The Basenjimobile was low on gas this morning, so I decided to go gas it up at the local Giant Eagle supermarket. And since I have to take the dogs for their morning walk anyway, I decided to kill two orcs with one arrow and bring the dogs along. Happily, there's a public park on the way to the Giant Eagle called Fairhaven Park in Kennedy Township, so I could stop there on the way to the supermarket and let the dogs have their walk.
During the early part of the walk, I heard the amplified sound someone singing off in the distance, and faint though it was, it didn't take me long to recognize the song as "The Star-Spangled Banner." And it was like the past was reaching forward to tap me on the shoulder.
Back in Newport, I would usually get home from work around 7:15 in the morning, and then immediately take the dogs for a quick drive to the municipal dog park. As it happens, the dog park is less than half a mile from the U.S. Naval War College, and my visits there would often coincide with morning reveille, which included an instrumental version of "The Star-Spangled Banner" played over the base's loudspeakers, and which were quite audible from the dog park. So, for a brief moment, I was back in Newport, watching the sun rise over JT Connell Highway while the basenjis and I listened to the national anthem playing in the distance.
Showing posts with label Pets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pets. Show all posts
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Dog walk: 10/30/12
As I've noted before, the basenjis are not enthusiastic about being walked in the rain (and for that matter, I'm not enthusiastic about walking them in the rain). So when it comes to walking them during a hurricane, unenthusiastic doesn't even begin to describe it. I thought I was done dealing with hurricanes when I left Newport, Rhode Island, but that turns out not to be the case, because Hurrican Sandy is due to make landfall in New Jersey today and crash through the Allegheny Mountains to drench Pittsburgh.
The rain is already here, so I decided to take the dogs to the Riverview Park dog park, which is the most businesslike of our usual haunts. Since my current assignment from the temp agency involves working the 8 AM to 4 PM shift at a candy factory, I get up at six in the morning to give the dogs their first walk of the day. 6:20 found the three of us walking through the still-dark grounds surrounding the Allegheny Observatory. We had circumnavigated the observatory, and were on our way back to the car, with me carrying a plastic shopping bag weighted down slightly with Klea's poop, when Louis' rain-slick leash slipped out of my cold-numbed hand, and he was instantly racing downhill towards the line of trees that marked the really steep part of the hill.
Clutching Klea's leash in one hand and the plastic bag in the other, I raced down the hill after him. Klea was even more anxious to race downhill than I was, and she pulled me off balance, resulting in me falling on my back. I got up, and with Klea still tugging at her leash, I made my way more slowly to the line of trees.
I stood calling for Louis, scanning downhill through the trees for any sign of him. I saw a couple of shapes moving in the night, and recognized them as deer, which explained why Louis had taken off in the first place. One horrible possibility I imagined was Louis chasing the deer through the park all morning, and me missing hours of work while looking for him. An even more horrible possibility was the leash getting caught around a tree and Louis being unable to move, lost from sight.
I slowly paced along the belt of trees, calling and calling, and after an unbearably anxious couple of minutes, I heard a faint jingling coming from my left. I turned, and was just able to make out Louis standing just outside the belt of trees. I walked over, and operating mostly by touch, was able to confirm that he was still in his collar, and that his leash was still attached to it, trailing along the ground underneath him. I got ahold of the leash's handle, and started leading the two dogs back up the hill to the observatory's access road, as happy as a man can be whose feet and back are soaking wet, which turns out to be pretty happy.
"Louis", I said to the basenji, "I'm going to assume that you took care of your business while you were out there, and bring you straight to the car." But I was wrong. Halfway up the hill, Louis paused and did his Looking For Just The Right Place To Poop routine. I still had the plastic shopping bag, and in moments I had cleaned up Louis' poop. We continued up the hill, got into the car, and drove home.
