Of Toys and Such

I often overhear to my amusement, 2-leggeds comment upon the billion dollar "pet toys" industry in the United States.  Most 2-leggeds are surprised if not outright shocked by the "privileged" treatment of 4-leggeds in the 21st century.  "Dog accessorizing?!!" You got to be kidding!"  My response:  NOT accessories, but necessities!Fortunately my family, especially her, has firmly embraced the concept of necessities (over accessories) and proudly (and frequently) donates to the "dog toys" industry so it may continue to thrive; like a national health for pet necessities.  One might argue that from Day One, I, along with my 2-legged companions, have been "trained" to "need" play-things, toys, etc., so that it now has become a habit for her to shop constantly for items that would be "a delightful, entertaining, and dog-proof distraction" that is, of course, washable.  My earliest recollections of toyland begins with my Woobie; a green and white checkered stuffed dog that journeyed with me to my new home.  Most of this journey I don't recall, but Woobie, despite his tattered appearance, is forever burned into my memory.

She too remembers Woobie well:  the car ride home (with me in tears), the interstate back-up (with me crying and wimpering all the way), my single howl of anguish upon arriving at my crate (so she says), and her and I's first sleepless night together (he seems to have been conveniently absent).  She likes to bring Woobie (and my puppy-stage chew string) out to remind me (mostly herself) of those early days when I weighed under 15 lbs and was "cute as a button."  Those were the days in which I earned the nickname Danger Dog--the subtext of the meaning is still not all clear to me, but it is a catchy name.

As time passed, a cabinet drawer was no longer ample enough to store the collection of toys she gathered (he doesn't shop at all) allegedly for me.  A small 10 gallon plastic container with a lid (never used, as it was full from the moment of purchase) became the transitional storage area, on the way to a bigger (50 gallon) facility.

  

Like the previous one, this 50 gallon facility was not actually "tested" for size 

(not unlike the demilitarization facilities for Cold War chemical weapons based in the South Pacific and the west desert of Utah); so no lid, no matter how much she tried to stand on it, could contain the overflow of toys.

Sometimes she and I conference about sorting through the mountain of "pet industry goods" to see if there are items that could be recycled to other dogs we know, or even (dare I admit this!) placed in the green treasure holding tank for the weekly pickup.  This always seems like a good plan; but there is a catch:  apparently she has become as attached (if not more) as I, to each of my toys.  So battered Woobie and the puppy-stage chew toy are kept "because they are from my puppy days;" the hard rubber bones (and there are many) I never particularly liked, are kept "just in case" I might suddenly (after years of neglect) become interested in them, or 4-legged visitors may come to play (I can count the number of such visits on one pad), or the even more hopeful

"another puppy joins our clan" (I like this last one, but he is adamantly opposed--this is an on-going discussion in our household despite the majority vote in favor, her and I).  

Perhaps the most curious decision is to keep items that have long been separated, like Bingo's Head and Body-decapitated in a tug-a-war after which his insides were hastily cleaned up and deposited in the green treasure chest.  

Bingo's head is now its own toy, living a disembodied life at the bottom of the 50 gallon box.  

So, in the end, it is not so much my desire to acquire or to hang on to the dog

 necessities gathered across time.  It 

is more about our remembrance of days filled with play gone by, more about her looking ahead to the time she and I part on earth, more about her deep love for me, and my deep love for her.  Besides, if I'm to be woman/man's best friend, there ought to be some tangible perks along the way.

On This Day of Labor

The 2-legged saying "It's a dog's life," has troubled me for some time.  What does this mean?  As a "dog" I wonder what exactly the 2-legged who coined this phrase was thinking about?  What is "a dog's life"?  There seems to be an implication that dogs do nothing but eat, sleep, and scratch all day.  Well, let me set you 2-leggeds who are reading this straight:  a "dog's life" is filled with more than these activities!  

Perhaps a quick perusal of my daily responsibilities will shed some light.

