The toilet habits of dogs

I know this isn't a particularly "appropriate" post, but as a daily dog-walker, I have accumulated some interesting intelligence on the subject, which I feel compelled to share in a few short, and hopefully tasteful, paragraphs.

First, most urban canines are fairly well organized in their toileting habits. (Not all, my friends, but most.) They have favorite times and places. Our dog Ben, for example, won't "go" in our backyard, hence he gets two walks a day. (There IS a method in his madness.) And dogs do have particular "styles," if you will, of making their deposits. Here are a few of the most common:

The Stop-and-Drop
These carefree pups (Labs, in particular, come to mind) hit the park, lope around cheerfully, chase squirrels, fetch sticks, gambol with doggy friends -- then suddenly freeze, squat and, well, drop. There's no art nor science to this approach: Grass, gravel, rocks, concrete, playground sawdust -- when you gotta go, you go. End of story.

Note: If you have ever discovered dog poo on a sidewalk, which I personally always find a little disconcerting, you can most likely thank a Stop-and-Drop.

The String-along
String-alongs leave many dog owners scratching their heads. For some reason known only to themselves, these dogs feel compelled to keep moving while carrying out their defecatory duties.(Note: Yes, I know, I don't think "defecatory" is a real word either, but it DOES trip off the tongue nicely.) This is not a dog's finest hour in general, but String-alongs look more than comically pathetic as they crab across the park leaving a questionable trail behind them. It's got to be a real pain to clean up after them.

Mt. Vesuvius
These dogs must have amazing cargo capacity because when they unload, it's a payload of truly epic proportion. Steaming canine versions of the Kilauea Volcano if you will. Seriously.

Mt. V dog owners rarely pick up these gifts of love, leaving it to the rest of us to carefully navigate around them, strangely curious about the behemoth canines responsible for these notable landmarks. I am a strong believer of cleaning up after your dog, but I have to admit, I don't think they've yet developed a biodegradable REI poop bag up to the challenge of a Mt. V.

Privacy Please
Our dog Ben is a Privacy Please kind of guy. These dogs painstakingly seek out (we call it "spottin' up") the best tree, shrub or rock that affords them shelter from the park paparazzi while doing the deed.

Except it doesn't. And that's funny.

Ben's butt inevitably sticks out, tail in full extension (not unlike the needle of a compass pointing directly at you-know-what), and I know exactly what he's up to. He senses this, shoots me a reproachful "Do you mind?" kind of look, and then finishes his business.

I'm sorry. It always cracks me up. I just can't help it.

Optimism

I think I have a bulb coming up. A grape hyacinthe. Muscari.

I'm not surprised, but a little nervous. January, for the most part, has been weirdly sunny and mild, temperatures in the high 40s with one day even hitting the low 50s. We had snow yesterday, but it turned to rain by mid-morning. Still, if I hear one more person at work or at the store observe "It feels like March," I might do him/her physical harm, fearing the frivolous weather gods will take up the challenge and reverse gears.

Let me honest. January has been heaven and then some. I've even thought about trying to find a golf course with an open driving range.

But then there's February, ahh, February in Bermtopia can bite you in the butt. I can clearly remember several frigid arctic cold fronts that paralyzed Bermtopia in years past. Closed schools even. I'm not sure how well my optimistic little Muscari friend will fare should that happen.

Nevertheless, I plan to borrow a page from this tiny sprout, and it's titled "Optimism." Come what may, it's a little bit lighter every day. We've been more than blessed with sunny days. I haven't slipped on the ice and done a face-plant on some neighborhood sidewalk while walking Ben.

Life's good.

Whole wheat basil bread

This post isn't about whole wheat basil bread per se. Well, except to say that I made two loaves yesterday to go with the spaghetti and meatballs we were serving to the fam who were over watching God's Basketball Team (aka Gonzaga) play San Diego. (The bread is excellent, by the way.)

This is more about why I, a self-avowed no-bake-nik, actually really enjoy making bread.

It's wonderfully tactile. I love slipping my hands into the warm batter, watching it envelope my hands with a new, yeast-fragrant skin.

I get time to think in a free-floating, James Joyce-ian kind of way. The rhythmic, repetitive process of kneading is excellent for this. When else in the course of a day do you get 10-15 minutes of time where you have nothing else to do than push a gummy blob of dough around on the kitchen counter? I plan my week, think about books I'm reading, watch the finches feeding outside on the seed socks, listen to the dog "huff" softly at some unsuspecting pedestrian strolling by the house, remind myself to call an elusive handyman for about the 40th time, make a couple of mental notes about garden tweaks I want to do in the spring, remember I need to return a guide book on Spain to the library this week, and start to construct a post about Ben and his border collie friend Wally. You get the picture

Bread baking also is the perfect culinary avenue for multi-tasking. Unlike many other types of cooking endeavors, you're not chained to the stove or oven needing to make split-second decisions about the fate of the free world. Dough goes together, dough is kneaded, dough rises. On to the next activity.