The rain is already here, so I decided to take the dogs to the Riverview Park dog park, which is the most businesslike of our usual haunts. Since my current assignment from the temp agency involves working the 8 AM to 4 PM shift at a candy factory, I get up at six in the morning to give the dogs their first walk of the day. 6:20 found the three of us walking through the still-dark grounds surrounding the Allegheny Observatory. We had circumnavigated the observatory, and were on our way back to the car, with me carrying a plastic shopping bag weighted down slightly with Klea's poop, when Louis' rain-slick leash slipped out of my cold-numbed hand, and he was instantly racing downhill towards the line of trees that marked the really steep part of the hill.
Clutching Klea's leash in one hand and the plastic bag in the other, I raced down the hill after him. Klea was even more anxious to race downhill than I was, and she pulled me off balance, resulting in me falling on my back. I got up, and with Klea still tugging at her leash, I made my way more slowly to the line of trees.
I stood calling for Louis, scanning downhill through the trees for any sign of him. I saw a couple of shapes moving in the night, and recognized them as deer, which explained why Louis had taken off in the first place. One horrible possibility I imagined was Louis chasing the deer through the park all morning, and me missing hours of work while looking for him. An even more horrible possibility was the leash getting caught around a tree and Louis being unable to move, lost from sight.
I slowly paced along the belt of trees, calling and calling, and after an unbearably anxious couple of minutes, I heard a faint jingling coming from my left. I turned, and was just able to make out Louis standing just outside the belt of trees. I walked over, and operating mostly by touch, was able to confirm that he was still in his collar, and that his leash was still attached to it, trailing along the ground underneath him. I got ahold of the leash's handle, and started leading the two dogs back up the hill to the observatory's access road, as happy as a man can be whose feet and back are soaking wet, which turns out to be pretty happy.
"Louis", I said to the basenji, "I'm going to assume that you took care of your business while you were out there, and bring you straight to the car." But I was wrong. Halfway up the hill, Louis paused and did his Looking For Just The Right Place To Poop routine. I still had the plastic shopping bag, and in moments I had cleaned up Louis' poop. We continued up the hill, got into the car, and drove home.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Dog walk: 6/20/12
It's hot and muggy here in western Pennsylvania -- too hot and muggy to take the dogs out for a long afternoon walk. The answer: take them out for a brief afternoon walk, and save the long walk for after sunset (which occurs around 9:00 PM here on the day of the summer soltice).
It was still in the upper 70s when I harnessed and leashed the basenjis around 10 at night. It was the night before trash pickup, so the sidewalks of McKees Rocks were decorated with plastic garbage cans, heaps of garbage bags, and the occasional fifty-five gallon drum. The dogs and I made our way slowly up the steep slope of Churchill Street in the still-humid night. Street lights are few and far between at the summit of the hill on the ironically named Palace Way. The dogs and I made our way down the dark street, with the occasional lit window showing on the suburban houses on either side.
There was nobody else around as the dogs wandered back and forth down Palace Way, pausing to sniff here and there where the sidewalk or lawn presented a particularly interesting olfactory picture. We turned left onto the equally poorly-lit Fairoaks Street. We were still alone, apart from the occasional passing car. Off to the east, the sky glowed as the hazy air was lit by the lights of downtown Pittsburgh.
Passing down Railroad Street, it was much the same as Fairoaks Street: deserted apart from the basenjis and myself. We turned left onto Brown Street, then left again onto Gray Street. Here, in the Meyers Ridge development, we saw people gathered together on their porches, talking together and listening to music. On Ridge Way, as the basenjis were sniffing at a patch of ground, I heard someone call out, "Hey, you with the dogs! Come over here!"
It was hard to make out in the darkness, but eventually I saw where the voice was coming from. There were three women sitting around a table next to one of the houses. The one who had called out to me said, "Those are the dogs that don't bark, aren't they?"
I said that they were, and the woman told me we had met during one of our earlier walks. I talked with the three women while the basenjis sniffed around, and every now and then a child would walk over and ask if they could pet the dogs. I said they could, since the basenjis are always happy to get attention. One of the women asked if I had just moved into the neighborhood, and I explained that I had been living nearby for eight months, and that the dogs and I enjoyed going on long walks. After a time, the woman who had called me over thanked me for stopping by, and we resumed our walk.
