The View from Down Here

Dog Looking at Man

Shimoni — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 15:11:35 +0000

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

Shimoni — Sun, 14 Aug 2011 03:00:45 +0000

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

Shimoni — Thu, 11 Aug 2011 18:07:31 +0000

A DOG’S LIFE, defined:

Way more than simply Something Good, non?

INCREDIBILE.

Chow.

Woof

Shimoni — Thu, 11 Aug 2011 16:42:18 +0000

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

Shimoni — Fri, 29 Jul 2011 18:31:31 +0000

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

Shimoni — Tue, 26 Jul 2011 14:43:59 +0000

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

Shimoni — Thu, 07 Jul 2011 08:00:17 +0000

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

Shimoni — Mon, 04 Jul 2011 15:59:37 +0000

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

Shimoni — Fri, 01 Jul 2011 06:04:02 +0000

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

Shimoni — Thu, 23 Jun 2011 17:17:55 +0000

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.

God and Dog

Shimoni — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 10:34:05 +0000

Now, HERE’S a human who “gets” dogs.

It really IS this simple.

Chow.

Please Read

Shimoni — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 23:32:30 +0000

If you are an owner of a dog that belongs to a ‘dangerous breed’
category and you also have a child or a visiting small child please
take this as a warning.

Don’t leave your dog with a small child unattended under any
circumstances!!!

Only one little moment was enough for the following to
happen:

Chow.

Lost in Translation

Shimoni — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 10:30:20 +0000

Ever wonder how different pastas got their names? Their shape, of course.

Here is a list of pastas. If you are a foodie, as am I, you will recognize the literal nature of each name.

Cannelloni: Large Reeds

Cappellini: Little Hats

Farfalle: Butterflies

Fettuccine: Small Ribbons

Linguine: Little Tongues

Manicotti: Little Muffs

Orecchiette: Little Ears

Penne: Quills

Ravioli: Little Turnips

Rotelli: Little Wheels

Spaghetti: Little Strings

Tortellini: Little Twists

Vermicelli: Little Worms (my personal favorite)

Dogs, by the way, came up with this first. What subject in any dogs vocabulary is not directly based on the visual? In English it’s squirrel; in Italian it’s scoiattolo.

Dogs call it like it is: scurrier.

Come to think about it, I’m betting both the English and the Italian were derived from the Dog.

Philologus narro, as it were. Look it up.

Chow.

The Two Sexes

Shimoni — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 10:17:41 +0000

An Indiana University study has demonstrated that when men listen, they only do it with the left side of their brain (where speech is located).

Woman apparently listen with both halves.

I suppose that this explains why, when a man says something, women hear much more than was actually said.

Me, I listen mostly with my nose. Tone of voice means something, of course, but the aroma in the hand means everything…

Chow.

AH-Choo

Shimoni — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 15:16:38 +0000

I hate sneezing.

First of all, I don’t understand it. It goes totally against all standards of wild behavior, after all. Dogs who gave away their positions on the Savannah way back when simply didn’t make their mark in evolution….at least not in a way I covet.

Second of all, if one is targeting a flea in a difficult area of one’s flank, even a small sneeze will throw it off the trail.

What IS the reasoning behind this convulsion? To clean the nose? To scare the daylights out of the hegemony? To blow the fluff from the corner of my dog-dish?

All valid but none, necessary.

I fear the act may be going the way of Darwin: phased out over time as runny nosed dogs simply don’t survive.

Solution: give the sneeze true purpose. Use it as an emotion, any emotion. Make it cute, like one’s presence at the dinner table, wide-eyed and ears perked at the possibility of a crumb.

After all, cute survives, no?

Hairless Chihuahuas not-withstanding….

Chow.

Rats

Shimoni — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 10:14:19 +0000

The fossilized skull of a rat the size of a car has been found in Uruguay. It’s about 4 million years old and weighed about a ton, so big, in fact, that it probably spent most of it’s life submerged in water: a giant Hippo with a long tail and pointy nose.

They nicknamed it Mighty Mouse.

