Dog Looking at Man

I am a dog, looking at man.  I know that genius and wisdom are not always combined.  Take the advent of the atomic bomb. What other creature even dreams of inventing something that might wipe it’s species from the planet?

Dogs are different.  We live in the moment, not in our dreams. No, we don’t invent the future (we have better things to do…).  Instead, we enjoy the ‘what is-ness’ of every day. No human to my knowledge can say the same–but all should.  I hate to think that it is only in the face of man’s own mortality that true wisdom kicks in, granting him understanding and peace at a final reckoning.  Is it too much to ask that man grasp the fleeting nature of creature-hood; the ridiculous lightness of ego and esteem before they realize that both are little more than self-reflection?

Perhaps, it matters not when they experience that epiphany but that it IS experienced.

Steve Jobs gave us all (yes, even the thumb-less dog) the ability to communicate in ways we never imagined just two short decades ago.  He lived, arguably, half a human life-time.  And, in all his achievement, notoriety and wealth, in the end, he understood the base meaning of this life we hold as true:

The physical is fleeting; the ephemeral, eternal. There is genius in wisdom.  I wonder if the opposite is true?

“Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure – these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.”

Thank you, Steve Jobs, for sharing your genius and your wisdom.

The universe is better for it.

May we all use it well.

Tripping

Fraud-the-cat has been into the garden again: Hissing at the rotten tomatoes,

tugging at my raspberries, ripping the string beans to pieces as they dangle, helpless, from their trellis. Fraud sways down a row of lettuce,rolls in an overripe eggplant and heads for my legs thinking she will wind herself along my ankles like a Boa Constrictor.  Why, you ask? What possesses said feline with such odd behavior?

The patch of catnip issued by the cook-who-loves-cats. Catnip is in full bloom….and so is Fraud.

Witness: 

Chow.

Something Good

A DOG’S LIFE, defined:

Way more than simply Something Good, non?

INCREDIBILE.

Chow.

Woof

I like words.  Some Italian; some English; some Latin.  Perhaps the word
most commonly used by dogs is ‘woof’, but this is merely the tip of the proverbial dog’s tongue.

Most people think dogs only consider only certain verbiage: Come, sit, stay, roll-over.  

True, these are important references to the dog’s life, worth contemplation and reverence, but there is so much more, non?

The beauty of a nuanced language is infinite. Replace ‘cat-lover’ with the word ‘ailurophile’ (meaning the same) and it eliminates the brittle edge of feline reference, making it almost palatable (pun intended).

Try these words next time you speak (woof) and see how pleasant the simplicity of beautiful speech becomes.

If dogs could talk, the list would be laminated to the collar for quick review.

Humans: Language is a wondrous gift.  Learn to use it well and enjoy.

Chow.

 

What Puts the Terrorist in Terrier

It’s no secret that Terriers are driven creatures: To chase, mostly. Balls, cats, squirrels, food, fun.  The breed is built for entertainment.  I know. Watch any dog with even a hint of terrier.  Perhaps only a flick of the tail or twitch of the whisker resembles such lineage; inside there is a giant of a dog willing to take on any creature or task.

Both fierce and fearless, I give you Biscuit:

The Terrier: Proving everyday that what goes up doesn’t necessarily have to come down…unless it wants to.

Chow.

French Delights

I am freshly fluffed and feeling fine.

We made an excursion to the open market in Nice today.  The smells were exquisite: artisan cheeses, provencal sausages, crisp white wines, multitudinous flowers conjuring the famous perfumes of Grasse just up the hill….and Socca.

Socca is a simple staple of Southern French fare.  It is ubiquitous in all the open markets in this area.  And, I always get a wedge.  I assume this is because nothing about it is bad for the figure of a small dog.

I watched carefully today as an old man concocted the batter.  Pezzo di torta, as we like to say: piece of cake.

Following is my translation.  I estimate it would serve 4 humans…or 1 dog:

The man put 1 1/2 cup chick pea (garbanzo) flour in a medium-sized blue bowl.  He added 1/3 cup of a lovely pale green olive oil and 2 cups of water and then stirred the whole slurry with a whisk.  He bent down to let me see the mix: a soft, smooth, lump-free batter that smelled like a rich bean cake.

He then poured a tablespoon of olive oil in a large, round pan, about 13-14 inches wide, like something one would use for Paella (ah, that trip to Spain last summer!). The Socca was only about 1/2 thick, or so.

He popped the whole thing into a very hot oven (I estimate, by the tinges on my whiskers when he opened the door, that the temp was 500 degrees).  He let this bake for what seemed to be 20 or 25 minutes.  Anyway, when it was set in the middle and browned at the edges, he took it out, drizzled it with more olive oil (about a tablespoon, I think, and sprinkled coarse salt and fresh pepper on top.

