[ad_1]
You might call Tacoma a dog’s paradise, lots of parks, trees and alleys. Coffee shops and brew pubs abound, great for working a crowd for a pet or a treat. It’s a rare walk when I don’t get at least one fellow canine to exchange a proper sniff.
I take my Old Man for at least two walks a day. This sometimes takes some prodding, especially if his nose is stuck in a newspaper and he is slurping a cup of coffee.
The proper approach to get him moving is to sit at his feet, head on paws staring at him with my sad brown eyes. Sometimes a well-placed poke from my cold nose is needed. Care is important here to not spill his coffee and ruffle the Old Codger. Persistence will win the day and I finally get his old joints going.
A real plus, four days a week we rise early to pick up our grandhuman, Carly. When I first saw this noisy bundle who arrived three years ago, I wanted to have nothing to do with her, but like a proper bone she gets better with age. Aside from getting the Old Man moving early for a stroll, she is a great source of food, whether dropped or even properly given to me. Eventually I decided to allow her to pet me, especially as the Old Man usually joins in for a proper rub.
I love our neighborhood of tree lined streets and houses clustered together. I love to stop the Old Man cold as I sniff the many trees, poles and fire plugs as we walk. He mindlessly walks down the street looking at the houses and apartments that line our shady streets. If something interesting comes up, I halt and firmly plant my feet as my partner ambles on. It does make my tail wag to see him jerked to a stop by my taut leash. Occasionally the clueless Old Guy almost falls over.
Alleys are the best, so many smells. In late summer, the Old Guy likes to stop and pick berries with Carly. I don’t mind at all, as close to these tangles are grey squirrels chattering away. Occasional the Old Guy isn’t paying attention. I can bolt and the Old Man loses the leash. Off to the races. Up the trees they go, and I will dance merrily looking up at the tail wagging varmints until the Old Man retrieves my leash and pulls me away.
A favorite thing of mine as we walk along is to hear my canine neighbors jealously bark and howl as I prance by, head up, tail proudly arched high. I am outside and not trapped indoors! The best is to go by the chihuahua house. The three midgets go crazy as I glide along.
On our walks people often ask. “What kind of dog is that?”
Old Mr. Weisenheimer almost always replies with a smile.
“Rudy is a Canadian floppy eared squirrel hound.”
“I have never heard of that breed,” is the most common answer.
To be clear, I am like a fine wine, a rare blend of many breeds. I keep my right ear up and alert while my left ear is cocked at a rakish angle. Black and brown with a stylish white chest and stockings, close to the ground, I am a low rider with a proper long tail for wagging. I have been called soulful with my black eye trim that some people mistake for mascara, the perfect complement to my sad, brown, begging eyes.
Other critters lurk in our neighborhood. Way too many cats for my liking, frequently menacingly arching their back as we go by. Lots of birds, especially loud black cawers swarming our neighborhood. On winter nights, the Old Man stops to try and spot the wide eyed WHOO bird that glides above the treetops. Large interlopers I usually see at the end of the day are brown, long, large legged animals that lift up their heads to stare at me. Wide eyed, disinterested, they ignore me and go back to their grazing on the grass and flowers in our neighbors’ yard. Carly, the Old Man and I one day sat for a long time in our alley snacking and watching while they completely ignored us. (The nerve, no fear of this brave hunter. The Old Man must like them because he calls them dears.)
Close by is one of my favorite parks, Franklin, a short walk, no car involved. There is a great wooded hill to climb with a field at the top. On a clear day, the Old Man always has to go on about the Mountain so far away. Me personally, I am interested in what’s at hand. So many smells, squirrels abound, rabbits (rarely seen, but my nose tells me they are there) and digging critters. There is a strange uncomfortable canine smell up there. I am just as glad I don’t meet them, coyotes. Frequently we also come across folks sleeping on the hill, but they pay us no mind.
Down below, Carly goes wild in the playground. The indignity, the Old Man ties me to a bench and the little one takes off screeching to join other small humans climbing, jumping and running. She usually insists that the Old Man pushes her forever in a swinging chair. At least there are usually lots of other dogs and people to check out while I am tied up in exile.
One truly frightening thing about this park is that on warm sunny days, it spurts water. Kids of all sizes scream and dash through the spray. I hate water and don’t want to have anything to do with it, but regularly the Old Man will drag me over. I will sneak a drink but will pull him away as soon as I can. Why would anyone want to mess up a good smell with a washing?
Best of all for the Old Man, there are people of his age for the Old Coot to talk to. It can take awhile to pull him away from the gab session and get to do at least one long walk along the tree lined path around the park before heading home.
After a good long walk, there is nothing like rolling up on my couch for a nice nap.
Talk to you soon,
Rudy
By: Rudy’s Old Man, John Platt. These are the mutt’s words, not mine. I just type them.
[ad_2]
Source link