Apparently, the largest living rodent now is Capybaras at 60 kg fully grown…now, that’s a meal.

And here’s a new reason to travel to New Guinea:

Where’s my passaport0?

Chow.

Gathering Nuts

Shimoni — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 20:07:53 +0000

The squirrels are out in full force up in the Pincio. There’s nary a nut to be found now. They’re all squirreled away, if you will.

I sit and watch the dizzying creatures, mostly. Chasing them is fun, but it becomes tiresome after a while. Squirrel, tree, squirrel, tree, squirrel, tree.

So, I muse of other ways to use this rodent. Below is one of my favorites. It’s design reminds me somewhat of a machine Leonardo might have developed had he simply switched his obsession from flying a human to flying a squirrel:

Then there’s the commercial amusement of providing the squirrel with a different take on an e-ticket Disney ride:

Either way, I want one of each, please.

Chow.

BYOB

Shimoni — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 10:40:32 +0000

Dogs are ubiquitous in the bars and cafes of Italy.

Who do you think cleans the floor? It keeps labor costs down and subsidizes the feeding of urban canines.

Brilliant, no?

But bunnies in restaurants?

Take a lepus to lunch? Bring your own bunny.

Chow.

Ciao, Ciao, Chanel.

Shimoni — Tue, 01 Sep 2009 19:46:11 +0000

Chanel has died. Not the fashion (even though it’s not Italian, it seems eternal) nor the designer, herself (Coco is long gone)—but the dog.

Chanel apparently was the oldest living dog at 21 years of age. That’s 147 in dog years. She lived in New York. Her favorite dish was boiled chicken and rice, clearly a Manhattan thing.

No pastrami; no corned beef? And she called herself a New Yorker…

No pasta; no red wine? Why even live to a ripe old age without the satisfaction of these staples, I ask?

Though I see the appeal of the pullet, rice is a bit like eating an old sock, and a clean one, at that. At least pasta is sauced.

Now that Chanel is gone, a new contender has taken a stand: Max, a 26 year-old mixed breed Cajun. I’ll bet his diet features more spice: Louisiana Rat Gumbo, Squirrel Etouffee.

Now, that’s living.

Dinner tonight in Rome?

Pasta Puttanesca. My key to long life:

1 lb. Spaghetti, cooked and drained.

Saute 5 cloves thinly sliced garlic in 1/3 cup Olive oil until soft. Add 2 teaspoons anchovy paste, 1/2 tsp. hot red pepper flakes, 1-28-oz can whole tomatoes in juice, 1/2 cup pitted Kalamata olives. 2 tblsp. drained capers, pinch of sugar, 3/4 cup chopped basil.

Toss with hot pasta and serve 4-6 people with, of course, a glass of Chianti…or two.

Chow.

English

Shimoni — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 16:47:18 +0000

I like words.

Latin is great. Audio, video, disco is one of my favorite sayings.: “I see, I hear, I danced in the 70′s….”

Italian makes anything sound appealing: Se masticare una cosa io ti uccidero (“If you chew up one more thing I will kill you”). Is there any other language that delivers a death threat like a love letter?

English has it’s own merits. My Contessa is well versed in that language and those words spoken through the lilt of her accent are pure charm.

Easy English words are my favorite: good,walk, nap, go, stay….God. English must really be the heart of communication. What other language associates the dog with deity so closely (Dog/God, God/Dog. I mean, there MUST be a missing link here, right?)

But, I think eat is the most exciting English word of all, and not for the obvious reason. Not withstanding the words neuter and tutor, which should NEVER be mistaken one for the other, it’s the rhyming I find so fascinating.

Etymologically speaking, nearly every word that rhymes with eat is appealing to the ears of a small dog. Treat, meat, teat, seat (plush and velvet covered, of course). Neat is really the only word that suffers a bit. Neat is not aspiration but inspiration: a cause to rumple, tear and chew, therefore functionally fascinating, as well.

Any English words that ring in your ears? Italian; Latin?

Ego sum canis, ergo ego sum.