It was still in the upper 70s when I harnessed and leashed the basenjis around 10 at night. It was the night before trash pickup, so the sidewalks of McKees Rocks were decorated with plastic garbage cans, heaps of garbage bags, and the occasional fifty-five gallon drum. The dogs and I made our way slowly up the steep slope of Churchill Street in the still-humid night. Street lights are few and far between at the summit of the hill on the ironically named Palace Way. The dogs and I made our way down the dark street, with the occasional lit window showing on the suburban houses on either side.
There was nobody else around as the dogs wandered back and forth down Palace Way, pausing to sniff here and there where the sidewalk or lawn presented a particularly interesting olfactory picture. We turned left onto the equally poorly-lit Fairoaks Street. We were still alone, apart from the occasional passing car. Off to the east, the sky glowed as the hazy air was lit by the lights of downtown Pittsburgh.
Passing down Railroad Street, it was much the same as Fairoaks Street: deserted apart from the basenjis and myself. We turned left onto Brown Street, then left again onto Gray Street. Here, in the Meyers Ridge development, we saw people gathered together on their porches, talking together and listening to music. On Ridge Way, as the basenjis were sniffing at a patch of ground, I heard someone call out, "Hey, you with the dogs! Come over here!"
It was hard to make out in the darkness, but eventually I saw where the voice was coming from. There were three women sitting around a table next to one of the houses. The one who had called out to me said, "Those are the dogs that don't bark, aren't they?"
I said that they were, and the woman told me we had met during one of our earlier walks. I talked with the three women while the basenjis sniffed around, and every now and then a child would walk over and ask if they could pet the dogs. I said they could, since the basenjis are always happy to get attention. One of the women asked if I had just moved into the neighborhood, and I explained that I had been living nearby for eight months, and that the dogs and I enjoyed going on long walks. After a time, the woman who had called me over thanked me for stopping by, and we resumed our walk.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Dog walk: 5/15/12
Two days of rain ended this morning, so it goes without saying that dogs were being walked. Our course took us over the bridge and then down to the the Ohio River flood plain that the locals call the McKees Rocks Bottoms. The Bottoms are separated from the rest of McKees Rocks by a set of impassably broad railroad tracks, and the only way to get by them are 1) over the McKees Rocks Bridge, and 2) down River Avenue to West Carson Street.
The basenjis made their zigzag way across the Bottoms, frequently raising the ire of other dogs who were chained up in the back yards of the houses we passed. We traveled down the length of Hamilton Street, which is bordered on one side by the Ranger Park basketball court, and on the other side by a stand of tangled, forbidding woods. We turned right onto Schoen Street, and were nearing the intersection of Shingiss Street when I noticed a large dog crouching on the side of the road. He had short tan fur and a black-and-red dog collar with an Allegheny County dog tag.
He was a stray dog, and he came over to investigate the basenjis. Louis can get a little growly when we come across other male dogs, particularly unfixed dogs like the stranger, so I kept the two apart as best I could. The stranger evidently decided that he liked the basenjis, because when we began walking up Shingiss Street, he followed us. I passed a woman and asked her if she knew who the dog belonged to, but she said she didn't. She had never seen him before.
At this point I noticed a pickup truck from the local Department of Public Works turning onto Schoen, so I followed it, and the stranger followed me. The driver said he didn't know what to do about stray dogs. He did, however, have the number for the local Police Department, so I called them. I was connected to a woman who got my information, then told me that she would call the local animal control people, who would get back to me.
While I was waiting to hear back from animal control, the stranger began walking back up to Shingiss, and I followed him. I trailed him up Shingiss, then left onto Catherine Street. There were three teenaged boys on Catherine who expressed alarm at the sight of the stranger. One of the boys said the dog belonged to a neighbor of his, and I persuaded him to lead the dog back to his home. He did so, and soon had the dog restored to his place behind a chain-link fence. Since the gate was closed when we got there, I wondered how the dog had escaped, and the boy said that he had probably jumped over the fence.