It was then cut into wedges and each was served on a piece of parchment paper: warm, salty heaven. I guess you could add herbs, or spices to the batter.  There are probably endless possibilities.

Personally, I think it would be a great light summer meal, with a tossed green salad and a glass or two of Provencal Rose wine.  

Alas, no one asked me.

I eat it alone, treasure on the street… a la cobblestones.  Still, heaven.

Chow.

The Alphabet Game

The true meaning of nobility in a 27 line story from A to Z:

Aristocracy does not come easily to a small dog.

Born, bred or borrowed, nobility is something learned not passed along.

Careful examination of one’s character is the key to it’s discovery.

Do not be swayed by the rhinestone glint of an expensive collar and neither by the well-worn rags of the common man.

Every dog has the capacity for greatness, but no dog should be judged by it’s wrapping.

Few dogs have such luxury.

Goodness comes not from a simple fetch and romp.

Humility and kindness feeds the noble more than anything else.

I know this as well as any other dog.

Just yesterday I was faced with my own inadequacies.

Kids on the Pincio stole my ball.

Laughing, they ran away, watching behind them as I stood, crestfallen, in the middle of the park.

Most of them disappeared behind the roses at the crest of the hill.

Nothing mattered more to me at that moment than I reclaim my favorite toy but the kids were well out of sight.

Only one thing to do.

Pout.

Quietly, I sat down on the grass and examined my toes.

Right then, a second set of toes appeared, facing me.

Stunned, I looked up.

There before me was a young gypsy boy dressed in tattered clothes, cheeks filthy, green felt ball in hand and a smile on his face.

“Up,” he said.

Very slowly, he raised his hand and threw the ball like a comet, high into the air, with the fervor of a second-baseman.

When the ball came down, my jaws were ready to reclaim the prize.

“Xavier,” said the boy.

Zealot named Xavier, rags and all…truly a noble boy, in deed.

Chow.

Fireworks: The 1812% Solution

On our way to San Remo today.  The pearl grey car with it’s chamois beige seats and smooth engine is the perfect vehicle of transport.  We go every year just in time for the World Fireworks Championships.  We stay at a seaside hotel with a view room and terrace doors that open to the ocean air.  The beach runs for miles in either direction.  There are always cocktails on the quay and flowers on the bedside table when we return.  Room service never arrives without a biscuit meant for a small dog.  And, yet, the theme of the whole trip is problematic.  Mind you, I love the bursts of color in the sky; the way my long shadow lights up against the fine aubusson carpet.  But the noise takes me back to some genetic canine memory of hunting, firing squads and death.  We’re still hours away from San Remo and the skin between my toes is sweating.

My Contessa understands this, bless her.  This year, a solution:  Small dog, curled up on her multi-colored cashmere sweater (in the driver’s seat, of course), pearl grey car parked in the deep cool of the hotel garage…windows up, stereo on.  Setting my imagination to the 1812 Overture as it matches the bombs bursting in air, I am content to watch the fireworks on the news at eleven.  Chow.

Getting Up is Living

For all those skeptical that a small dog might climb the vines and vineyard wires, let alone anything else, I offer Sofia.

She may not be of the ‘”terrorista” breed, but she knows (as does any dog) the best way to get ahead in the world: One paw at a time.  And, as I quoted yesterday in a soon-to-be famous tweet: FALLING DOWN IS LIFE, GETTING UP IS LIVING…Chow.

I Confess

I confess, I know a bit about adultery.  My master has a little something on the side (see the “about” page on this blog).  He’s Latin, Italian to be exact, and he’s a man.  Two and two often make three: The infidel, the mistress and the wife. Reference: Silvio Berlusconi (well, in his case the sum may have been more than three.)

I can identify with straying, though I firmly believe infidelity should include no more than a cursory bark and sniff. This, by the way, does not employ tweeting, emailing or texting but the use of the eyes, the nose and the voice-box only.

Fortunately, most Latin males who stray may gain easy absolution via Catholic confession. This satisfies not only the priest’s appreciation for a bawdy story but the offender’s guilt, as well.

Would that it were so easy.

Absolution is more difficult to gain at home, I’ve found.  It is not always true that is is easier to get forgiveness than permission.

Thankfully, dogs are speechless.  Otherwise, we would perpetually be in the confessional, let alone the dog-house.

Given the propensity for adultery among Latins, one wonders why the church hasn’t gone automated WAY before now:

Note to self: Enunciation is important—in any language.

Chow.