Notes from “a Dog” on Writing.

Dogs know the way to pen a tale. Any writer can learn how. Read on:

A Lesson In Storytelling From The Ultimate Dog Tease

It Gives One Paws

The moment you realize your dog eats better than you do.

The moment you realize that you have 987 photos on your phone and 985 of them are of your dog.

The moment you realize that you gave up your weekly manicures so you could afford to have your dog groomed once a month.

The moment you realize that the passenger seat of your car is covered with a plush lambskin pad and you are sitting on vinyl.

The moment you find yourself reaching for dog treats instead of chocolate at the checkout stand.

The moment you decide to go gray instead of giving up the expense of doggy daycare.

The moment you stop staying at ritzy hotels and start looking for pet friendly resorts.

The moment you cancel a dinner date because you’re sick and yet bundle up a fever for the dog park in a blizzard.

The moment you spend more money on a pet cemetery plot than you spent on cremating your mother.

The moment you realize your dog knows more about you than anyone else you know, and will never tell a soul.

The moment you realize your dog will never love you less for anything stupid you do, will wag in any weather, protect you from any foe, and look more deeply into your eyes than any lover, especially when looking at you for that last time.

It gives one paws…er, pause.

Chow.

 

Cloud Dog

In between clouds, the spring sun shines warmly on the grass of the Pincio today.  I took a long walk, stopping to roll here and there, picking up the scent of recent dogs and the color of the grass.

Once I paused to look up, legs in the air, snout pointed to the sky, and this is what I saw: A Cloud Dog.

If this were ancient Rome, Nero might have seen this and proclaimed either the Day of Dog and we would still be in power, or that every dog be eaten, depending on the clarity of his mind at the moment.  I am happy emperors no longer rule.  It is enough to suffer periodic edicts from the Management: “Don’t get on the furniture, get down from the bed, don’t lick the floor”, et cetera.

Though irritating, life must be simpler now, and more predictable.  Dinner usually comes on time, and mornings bring a walk on the Pincio…where I can roll, mindless, on the grass.

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.

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.

God and Dog

Now, HERE’S a human who “gets” dogs.

It really IS this simple.

Chow.