Chow.

Election 2009

Shimoni — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 15:40:26 +0000

The Roman exodus that began August 1 is yet in full swing. The streets are oddly quiet; the heat is turned to high and, up on the Pincio, the vendors of small squeaky playthings have even closed up shop until the cooler days on late September.

Thunderstorms roll across the city like thick blankets from time to time. The air becomes 99% water and it’s hard to breathe, especially at ankle level where the rain hits the hot cobblestones and steam rises like fog.

So, I am content (I guess) to stay in the air conditioned appartamento. I roll the ball around a bit until it ends up under the low slung couch. I check the dirty laundry by the washer for my Contessa’s underthings. My nose searches out an empty breakfast bowl. Finally, I turn to the computer and use one particularly long toenail to search “cute dogs”. Eccolo!

I go to “the gallery” and click: Up comes Axel!

Axel

My old pal from across the hall stands in the snow, a fuzzy, green ball in his mouth, cutting quite a fine figure (though he’s put on a kilo at least since we last ran on the Pincio together.)

Seems he’s trying to win a contest for cutest dog (I’m afraid I have that title…alas, I am not entered). Grand prize will pay for his trip back to Rome. He says he misses pizza…real pizza. And Rome has just the spot for that.

So, if you care about a small dog and his pizza (not to mention the fact that if he makes it back to Rome I will have something to do other than modifying my Contessa’s silky things…),

VOTE FOR AXEL by clicking the cute dog link above. Send the link to your doggish friends. You can all vote once a day. Let’s send Axel to Rome.

Chow.

Paradise, Lost

Shimoni — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 16:48:57 +0000

Beautiful and clear today on Lake Como, but the radio on the bar by the pool suggested clouds for the rest of the week.

Thunder, lightening, rain. Time to head for home.

We used the rest of the afternoon to pack up: my lambskin, my ball, my chew-toy and a marrow bone I picked up via the waiter at dinner last night.

A last swim in the lake; a final patrol of the manicured gardens; one more chase of the hotel cat.

Drinks on the terrazzo (more Martini olives, garlic stuffed this time) under a waning moon.

Tomorrow we begin the dreary ride home, nodding off to the sway of wipers across the windshield.

Paradise, lost.

Chow.

The I-SMELL

Shimoni — Wed, 05 Aug 2009 10:45:27 +0000

OK. Loving the beach here on the lake. It’s enough to chase the ball, really. But most of the humans, even the tiny types, are plugged into a small device that sings to them.

That’s all perfectly well, but I have a better idea (and, no, it’s not an IPOD for dogs….)It’s something any canine can strap on to it’s neck (with a little help from an opposable thumb, preferably attached to a bikini-clad female), nose plugs instead of ear-plugs, and three gigabytes of smells…

From Persian cats to parakeets, as it were— Abyssinians to Zebras.

Chow.

On The Road, Again

Shimoni — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 17:58:29 +0000

Alas, we quit the palace yesterday. La Reserve disappeared from sight through the rear window of the Big Black Car, my angst at leaving born out as drool down the fine leather back seat.

We drove the windy coast road above Monaco, across the border into Italy.

Adieu, Francia. A bientot.

I believed all was lost when we passed through Milano. Busy streets; commercial sections; no beaches in sight.

Then, a hint of greenery from the open car window as we sped out of the city. A nose out the forward section to decipher the air: water.

Fresh water. Sweet, salt-free, non-irritating, hypo-allergenic H2O. No more itchy after effects of retrieving floating sea-born objects.

Lake Como spread before us like a giant azur-blue carpet, sparkling with silver thread in the sunlight. The car rolled down a narrow road beside the water for what seemed like miles, then pulled up to il grande palazzo del lago: Il Serbelloni in Bellagio.

A sturdy gentleman in a tan uniform heaved our bags from the car onto a trolley (my bag, with a small sheepskin rug, a green, water-proof ball and a genuine mink cat-like facsimile, came first). The scent of grilled lake-fish dressed in garlic and parsley wafted through the entry doors.