My day begins as most 4-leggeds, with the task of waking my 2-leggeds and making sure they actually get out of bed.  This is never an easy task.   She dutifully gets up, lets me out for my morning constitutional, and lays out my breakfast before she falls back into bed.  Not a good start for her since she needs to be up early to help me with the household chores.  With much prompting, in the form of wimpering, I can usually get her up again and headed in the direction of our labors.  Our work together is seasonal but for this entry I'll just focus on our Summer chores (no doubt Fall, Winter, & Spring chores will each be described in great detail as the seasons pass). Because I live with 2 2-leggeds, there are different chores associated with each.  I'll begin with her and my chores first.

She and I try to complete our first chore before the sunny globe's rising:  the watering of the scent-ladened flowers.  We must beat the heat, or so she says, to save them from a withering death.  My task is to retrieve the watering can where ever it has blown to overnight, get it to the spigot and the coiled red hose, watch her fill the can, make sure she doesn't trip along the gravel path, direct her to the flower containers, smell each flower to see if anything new happened since yesterday, roust out any errant wasps (this is a harrowing tale for yet another day), then take the empty watering can back to the red hose.

We must repeat this several times on two decks and the front porch, usually about 1 hour worth of work.  A very strenuous labor indeed!  Watering is immediately followed by the ritual sweeping of the decks and washing down of any hummingbird poop.  I don't think these chores are absolutely necessary, but she is adamant about walking bare-padded without stepping on grasshoppers, ants, moths, poop, dirt, and whatever else has taken up residence on the decks since yesterday.  I simply chase the  broom, scatter the bugs, and lick at (she tries to stop me) the poop, while she putters around.  Once this set of chores is completed we grab a biodegradable poop bag or two (made of all things--tapioca, carrots, & corn!  this may sound very tasty, but it isn't!) and begin our search and rescue of all poop (mine and other 4-leggeds) on our little acre.  My job is to locate the piles, her's to retrieve them.  All bags of treasures are deposited in the green container under the East Deck.  Outside chores are done for now; inside ones now begin.

[Note:  We do water plants inside the house every-other-day but this doesn't involve a red hose or the big blue watering can, so I just trail along to lap up any spills.]

My first inside duty is to pick up after the 2-leggeds (especially him).  I hunt down, retrieve , occasionally chew on, then deposit any socks, underwear, or other 2-legged clothing that happens to be at floor-height, into the laundry

basket.  

She sometimes comes along on this journey for moral support.

 

The canvassing of floors doesn't end here.

 I'm responsible for collecting and for putting all my toys in the toy box.  This I don't quite understand since in an hour I'll be taking them out again and redistributing them throughout the house. 

One of my last indoor tasks for the day is to locate and to shred any paper products she and he plan to recycle.  This is perhaps the best chore of all!  Shredding is as much fun as swimming, chasing birds, and climbing mountains, but it is hard work, and some 4-legged has to do it!

Probably the most important task I perform is that of border patrol.  It is my sole duty to patrol our woods, to guard our home, to inspect any packages brought inside our house, and to scrutinize all company (4-legged and 2-legged) that seek admittance into our abode.  I know other 4-leggeds understand the weightiness of this particular responsibility;

it is one chore 4-leggeds undertake with much vigilance and perhaps the only chore 2-leggeds give us credit for.  Little do these 2-leggeds really know about the world around them!

I hear most 2-leggeds are early risers but his half of the 2-legged set is decidedly not!  If nudged too frequently he will roll to the center of the bed and out of reach.  Since he sleeps like a "log" (so she says) wimpering won't work.  I must turn to the head-shaking-ear-flapping method which not only works but often gets a wry smile out of him as he swings his 2 legs out of bed. Our morning task is to get the coffee going (a bitter tasting but sweet smelling liquid substance for you 4-leggeds out there who didn't know).  If I don't keep nudging him along the way, he is wont to drift into his study, plop down in front of the computer, and bury himself for hours on end.  It is no easy task to keep him on task.  

Often I accompany him on his a.m. constitutional to the end of the cul-de-sac where we survey the woods, check for other 2-leggeds' belongings/droppings, and note what new flowers have sprung up since the day before.  