With the stranger restored to his home, the basenjis and I made our own way back over the bridge and to our happy home. It's now 4:25 PM, two hours since we called about the stranger, and I still haven't heard back from animal control.
The basenjis made their zigzag way across the Bottoms, frequently raising the ire of other dogs who were chained up in the back yards of the houses we passed. We traveled down the length of Hamilton Street, which is bordered on one side by the Ranger Park basketball court, and on the other side by a stand of tangled, forbidding woods. We turned right onto Schoen Street, and were nearing the intersection of Shingiss Street when I noticed a large dog crouching on the side of the road. He had short tan fur and a black-and-red dog collar with an Allegheny County dog tag.
He was a stray dog, and he came over to investigate the basenjis. Louis can get a little growly when we come across other male dogs, particularly unfixed dogs like the stranger, so I kept the two apart as best I could. The stranger evidently decided that he liked the basenjis, because when we began walking up Shingiss Street, he followed us. I passed a woman and asked her if she knew who the dog belonged to, but she said she didn't. She had never seen him before.
At this point I noticed a pickup truck from the local Department of Public Works turning onto Schoen, so I followed it, and the stranger followed me. The driver said he didn't know what to do about stray dogs. He did, however, have the number for the local Police Department, so I called them. I was connected to a woman who got my information, then told me that she would call the local animal control people, who would get back to me.
While I was waiting to hear back from animal control, the stranger began walking back up to Shingiss, and I followed him. I trailed him up Shingiss, then left onto Catherine Street. There were three teenaged boys on Catherine who expressed alarm at the sight of the stranger. One of the boys said the dog belonged to a neighbor of his, and I persuaded him to lead the dog back to his home. He did so, and soon had the dog restored to his place behind a chain-link fence. Since the gate was closed when we got there, I wondered how the dog had escaped, and the boy said that he had probably jumped over the fence.
With the stranger restored to his home, the basenjis and I made our own way back over the bridge and to our happy home. It's now 4:25 PM, two hours since we called about the stranger, and I still haven't heard back from animal control.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Dog walk: 3/14/12
Yesterday saw temps in the low 80s and a cloudless blue sky. It looks like we've leapfrogged spring and gone straight into summer. And yet, technically, it's still winter. By the time the dogs and I were finished an hour-long walk through the streets of McKees Rocks, both of them were panting from the heat. One of the things that made walking the dogs in Newport so enjoyable was that some of the shops would set out bowls of water for passing dogs, and the basenjis had a couple of favorite spots where they liked to stop for a drink. Sadly, this enlightened custom has not made its way to the land of McKees Rocks.
The highlight of today's walk occurred on Holmes Street, when the dogs and I met a woman on her way to work. After she asked The Question and was informed that the dogs were basenjis, she revealed that she worked in a kiosk at the Robinson Mall where she sold dog treats. Sadly, she had no samples with her, but she invited me to stop in and say hello if I ever found myself at the mall.
The highlight of today's walk occurred on Holmes Street, when the dogs and I met a woman on her way to work. After she asked The Question and was informed that the dogs were basenjis, she revealed that she worked in a kiosk at the Robinson Mall where she sold dog treats. Sadly, she had no samples with her, but she invited me to stop in and say hello if I ever found myself at the mall.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Dog walk: 3/11/12
It's sunny and 76 F. Spring isn't just around the corner -- spring is here.
To celebrate, the basenjis and I took the big loop around Chartiers Creek, crossing over on Linden Avenue, then crossing back on Wind Gap Bridge, passing through the Pittsburgh neighborhoods of Esplen, Sheraden, Corliss, Chartiers City, and Windgap on the way.
