Getting Up is Living

1 07 2011

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.





The Crossing, Quinto Giorno

28 06 2008

Denny has only opened the main door from the kennel to the deck twice and each time the inside of the kennel becomes a hurricane. Churchill was the onl one to venture forth into the bluster this morning. he returned, ears rumpled atop his head as though he’d gone for the up-do at the ball that night. Even his tongue was askew.

A windy day

The balls have become passe. there’s only so much one can do with a ball, after all. Stealing was fun for awhile, but that got me into trouble. Sharing is not a dogs best attribute.

Today, the balls are rolling on there own.

My Contessa has visited every day. Ironically, she arrives just as Virginia’s people dish out the room service every day. Still, La Contessa comes without a doggie bag. She has not gotten the memo.

The, the deck door opens and a broad white hat flies into the room. The Contessa follows, unable to retrieve her topper as her hands are full: a tray with a plate and a cover.

She sets it down before me a removes the top.

Steak Tartare.

Steak Tartare

My Contessa carefully doles out a nice mound into each of the eight dishes below the kennel staterooms. The dogs follow their noses to each treat and any hard feelings of stolen balls and toys dissolve in the ambrosia of raw meat and seasonings.

The magic of satisfaction and absolution in the offering of food strikes once again: La Contessa in the eyes of her companion and I, in the eyes of mine.

No more cake for me?

Ah…chow.





The Crossing, Secondo Giorno

13 06 2008

Deck twelve and this is the first thing I see that looks familiar:IMG_0632 the hind end of hound (that would be the one not wearing a blue coat…).  I am delivered to the kennel.  The hound and I exchange a whiff.  His name is Churchill. 

Of course it is.

The butlers name is Denny.  He lifts me into a well appointed cage.  Standard bars, cushy bed…cushier with my fur throw; water dish, food dish…ahhhh, my squeaky toy has been delivered.  I settle in for a nap.  What 24 days at boarding kennels does to you...What else to do?

Virginia, a whippet, huddles in the corner of the cage next to me, shivering.  Virgina is from Miami, she says mildly.  It’s hot there.  It’s cold here.  She doesn’t want any part of crossing the North Atlantic.  Icebergs, she mutters.Iceberg, Antarctica

I raise my head and look for a window to confirm her suspicions. No window, no port.  Only a simple, slick floor, Denny at the door, one long draw of the whistle and the ship gives a gentle sway.

Chow.








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