Now, HERE’S a human who “gets” dogs.

It really IS this simple.

Chow.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Road trip beginning today. 

Stay tuned. 

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

Chow!

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

Chow.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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 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 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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

OK…I can corner a scorpion in the cucina. 

I can think in at least two languages, I can write a blog—-I can howl.

But I can’t whistle like this:

Just put your lips together and blow? 

What lips.

Chow.

We’re visiting our farm in Chianti this weekend.  The weather is windy and rainy but I don’t mind.  There is a fire in the fireplace and bread in the oven. 

I love it here: a good cook in the cucina, young leaves on the vines, chicks in the hen-house, and the addition of a puppy to the family of the caretaker.

Alas, the poor young creature has not yet taken a good look in the mirror.

I guess it’s any port in a storm.

Chow.

For those of you who filed for an extension in the USA last week, here’s something else to try to figure out:

1040-Dog

In Italy, Dogs are considered dependents, of course. 

You may defer any tax——-unless you add a cat.

Households with cats always pay extra, one way or another.

Chow.

OK: I have a crazy idea on how to get these rodents to jump higher, faster.  Employ a certain small dog, no?

I feel the need for speed…

Chow.

Two tenets of Dog Logic:

It is in simple acts, whether pleasant or unkind, that points of view are turned.  And in so turning, the flow of life is changed.  Like the moon draws the tides to a different course, lives are altered until, one day, another shift corrects the stream. 

You can’t judge a dog by it’s collar.

Witness:

And, if you can’t access the link, use this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY&feature=related

Or simply go to YOUTUBE.COM and search Susan Boyle.

It’s worth the trouble of cut and paste or search…not that I would know.

Chow.

I love Easter in Rome! 

The shoes are spectacular. 

We walk to St. Peter’s Square.  It’s filled with thousands of people from all over the world and the footwear is incredibly diverse.  Running shoes with rubber soles and canvas sides, fine Ferragamos, shiny patent leather, suede, plastic and even wood.

And on each sole, the tell-tale hint of origin: French pastry, Dutch gum, Polish mud and Malibu sand.  It’s heaven.

Then there are the shoes of the Swiss guard: Chocolate, of course.

I’d love to get close enough to the Pope to smell his footwear.  Bratwurst and beer?  Sacramental wafers and wine? 

Or, scentless, like the wings of an angel?

Buona Pasqua.

Chow.

Silvio Berlusconi just relaxed the rules for architectural expansion.  He says he wants to spur a boom on housing, predicting that the change will bring in billions of Euros to the Italian Economy.

Certainly there are, no doubt, thousands of people already calling their architects to build a new room onto their houses here and there.  God only knows what those homes will look like when the addition is complete. 

There is already ample evidence of “bastardized” remodels from Milan to Sicily.

Isn’t this a little like deciding to eat your own when you’re starving?  The problem is, as soon as good times return, you wonder what ever happened to old Spike.

Even a small dog has standards.

Chow.

There’s a crack in my pallazzo. 

The bed shook last night; a few pieces of the ceiling fell like dust across the room.  It was the middle of the night.  My Contessa and the Count leaped out of bed then just stood there, looking at each other as though one of them must have been the culprit in some big joke.

When the lights came on, the first thing we all saw was a long jagged crack in the ceiling of the appartemento. 

I heard there are many who were not so lucky in the tremor and I am sorry.  We are blessed to be in Rome 70 miles away from the center of the terremoto.  The city sits on a crown of tufo which supposedly cushions us.  All of our shakes are moderate–so far.

Repair to our ceiling will follow in due course, as it always does after a little shake: plasterers, painters, all with lunch bags and willing hands.

There are always small gifts in disaster.  The key is to find them, no?

Chow.

I was trying to explain to a friend of mine how splendid Sunday dinner was last night and what a wonderful effect it always has on me, from head to toe. 

Pictures are so often worth the thousand words that, as a dog,  I will never speak:

Chow…exactly.

I know why rabbits are a ubiquitous sign of spring; and it’s not just the Easter Bunny.  Rabbit traps are set in Chianti like clockwork come spring.  The man who runs our farm in the country stacks them high in the flat bed of his Ape, and off we go, down a white gravel road, deep into the wood to set them.

Two days later we return.  Only one trap holds a prize, but it is just enough for a proper Sunday dinner.

The local Italian rabbit is fat and tender and toothsome, especially when the farm cook , Grazia, prepares them.  This is the way:

Heat the oven to 350.  Whisk together one bottle of Chianti, 1/4 cup of red-wine vinegar, and 1 tablespoon of sugar.

Cut a 3 lb. rabbit into pieces…toss the fur to any small dog who might be nearby.  Season it (the rabbit, not the dog) with salt and pepper, then dredge each piece in flour.

In 1/4 cup of olive oil, fry the rabbit, turning once, until browned…about 6 delicious smelling minutes.

Transfer the rabbit  into a deep baking dish.  Add a hand-full of crushed garlic cloves (about 16-20) to the skillet until golden: another 3-4 delicious smelling minutes.  Pour the wine mixture into the skillet and scrape up the browned bits.  Pour the sauce over the rabbit in the baking dish.  Scatter the top with a handful of sage leaves(about 15) and 5 or 6 rosemary sprigs. 

Cover with foil and braise in the oven until tender…another 45 delicious smelling minutes.  Then, uncover and raise the over temperature to 450, basting rabbit until the sauce is thickened….yes, another 25 minutes of splendorous scent. 

A little salt and pepper; a bottle of Chianti Classico, crusty bread and green salad   Ecco, you have the perfect spring-time Sunday dinner.

Chow.