Summer days are filled with lots of work, but it would be remise of me to not mention that these very days are also filled with all kinds of adventures; of which I shall describe at much length in future entries.  But some days, like today this day of labor, there is only one chore that absolutely needs to be completed:

Shifting Sands

Sand.  This beach is bound by sand.  Always shifting sand.  The wind and the ocean both constantly reshape the sand.  At low tide the ocean leaves wonderful dunes in its wake.  Never the same dunes, always different.  Some look like small island in an ocean of sand.  Others have perilous cliffs that must be scaled up and slid down. 

I like the feel of sand on my pads, most of the time.  Extremely hot sand, like I experienced once in Arizona, makes it hard for me to pant.  Ocean sand even if heated by the sun has this coolness that seeps from underneath the dry top layer.   Another reason I like sand:  I can dig to China!  And I can do it in a matter of minutes.  Sand moves easily with a thrust of a paw.  It sprays out behind me as I  dig for a clam or Ghost Shrimp, leaving small sand volcanoes it the wake.  Sand is soft to sleep in.  Sand is easy to jump and land in.  Sand adds extra fun to chasing sea palms, gulls, or flippys.  

Lots of interesting items are buried in the sand on this beach; cola and beer cans, remnants of fireworks, a broken kite, massive tree stumps washed up by waves and then engulfed by the sand, even evidence of other 4-leggeds.  I spend much time digging these items up for my beach collection; a collection that would be quite extensive if she didn't continue to relieve me of my treasures.  All of these treasures are safely hidden in a green chest at the end of the drive which itself is buried daily in shifting dunes.

Sand has a personality of its own on windy days.  I watch and then chase for fun the snake-like movements of shifting sand.  I know I can't catch it but it provides entertainment nonetheless.  I like the way sand swallows my paws as if trying to drag me under; as if I was swimming in the ocean. 

I like making trails in the new smooth sand at low tide.  It is as if I am on a deserted island; no other 4-leggeds or 2-leggeds exist.  I make tracks on the sand like a painter with a brush on new canvas.  Stark and seemingly indelibly etched into the surface of the earth.  Fleeting is my artistry; the ocean and the wind erase all traces of my passing.  Yet the sand beckons me to return another day.

Ode to Sea Palms

On the Beach

Amazing things wash up on this beach!  

Today I spent most of the day following  up on those scents wafting through the windows.  First I spy a white object surging back and forth with the tide and run to grab it before the it slides back into the Ocean.  What a find!  A light shell with many legs--even more then me!  She says it is a crab that has long been picked over by Herrmann's and Western gulls or perhaps Black-crowned Night Herons who have callously left their prey adrift in the surf.  I leave this crab carcass behind and continue moving down the surfline, she following with a watchful eye, not trusting that I won't eat everything in sight.  I must pause here to dispel a fiction she and he perpetuate; contrary to 2-legged-lore, Labs are discriminating eaters!  To arrive at such pinnacles of taste, 4-leggeds must sample along the way, something 2-leggeds have yet to grasp.

Further down the coastline and higher on the sand dunes, she locates something buried in the sand and I quickly rush to sniff.  What is it?  She moves the sand gently back with her shoe but I can't wait and start digging it out.  Despite her attempts to slow me down, I rapidly uncover  what he says is part of a seal fin. Perhaps like those sunbathing on the point?  She stops me from bringing this find home and attempts to distract me with other finds in the area.  With a pull on my collar she has made it clear that this treasure won't be coming home with us today.  

Still, I know where it is and the days are long.

Anyways, as I continue my exploratory journey this day I rescue from the surf a brackish colored leafy plant on a long stem uprooted from the depths of the ocean.  Days later I learn that a common name for this is Sea Palm.  

I think it looks like a pom-pom-to-go.  I have much fun with this Sea Palm and prefer to retrieve it rather than a stick or a flippy while I'm on the beach.  2-leggeds have no idea how much fun these slippery trees are.  Best of all, no bark to choke on or get got in my teeth!  No splinters in my tongue.  Sea Palms are easily tossed into the air and shaken side-to-side with much affect.  Chasing her and him with a Sea Palm with the intent of slapping its wetness against their legs provides hours of entertainment for me.  She is not thrilled.  He keeps trying to throw it back into the sea.  It keeps coming back, whether I get it or not.