The porter pulled a bone-shaped treat from his coat pocket and slipped it into my grateful mouth.

Traveling is hell, no?

Chow.

Going to Grasse

Shimoni — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 23:52:31 +0000

Side trip from the beaches of the Cote D’Azur to Grasse today. Why leave the poolside, I ask…until we arrived at the perfumerie.The inside was nearly scentless. Odd for the site of such haute odor, as it were.

First we had a tour of the facility: flower gathering, petal crushing, essence distillation. A veritable vegetal delight. Too bad I’m a carnivore. It seems they are leaving out a broad contingent of possible sales here. Goat #5; Rooster Persuasion; Joy de Cat. I’m sure there’s a market, no?

My Contessa sidled up to a tall counter, a woman in a white coat stood by with a small bottle in hand. Tiny straws were dipped. one by one into a few dozen vessels, the Contessa taking a shallow whiff of each.

Roses, lavander, hyacinth and many too foreign for me to name. I was still waiting for the Evening au Demi-Glace. A little behind each floppy ear. Eau de Veau would certainly be my favorite.Selection complete, the Contessa pulled several 100 euro notes from her purse and we returned to the car. A brisk wind blew and tall pink flowers tipped their heads to the roadside. Unable to resist, I sampled a blossom: nothing like the rare essence confined to the tiny bottles. Vegetal and bitter.

Like wine, I suppose, anything of featured flora is better under the press. It gives one pause when considering a new venture, though.

How does one press a cat?

Chow.

Delices de France

Shimoni — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 10:20:51 +0000

I am freshly fluffed and feeling fine.

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:

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.

La Reserv—ation

Shimoni — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 20:26:49 +0000

Boat travel in any breeze greater that 5 knots should be prohibited—worldwide. If the vessel lists, I insist: NO PASSAGE.

While I enjoy licking up most things that end up on the floor, keeping time with seasick people is not a highlight. At least not after the first two or three victims.

It took me a full day to get my sea-legs, and that was AFTER I left the ship. Remember, I have four of them. You know how one year to a human is like seven years to a dog? Well, one day of motion sickness to a dog is like seven days to a human.

“Feel” that.

The only upside to the trip was the ending: A private car to La Reserve, jewel on the Cote D’Azur.

A warm, salt-water pool, long lunches on the palatial veranda, speed boats (too fast to sway) along the Mediterranean shore.

Doggy spa treatments at La Petite Chien: sugar scrub on the belly, acu-pressure to points north of the tail, ear massage.AHHHHH. The buffing of toe nails; the fluffing of chin hairs. Pellegrino or Evian? I ask you.

The ferry floor is but a dim memory. On to the beach a la Francaise.

Chow.

Pix

Shimoni — Sat, 18 Jul 2009 10:06:15 +0000

I love cameras. Especially the new, digital ones. If i don’t look good the first time, it can all be erased, just like kicking up a little grass over the morning do, so to speak.

The Contessa, Count and I are making a ton of photos on our trip. Mostly of me, I might add, against different backdrops.

Nice to be so adored, no?

If I didn’t love road trips so much, I might suggest we simply stay home and use the best picture of me in coordination with Photoshop: the beach, the plane, the train, the mountains, etc. You get my meaning.

But I DO love road trips. Emphasis on “road”. I am not a fan of ferries, though I DO like those cool little fairy-like fireflies along the coast. Note the difference in spelling–but that’s another story.

We left Rome as you know, at rush hour. We arrived at a small Bed and Breakfast which, to me, is the ultimate decsriptor for any dog. and

Really, what could be more perfect?

Next day we were off again, windows down, ears singing in the wind. We stopped for lunch at a little roadside trattoria: pasta with fresh tomatoes, basil and mozzarella. Heaven. A bowl of mountain water and a piddle and back to the car.

Napping in the back seat cannot be touted enough. Fine leather upholstery covered by my favorite traveling sheepskin and comfort aids , fresh air streaming through the open windows, whiskers gently bending in the breeze. Ahhhhh.