As we made our way down Bradley Street, we passed a woman pushing a baby stroller, taking advantage of this beautiful day, much as we were, to walk to downtown McKees Rocks. You'd think that a pair of hunting dogs would be able to outpace a woman with a baby stroller, but you'd be forgetting about the basenjis' need to stop and investigate every piece of litter on the sidewalk to make certain that it's not edible. The woman with the stroller passed us on Island Avenue, and we never caught up with her.
As we were passing above the livid green waters of Chartiers Creek on Linden Avenue, a man ahead of us paused to reach over the concrete barrier separating the sidewalk from the street to retrieve a small, inflated purple rubber ball. As we joined the man at the intersection of Linden, Stanhope, and Stafford, the basenjis noticed a security guard with a German shepherd beyond a chain link fence on the far side of Stafford, and eventually I did too. After all of us crossed the street, the man threw the purple ball over the fence to the security guard, who thanked him and began (well, resumed) playing fetch with the dog.
We were walking down Hammond Street in Sheraden when a man standing on the porch of his house with his family asked The Question: "What kind of dogs are those?" He had never heard of basenjis, but he thought they were very good-looking dogs (a common reaction), and the rest of his family (wife and three girls) very much wanted to meet them. Well, I'm always happy to let people enjoy the company of the basenjis, so I joined them on their porch and let them pet the dogs. The two older girls wanted to hold the dogs' leashes, and I let them do so. After a time, though, the basenjis were ready to be on their way, and we all said goodbye.
A block away, at the intersection of Hammond and Glenmawr, there were more children who also asked me to stop and let them meet the basenjis, and again I was happy to do so. A woman standing nearby asked how old the dogs were, and I went over to talk to her, explaining that Klea was 8 and Woo was 7.
"Is that months?"
"No, years," I said.
"Wow! They don't look it," she said, and indeed they don't. Among other things, the nice long walks help keep them fit.
We had reached Chartiers Avenue and were passing by Fire Station 31 at the intersection of Chartiers and Citadel Street. One of the firemen was relaxing in a chair, smoking a cigar, and he asked me The Other Question: "Are those basenjis?" I admitted that they were, and we went over to say hello, but the basenjis aren't fond of tobacco smoke, so they come within petting distance of the fireman.
Just west of Windgap Avenue, as it rises to cross Chartiers Creek via the Wind Gap Bridge, there's a house on Edmore Street with a chain link fence-enclosed kennel. The kennel holds a German shepherd dog who started barking as soon as the basenjis came in view on the bridge, over a hundred feet away, and continued barking as long as they were visible.
Back in McKees Rocks, we were walking down Chartiers Avenue when we passed a couple going by on the other side of the street. The woman asked The Question, and the two crossed the street to say hello to the dogs and talk about how good they looked. Frankly, I never get tired of hearing that.
To celebrate, the basenjis and I took the big loop around Chartiers Creek, crossing over on Linden Avenue, then crossing back on Wind Gap Bridge, passing through the Pittsburgh neighborhoods of Esplen, Sheraden, Corliss, Chartiers City, and Windgap on the way.
As we made our way down Bradley Street, we passed a woman pushing a baby stroller, taking advantage of this beautiful day, much as we were, to walk to downtown McKees Rocks. You'd think that a pair of hunting dogs would be able to outpace a woman with a baby stroller, but you'd be forgetting about the basenjis' need to stop and investigate every piece of litter on the sidewalk to make certain that it's not edible. The woman with the stroller passed us on Island Avenue, and we never caught up with her.
As we were passing above the livid green waters of Chartiers Creek on Linden Avenue, a man ahead of us paused to reach over the concrete barrier separating the sidewalk from the street to retrieve a small, inflated purple rubber ball. As we joined the man at the intersection of Linden, Stanhope, and Stafford, the basenjis noticed a security guard with a German shepherd beyond a chain link fence on the far side of Stafford, and eventually I did too. After all of us crossed the street, the man threw the purple ball over the fence to the security guard, who thanked him and began (well, resumed) playing fetch with the dog.
