, who names their dog Bambi?

Second of all, who would encourage an animal to sing opera?

Witness:

Third of all, is Elvis really dead?

Ain’t Nothing But a Hound-Dog, afterall.

Chow.

More on Mozzerella

More mozzarella in the house this weekend.  Warm and fresh.  A little on crumbled polenta in my breakfast dish.  A nibble in the afternoon from my Contessa’s hand.

Some mozzarella facts:

Do not put fresh mozzarella made from unpasteurized buffalo milk in the refrigerator. It is best at room temperature and should be eaten within two days of production. If you haven’t had mozzarella this fresh, you haven’t had true mozzarella.  Purists eat their mozzarella without accompaniment. 

My advice: Go to Italy, Campania specifically. 

It is mozzarella’s Mecca.

Signs for dairy outlets along the highways in the Naples area are common. Some sell excellent mozzarella. If you always want the real thing, look for caseificios bearing the Denominazione d’Origine Protetta, or DOP seal, a European Union certification that guarantees top-quality Campania mozzarella.

Last year, 32,000 tons of DOP mozzarella were produced in Campania.  Only 16 percent was exported. The very finest DOP cheese never leaves the region because it is made from unpasteurized milk and has a shelf life of only a few days.

Make sure you’re eating the best.  It’s easy to spot the difference between handmade mozzarella and machine-produced cheese. Each artisanal ball has a Y-shaped flap marking the place where it was seamed by the cheese maker, or “casaro.”

Ricotta cheese is made from a milky mozzarella by product. Here in Italy, ricotta is served for dessert surrounded by honey, orange peel, cinnamon and other condiments. It’s a wonderful summer treat.

If you’re doing a high-protein diet (my favorite), a one-cup serving of the cheese is loaded with protein and has virtually no carbohydrates. Of course, it also has 336 calories, 220 of them from fat.  But, fat is good for the brain, no?

And eating the cheese promotes intelligence and good looks.  Just look at the Italians…

Chow.

Outside the Box

My take on thinking outside the box: The Litterbox, that is.

Cats on leashes.

Like the phrase “herding cats”, the picture that comes to mind is one of chaos.  A whole lot of pulling, dragging and sliding. 

Cats cannot be cajoled.  They walk at their own pace—if they walk at all.

Here’s a little thinking outside the litterbox, canine style: smart dogs use the litterbox as a snack bar.  It may be recycling taken to it’s extreme, perhaps absurd, conclusion, but it fulfills the fine criteria of a dog.

Disgusting, putrid and sure to illicit a speedy reaction from your human.

And, alas, a bath.

Chow.