I awoke to the scent of garlic and some sort of unfortunate sea creature being grilled in the distance. Bags out of the car, a leisurely aperativo on the patio bar ensued . A little prosecco in my bowl.

View from our room:

View IN our room:

I ask you: Which is the better vista?

Splendido, indeed. No confusion here.

Chow.

Fairies and Ferrys

Shimoni — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 16:05:07 +0000

There are ferries and there are fairies. Large, rolling ships and tiny, twittering creatures.

So, it becomes clear when speaking about either that whomever is speaking, explains.

“Ferry,” said the Contessa, practicing her finest english.

I rise, bolt upright at the thought of something small and easily chased. I look around. Nothing but a large, lumbering vessel pulling into port. I sniff the air for traces of fairy dust. Niente.

The meaning then crystalizes.

God, I miss latin. Ab origine. Abusus non tollit usum.

Look it up.

Chow.

The Drive at Five

Shimoni — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 16:24:09 +0000

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.

Hegemony, take note.

Chow.

On The Road

Shimoni — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 13:19:06 +0000

Road trip beginning today.

Stay tuned.

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

Chow!

A Dog Song

Shimoni — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 23:26:14 +0000

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

Chow.

Sensory Overload

Shimoni — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 21:11:05 +0000

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

Shimoni — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 10:30:48 +0000

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

Shimoni — Sun, 21 Jun 2009 18:39:42 +0000

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?

Shimoni — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 09:58:54 +0000

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

Shimoni — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 10:42:10 +0000

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

Shimoni — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 10:06:07 +0000

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

Shimoni — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 10:51:35 +0000

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.

Neighbors

Shimoni — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 10:46:20 +0000

There’s a new bitch next door. She smells wonderful.

I sit on the terrace with my nose pointed in the easterly direction of her apartment. She moves about her terrazzo taking no notice of me.

But, in my mind, I am hot on her t(r)ail…so to speak.

I imagine a long walk wth her in the park. A leisurly drink at the Bernini fountain; the sharing of a half-eaten cornetto under a cozy bush. Then, the exciting saunter back to her apartment.

What will happen? What should I do?

Chow.

Life

Shimoni — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 16:31:34 +0000

“People find life entirely too time-consuming.”

—Stanislaw J. Lec

From the perspective of a small, Italian dog: Life is to be enjoyed, not employed.

Chow.

Associate Producer

Shimoni — Sat, 30 May 2009 16:13:11 +0000

I think I’ve found my niche, that is if I can find someone with an opposable thumb.

My idea: A new Game Show for dogs. Cable TV; mid-afternoon time slot, just after the usual small meal and short walk-around; something to provide a little humor as a dog drifts into a little nap.

We’ll call it Whack-A-Kitty. Here’s the pilot:

Now if I can just get PetCo to come in as sponsor. Maybe they’d like to do lunch?

Chow.

Motivation

Shimoni — Thu, 28 May 2009 16:11:32 +0000

I don’t know what “UCLA” is.

Latin acronym for —??

United Crackers Lab Association? Huh? Could be. Squirrels, nuts, crackers–it follows.

Anyway, in my humble opinion, all this baby squirrel needed was the right motivation.

Nothing a good dog couldn’t have furnished….

Chow.

Tail-Chasing

Shimoni — Tue, 26 May 2009 15:57:24 +0000

I love my tail. Honestly.

Utterly devoted, it follows me everywhere, ready to play whenever I run out of things to do.

Most animals have done it one time or another.

It is God’s answer to the boredom issue and a poignant reminder to all men: Make your own fun. Amen.

Chow.

Mozzarella in May

Shimoni — Sat, 23 May 2009 15:36:32 +0000

There’s nothing like mozzarella cheese, especially when it comes in spring. Fresh on the heels of calving, mozzarella in May is glorious.

The Italian buffalo is a huge, red-eyed beast which lumbers across the grassy hillsides and wallows in the cool mud-streams along the valleys. True mozzarella comes from Italy’s Campania region. Naples is it’s center. The mozzarella dairy, or caseificio, La Fenice, near Presenzano, is one of our favorite haunts for fresh cheese.