Bridges and Beaches

Mighty Subaru steers a course southwest from Portland to Lincoln City where I can finally see what all the fuss is about---the Oregon Coast.  Such an expanse of blue water and white surf!  I can smell thousands of unfamiliar scents waiting to be explored.  I can taste the briny-ness and the moisture of the ocean on my long dry tongue as I whip it around, lapping up all tastes rushing through the windows and swirling around the inside of the Subaru.  A sense of excitement arises in me standing my ruff hairs on end as we move closer to the sounds of the Ocean:  the crash of the surf on dark broody rocks, the squawking of a multitude of birds overhead, the whistle of the wind rising above surf sounds....ahhhh, the coast at last!  Bridge after bridge we creep closer to our stopping point.  She comments about the art deco remnants of bridges preserved from  the 1920s whose beauty was only surpassed by their structural unsoundness.  I quit counting them focusing more on the Ocean with great impatience.  

I wiggle anxiously expelling my 'pay-attention-to-me' ummph to get him and her to stop Subaru so I can take in these sights, sounds, and smells whizzing by.  But no!  They are destination-oriented--non-stop now until we reach where the 'Forest meets the Sea' the little hamlet of Waldport (she knows this by virtue of internetting; he knows this because he understands German---who knew this would come in handy on the Oregon Coast?).  We slow down letting Subaru navigate dunes moving across the narrow road to our week-long rental, perched atop a large dune where a 4-wheel drive and a bobcat are useful vehicles.  At last Subaru releases me from its confines and I jump out into the snaking sand running towards the Ocean that I've watched from a-distance for what seems forever!  Dry sand turns to wet sand which sticks to my nose filling my head with scent-memories that will last my lifetime.  The Ocean at last!  

Cold water refreshes my pads as I plunge headlong into water and shallow surf.  A quick lap of the black-blue water confirms that although wet and refreshing, it is to salty to drink.  I am reminded of my trip to the island of Vancouver, B.C. and the barnacle-lined rocks in bays where I paddled until tired....well, actually until my blood flowed from a 4-inch gash received while retrieving a stick tossed by him.  Not sure I've ever seen her back up as much as on that day as she wrapped bandages and tape around my injury.  Have I said before that she is very protective?  Later we all learned I should have been sown up.  But I digress. 

 

Sea water may be tasty for fish, seals, an

d pelicans but not for 4-leggeds and I gather, nor for 2-leggeds.  Trotting around the fringes of the water I feel invigorated and free, my angel-wing markings taking flight as I playfully chase gulls (she doesn't like me chasing any living entity for real) who squawk at me, flap their wings with annoyance, and head out to sea.  

This Salty Sea Dog has found his niche!

Oh! Columbia!

Our trusty Subaru steered a course northward to the Columbia River, a waterway that is both familiar and pleasurable to me.  It was in this very watery flow that I first learned to dog paddle--a skill I have since honed to a fine art.  My earliest puppyhood paddlin' memories are of sticks bobbing along the swells and ripples of this dark ribbon; of anxious calls from her as she ran along the bank following in my wake, of me feeling the real power of my sweeping tail as I ruddered around rocks and debris amazed by this near complete feeling of weightlessness.  

Exhilaration! So this is what a tail is for!  He and she are often overhead talking about the perils of this amazing limb--how in one sweep table tops, plants, and bookcases can be cleaned of dishes, dirt, and dust (occasionally small 2-leggeds get swept up in the cross fire).  I find my tail to be a useful tool to part not just water, but crowds with, to help me get where I'm going...which today is the central Oregon coast.  Swish.

I (and the 2-leggeds) follow this blue highway as it twists and turns with anticipation to the rugged shores of the Pacific.  Roll on mighty Columbia, roll on!  I have accepted your challenge and follow thee to distant shores.