Unload the dishwasher


Load the dishwasher


Tidy up the kitchen


Do laundry


Start eggplant parmigiana


Watch iceskating


Finish egg parmigiana


Tidy up the kitchen


Watch iceskating


All in all, a perfectly satisfactory way to spend a Saturday in January. With two loaves of fresh-baked whole wheat basil bread to show for it.

A thoughtful dog

Prologue

If you own a dog -- or ever have -- chances are you've been awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of rhythmic, hoarse dry heaving coming from some dark corner of your bedroom. It can only mean one thing: Imminent dog vomit.

The reaction is universal -- owner springs out of bed, blankets and pillows flying. . . stampedes out of the bedroom with his/her canine companion. The mission: To find the closest noncarpeted part of the house, STAT!

Inevitably, the mission fails -- and owner is faced with 20 minutes' worth of wrestling with rubber gloves, warm water, paper towels and Resolve in the wee small hours of the night. Previously hurling pup stands by. . . sheepish, relieved -- or asleep. Or all of the above.

The blog

Wednesday I invested some Christmas present money into a sumptuous "bed jacket" (actually a short luxuriously warm bathrobe) that I intend to use to take reading-in-bed-at-night-in-an-unheated-bedroom (a whole other story) to the next level. My strategy exceeded beyond all expectations, and so I found myself still reading at 11 p.m. that night.

Brad was sleeping soundly -- Ben, our dog, comfortably (or so I thought) curlicued on his bed. It was beginning to occur to me that I did, after all, have to get up at 6 a.m. . . . when the dog stirred, stood up, stared at the rug -- and at me.

He walked slowly over to my side of the bed -- and pressed himself as close to the bed and nightstand as he could. Then, with ears at half-mast, he deferentially put one slim paw on my thigh.

I've been through 7 1/2 years of windy nights and loud voices with Ben -- and I know what this means. Benxiety attack.

Leaving his paw on my leg, Ben gravely looked sideways toward the bedroom door. I'm not stupid. Years of watching "Lassie" on TV as a kid finely honed my ability to decipher canine communication in all forms.

"Do you want to go downstairs, Ben?"

He padded, slowly but purposefully, toward the door and started down the stairs, me bringing up the rear in my splendid new robe. From the living room, Ben headed into the kitchen, still slowly and purposefully, and stopped at the back door. He looked at me.

"Do you need to go outside, Benster?"

He blinked once and looked back at the door with a faint sigh. I can take a hint.

I opened the door and let him out onto the still, dark, frosty lawn near the back porch. The night air was piercing as I stood at the door sill. I was glad I had my uber bathrobe wrapped around me.

Ben circled around the area meditatively for a few seconds, put his head down -- and proceeded to puke. When he was done, he looked up at me as if to say, "Now THAT went well, didn't it?"

We stood there for a couple minutes more, Ben raising his head to catch some noctural scent in the breeze, me simply admiring our dog who shimmered as the back porch light bounced off his silver fur.

The spell was broken when Ben hawked up one final loogie of grass and god knows what else. Giving it a perfunctory sniff, he turned toward the house, ready to come back in.

We silently climbed the stairs and I crawled into bed, patting the end of the bed for Ben. He hopped up and assumed his normal nighttime position between Brad and me, squirming a little to get it just right. This was followed by a contented, guttural "Ummmmmmm," and Ben fell asleep.

I lay in bed, awake. Some people have smart dogs, beautiful dogs, athletic dogs, goofy dogs, heroic dogs, theatric dogs. Ben is all these. And more.

He is a very thoughtful dog.

Italian country-style bread

All formalities aside, this bread is A.MA.Z.I.N.G.

Crusty on the outside, dense, chewy and I-should-be-sitting-in-Italy-right-now on the inside. It is rustic perfection. Brad and I stood at the kitchen sink and tore through a half loaf minutes after it came out of the oven. Like a pack of wolves came to mind. Except not.

I was forced to deviate from "The Bread Bible" with this recipe: Unfortunately, I didn't have the ceramic tiles to line the top and bottom of my oven that "Bible's" Tuscan bread recipe called for. Go figure.

Therefore, I resorted to my new Favorite Cookbook of All Time -- "The Food of Italy: A Journey for Food Lovers." Some things just have a way of working out.

This recipe calls for making a starter -- yeast, honey and milk -- that sits overnight transforming itself into a sticky fragrant pile of, well, yeast goo. I had to toss out my first attempt because the recipe said to IF the yeast, honey and milk didn't bubble in 5 minutes. Of course, they didn't, so down the drain it went. Picky, picky, picky.

But the second round did fine and, after percolating for 24 hours, it was ready to go. Much to my delight, you mix the flour into the starter, plus some warm water and MORE YEAST, with your hands. There's nothing more fun being up to your wrists in warm, sticky bread dough that feels like it won't come ever come off.

Both risings were uneventful, except with that extra shot of yeast, my laundry room took on the delightful scent of stale-beer-frat-house-meets-fabric-softener. I felt like I was in college again.

And the result, after baking for 30-35 minutes -- simple, rustic perfection. I think there may be a couple more loaves in my future.