We were walking down Hammond Street in Sheraden when a man standing on the porch of his house with his family asked The Question: "What kind of dogs are those?" He had never heard of basenjis, but he thought they were very good-looking dogs (a common reaction), and the rest of his family (wife and three girls) very much wanted to meet them. Well, I'm always happy to let people enjoy the company of the basenjis, so I joined them on their porch and let them pet the dogs. The two older girls wanted to hold the dogs' leashes, and I let them do so. After a time, though, the basenjis were ready to be on their way, and we all said goodbye.
A block away, at the intersection of Hammond and Glenmawr, there were more children who also asked me to stop and let them meet the basenjis, and again I was happy to do so. A woman standing nearby asked how old the dogs were, and I went over to talk to her, explaining that Klea was 8 and Woo was 7.
"Is that months?"
"No, years," I said.
"Wow! They don't look it," she said, and indeed they don't. Among other things, the nice long walks help keep them fit.
We had reached Chartiers Avenue and were passing by Fire Station 31 at the intersection of Chartiers and Citadel Street. One of the firemen was relaxing in a chair, smoking a cigar, and he asked me The Other Question: "Are those basenjis?" I admitted that they were, and we went over to say hello, but the basenjis aren't fond of tobacco smoke, so they come within petting distance of the fireman.
Just west of Windgap Avenue, as it rises to cross Chartiers Creek via the Wind Gap Bridge, there's a house on Edmore Street with a chain link fence-enclosed kennel. The kennel holds a German shepherd dog who started barking as soon as the basenjis came in view on the bridge, over a hundred feet away, and continued barking as long as they were visible.
Back in McKees Rocks, we were walking down Chartiers Avenue when we passed a couple going by on the other side of the street. The woman asked The Question, and the two crossed the street to say hello to the dogs and talk about how good they looked. Frankly, I never get tired of hearing that.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Dog walk: 3/7/12
Spring made another sneak preview in McKees Rocks today. The sun was out, and the temperature was around 60 F with a warm breeze blowing. Needless to say, the kind of day that demands a nice long walk behind a couple of basenjis.
The basenjis led the way up Churchill Street, past the abandoned houses and litter-strewn sidewalks, and around the corner to Lillian Drive, where we met a woman enjoying the weather with her terrier. She picked the terrier up as we came down the sidewalk, since her dog doesn't get along well with other dogs, but she found the basenjis adorable. Her four-year-old son was less enthusiastic, and he hid behind her until I led the dogs away.
We went downhill to Chartiers Avenue, past the post office, and then around behind the Family Dollar Store along Herbst Alley. There we happened across a woman who was getting ready to take her English bulldog puppy, Waldo, out for a walk. Waldo was overjoyed to meet some fellow dogs, wagging his little twisty tail for all he was worth. After I knelt down to pet him, he spent some time attempting to climb into my lap.
After leaving Waldo, the basenjis led the way past St. Mary's Catholic Church, then down Thompson Avenue along the tracks of the Pittsburgh and Ohio Central Railroad to Chartiers again, and after that we all went up Island Avenue for the return trip to Churchill Street.
While walking up Cutler Street, we saw an amusing sight: a van hitched to an open trailer full of chairs was trying to back down the steep, brick-paved street. But it was the day before garbage day, and the driver, unbeknownst to himself, was trying to back over a number of garbage bags piled on the sidewalk. One had become lodged under the van, and was being dragged along underneath it. When the dogs and I turned onto Front Alley and left the van behind, the driver had given up on trying to back down the street, and was trying to drive forward again -- right through the remaining pile of garbage bags.
I freely admit, I never saw anything like that when I was walking the dogs in Newport. Only in McKees Rocks.
The basenjis led the way up Churchill Street, past the abandoned houses and litter-strewn sidewalks, and around the corner to Lillian Drive, where we met a woman enjoying the weather with her terrier. She picked the terrier up as we came down the sidewalk, since her dog doesn't get along well with other dogs, but she found the basenjis adorable. Her four-year-old son was less enthusiastic, and he hid behind her until I led the dogs away.