We drive about an hour south of Rome and in we walk. The smell of buffalo hangs like overripe raw meat in the yard outsidebut inside the dairy is immaculate. The centerpiece is a large, shallow vat with a hundred white balls of mozzarella bobbing like tennis balls in the milky water. The finished product, room-temperature and gooey heaven.

A man in the back room is beginning a new batch. I watch as buffalo milk is brought in and curdled. The whey is separated and the curd is ground in a mill, then molded and placed in hot water, stirred and kneaded like bread until it is smooth and shiny. Then, small pieces are pulled away and formed into balls and brined for a short time. Mozzarella made in the morning is ready by dinner time. Warm, soft, rich and fresh.

Sure, it’s good with tomatoes and basil and a drizzle of balsamic ; tossed with pasta and tomato sauce; on any thin crust pizza.

But there is nothing like true, fresh, still-warm mozzarella, hand held by the one you love, melting on your tongue and into your memory as spring fades into summer.

Chow.

Name That Dog

Shimoni — Tue, 19 May 2009 20:23:19 +0000

Ever wonder what kind of dog you’d be if you’d been born into the world as a canine?Well, take a few minutes and find out:

WHAT KIND OF DOG AM I?

It’s fun, but I don’t know how accurate it is. I took the quiz myself and turned out to be a Great Dane something that, at ten pounds and twelve inches, I’m clearly not.

But then again, I’ve always thought big.

And let me know whare I can find a quiz telling me what kind of human I’d be if I had had but two legs….

Chow.

A Vineyard Tale

Shimoni — Fri, 15 May 2009 10:00:09 +0000

Vineyard time!

Spring has sprung and there are new, tender leaves on the vines. My people and I were off to the south this week, and the lush, volcanic hills, about an hour from Naples and Mount Vesuvius.

Feudi di San Gregorio is a noted winery that produces wine from the ancient indigenous grape varieties of the region.

Some was spilled, as is the case at every tasting. Enough for a small dog swilled from the glass and was very much appreciated.

My pronouncement?

A wine of golden color, pear and citrus on the nose…my nose. Fresh and dry on the tongue, with a crisp mineral finish. Perfect for the coming hot weather.

Ahhh, to be a dog in Italy with summer on the way.Chow.

Nice to Want

Shimoni — Tue, 12 May 2009 10:00:26 +0000

I love new things. In fact, I find that the older I get, the less I remember, so, when I come across an old toy, it’s as though it were brand new.

There are certain perks to aging.

But, this time, I have really found something new.

AND I WANT ONE.

Please send it, postage due. I don’t know what it is, but I NEED ONE, ASAP.

Chow.

The Dog House

Shimoni — Sat, 09 May 2009 10:12:09 +0000

Berlusconi’s in the dog house again and his wife put him there.

I know a little bit about that. My people have had there share of marital problems. Philandering must be a required course in Italian high school.

Napolean, as Berlusconi’s wife calls him, is apparently seeking to improve the face of Italian politics—literally. He wants to have younger, more female politicians elected or appointed to his government.

His logic:

‘‘We want refresh the image of the political class with well educated people, who will always be present at parliamentary sessions, who are well dressed and smell good — this is not currently the case for some deputies.”

Personally, I don’t understand Mrs. Berlusconi’s objection.

I couldn’t agree more.

Chow.

The Most

Shimoni — Wed, 06 May 2009 19:43:02 +0000

You must know by now that I am a dog of some privilege. I have an apartment in Rome, vineyard in Chianti and a precious cook.

That said, I think I am happiest in the park: an unclaimed plot of perfection. It’s there that rare things are found—if you know where to look.

A rotting squirrel, he scrubby feather of a duck, slimy slugs or a well-worn toy.

It all brings to mind a certain quotation of unknown origin:

“The happiest of creatures don’t necessarily have the best of everything; they just make the most of everything that comes along their way.”

Straight from the dog’s mouth.

Chow.