What I contend with in the morning

My mornings -- both workday and weekend -- should be, by all accounts, relatively simple. Get up, shower, coffee and toast, walk the dog, feed said dog, fix lunch and head out the door.

And they would be except for the fact we own a Drama Dog.

Despite the fact that our routine hardly ever varies, except perhaps for an occasional change in walking personnel due to illness or vacation, Ben seems to wake up every morning convinced that The Morning Walk, which he so dearly loves, rain or shine, WILL. NOT. HAPPEN. EVER. AGAIN.

He then falls into a canine fugue of epic proportions.

And this is what I contend with in the morning.

Skepticism: This is the stage where he's convinced he will never again see daylight, breathe fresh air, chase a squirrel or pee on tree.

Followed by Resignation. Yes. Life as I know it will never be the same.

But then comes Plotting: Let me think about this. There's more than one way to skin a cat.

Feigned ennui: Maybe if I look like it really doesn't matter. . . .

But then IT begins. Gut-wrenchingly Cute Moments (GWCMs). At least one involves Ben laying his head on the newspaper page I'm reading.

GWCM Combined with Piercing Stare. Killer.

Victory! The walk is (of course) happening. High Fives all around!

And off we go.

Again.

Like every other morning.

My new right foot: Ben

We've completed Week One of "My New Right Foot" and I think we've gotten the routine down.

Well, everyone except Ben. Simply put, he is mystified by this strange turn of events that has me home 24/7 but completely useless when it comes to walks, working in the backyard and fetching treats.

He IS a happy camper that someone is home all day who's not opposed to sharing a futon and down comforter with him. BUT the walk thing has him completely and unequivocably flummoxed. To whit:

It's no secret the dog knows how to tell time. Like sunrise, he stirs about 6:30 a.m. each morning and is standing at attention at the side of my bed at 7 -- the time we normally leave for the park. His cognac eyes sparkle with anticipation. . . until I wallow on over onto my feet and he spies the accursed surgical shoe. (I think he goes to bed each night praying this odd human footwear will somehow evaporate overnight.) His ears sag -- and then collapse backward when I tell him, "Not this morning. Go find dad."

Be assured, Ben is NOT walk-deprived. He's out the door with the WPS by 7:30 most mornings. It's just that, well, it's DIFFERENT for a dog of Ben's sensitivities.

Afternoon is no different. By 4:30, Ben is upright and rigid on the futon, eyes darting back and forth from my foot to the bedroom door. By 5, he pulls out all the stops and goes "cute," resting his head on the bed and fixing me with an unwavering, unblinking, soul-penetrating stare. Thankfully, the WPS intervenes and breaks the canine guilt chain.

Walks completed for the day, he's a different dog. Back up on the futon, wrestling me for comforter real estate, he's content to hunker down while I read and watch TV. But I know, although Ben's happily sprawled out next to me, he's wondering when life, as he defines it, will be back to "normal". . . when that strange shoe goes away -- and those funny sticks that currently prop me up are back in the closet.

A thoughtful dog: Redux

It's a wonderful morning indeed when Ben, who was recently elevated to near sainthood in the post, "A Thoughtful Dog,"
reminds me oh-so-gently that he is, in fact, a dog's dog:

We had a large walking group at the park this morning: Five people and three dogs, not counting a few itinerant canine fly-bys. Ben, Wally and Hishi (a new pal) seemed particularly enamored with one pine tree -- they spent minutes, no make that tens of minutes, closely sniffing the trunk and examining the ground around it. It WAS a study - grey, black and brindle heads tucked closely together as if beckoning some earthly phantasm from the tree's roots.

Ultimately, the spell was broken. There will always be bigger and better trees, rocks and trash cans to explore in a dog's world, I think. The three dogs loped up to us, almost smiling, like three mischievous little boys all in on the same secret.

On the second lap around, Ben revisited "the tree." This time, his stop was a little more purposeful. I looked over to see him daintily eating something on the ground.

"BEN! No park food!"

(I should explain here that Ben's gustatorial machinery doesn't always tolerate strange and exotic cuisine. Which most notably includes "park food."}

Ben cheerfully ignored me, clearly savoring his forbidden fruit. So, I headed in his direction, intent on a "park food" intervention. I fully expected to find my brilliant, beautiful dog wolfing down some ancient McDonald's french fries, a mound of soggy Cheetos, or remnants of someon's school lunch ditched in Comstock Park.

NO.SUCH.LUCK. Instead, Ben was methodically consuming the edge of a well-congealed pool of barf. The human variety. Monsieur, the Super Chunky style that you order? Eewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

Mustering what dignity I had left after this revelation, I gathered Ben up and bade farewell to my walking companions. The dog was unapologetic.

I'm pretty sure I mentioned this to Brad when we got home. I know how he loves dog kisses in the morning.

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.