We went downhill to Chartiers Avenue, past the post office, and then around behind the Family Dollar Store along Herbst Alley. There we happened across a woman who was getting ready to take her English bulldog puppy, Waldo, out for a walk. Waldo was overjoyed to meet some fellow dogs, wagging his little twisty tail for all he was worth. After I knelt down to pet him, he spent some time attempting to climb into my lap.
After leaving Waldo, the basenjis led the way past St. Mary's Catholic Church, then down Thompson Avenue along the tracks of the Pittsburgh and Ohio Central Railroad to Chartiers again, and after that we all went up Island Avenue for the return trip to Churchill Street.
While walking up Cutler Street, we saw an amusing sight: a van hitched to an open trailer full of chairs was trying to back down the steep, brick-paved street. But it was the day before garbage day, and the driver, unbeknownst to himself, was trying to back over a number of garbage bags piled on the sidewalk. One had become lodged under the van, and was being dragged along underneath it. When the dogs and I turned onto Front Alley and left the van behind, the driver had given up on trying to back down the street, and was trying to drive forward again -- right through the remaining pile of garbage bags.
I freely admit, I never saw anything like that when I was walking the dogs in Newport. Only in McKees Rocks.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Dog walk: 1/19/12
It started snowing around five in the afternoon, and it looked as though the snow would be sticking around for a while, so I decided to take the basenjis to the dog park. It was fairly slow going, because none of the roads had been salted, and nobody wanted to risk spinning off the road and down some steep hillside.
As I was making my way up the final narrow, twisting road to the peak of Observatory Hill, I passed an SUV, whose driver hailed me. He had just come from the dog park, where his Akita, Sammy, had jumped the fence* and wandered off into the woods. The driver, whose name was Dennis, said he was going down to the base of the hill to look for Sammy there. He gave my his phone number and asked me to call him if I saw Sammy. I assured him I would, and continued on. At the top of the hill, Sammy was waiting.
I called Dennis, who asked me to leash Sammy while he worked his way back up the hill. I unleashed Klea, and leaving her in the Basenjimobile with Louis, I walked over to Sammy. I gave him my hand to sniff, and he growled at me. I tried again, and he growled again. At that point, Sammy decided to place the Basenjimobile between himself and me, and the two of us circled the car for a couple of minutes.
I paused by the front bumper for a couple of minutes, then decided to have another go at leashing Sammy. I made my way around to the back of the car, but Sammy was gone. He had apparently wandered off directly away from the car, and was now nowhere in sight. I called for him a couple of times, but to no avail.
With a sigh, I let the basenjis out of the car, and led them into the enclosure. Just after unleashing them, I saw Dennis's SUV drive up, and I headed back out of the enclosure to tell him the bad news.
Trotting along behind the SUV was Sammy.
When Dennis started around the SUV in my direction, I pointed behind him to where Sammy was walking up. He turned and saw the dog and immediately began scolding him for running away. I returned to the basenjis in the enclosure.
After securing Sammy in his SUV, Dennis came over to the enclosure to thank me for my assistance. The basenjis of course came trotting up to greet this new person, and I introduced them. We talked about our respective dogs for a minute or so, then he thanked me again, shook my hand, and returned to his SUV. The basenjis watched as he drove away.
*Unlike the dog park back in Newport, with its five foot high chain link fence, the dog park atop Observatory Hill has a fence that is only three feet high, and some of the larger dogs can, and do, jump over it.
As I was making my way up the final narrow, twisting road to the peak of Observatory Hill, I passed an SUV, whose driver hailed me. He had just come from the dog park, where his Akita, Sammy, had jumped the fence* and wandered off into the woods. The driver, whose name was Dennis, said he was going down to the base of the hill to look for Sammy there. He gave my his phone number and asked me to call him if I saw Sammy. I assured him I would, and continued on. At the top of the hill, Sammy was waiting.
I called Dennis, who asked me to leash Sammy while he worked his way back up the hill. I unleashed Klea, and leaving her in the Basenjimobile with Louis, I walked over to Sammy. I gave him my hand to sniff, and he growled at me. I tried again, and he growled again. At that point, Sammy decided to place the Basenjimobile between himself and me, and the two of us circled the car for a couple of minutes.
I paused by the front bumper for a couple of minutes, then decided to have another go at leashing Sammy. I made my way around to the back of the car, but Sammy was gone. He had apparently wandered off directly away from the car, and was now nowhere in sight. I called for him a couple of times, but to no avail.
With a sigh, I let the basenjis out of the car, and led them into the enclosure. Just after unleashing them, I saw Dennis's SUV drive up, and I headed back out of the enclosure to tell him the bad news.
Trotting along behind the SUV was Sammy.
When Dennis started around the SUV in my direction, I pointed behind him to where Sammy was walking up. He turned and saw the dog and immediately began scolding him for running away. I returned to the basenjis in the enclosure.
After securing Sammy in his SUV, Dennis came over to the enclosure to thank me for my assistance. The basenjis of course came trotting up to greet this new person, and I introduced them. We talked about our respective dogs for a minute or so, then he thanked me again, shook my hand, and returned to his SUV. The basenjis watched as he drove away.
*Unlike the dog park back in Newport, with its five foot high chain link fence, the dog park atop Observatory Hill has a fence that is only three feet high, and some of the larger dogs can, and do, jump over it.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Wandering Woo
Our younger basenji Louis, whom my wife has nicknamed Woo, has the happy habit of going out into the backyard of our new house, no matter the weather, and doing his business, thereby freeing me of the need to take him out for a walk. This is basically a stop-gap measure; at least two other times a day he and his big sister/niece Klea either go for a walk through the streets of McKees Rocks, or visit the dog park in Riverview Park.
Yesterday afternoon, I let Woo out the back door, and he sniffed around the backyard for a bit before making his way down the alley to the front "yard" (actually a small area of mulch between the house and the street). He occasionally does this; when he does, I just go through the house, open the front door, and let him in there.
I did so now, and was a bit puzzled when I saw that he wasn't in the front yard, either. My puzzlement turned to fear when I noticed that the gate in our chainlink fence was hanging open. Obviously, the mailman must have neglected to close it when he delivered our mail that day.
I ran out to the street, and yes, there was Woo, sniffing at some Unidentified Ground Object about fifty feet away. Basenjis are known for their fearless nature, and one of the many things they don't fear are speeding cars. The chief cause of death among basenjis is being hit by passing cars.
I ran back into the house and grabbed my coat and Woo's leash, then hurried back out and looked around again. He had wandered further up the street. I did not run after him. If you run after a basenji, he assumes it's playtime, and he'll start running himself, and basenjis are fast runners even by canine standards. Instead, I walked towards him, calling his name from time to time.
Woo did not run away, but he didn't come when I called either. Instead, he continued his leisurely stroll along the street, and I followed at a walk. He ambled onto Camp Street, wandered its length, then turned onto Raymond Street. I was encouraged when he turned aside onto Fruit Way, since that street led back to our house.
I finally got lucky on Fruit Way, when Woo was distracted by something-or-other on a grassy verge running next to the street. As he was sniffing at it, I was able to quietly walk up to him and snap the leash onto his collar. From then on, we had a normal walk back to our house.
I've also learned a valuable lesson: no more letting the dogs out the back door until I've checked that the gate is closed.
UPDATE 1/17/12: The mailman left the gate open again today; fortunately, there were no dogs outside at the time. It looks as though I'm going to have to get one of those KEEP GATE CLOSED signs.
Yesterday afternoon, I let Woo out the back door, and he sniffed around the backyard for a bit before making his way down the alley to the front "yard" (actually a small area of mulch between the house and the street). He occasionally does this; when he does, I just go through the house, open the front door, and let him in there.
I did so now, and was a bit puzzled when I saw that he wasn't in the front yard, either. My puzzlement turned to fear when I noticed that the gate in our chainlink fence was hanging open. Obviously, the mailman must have neglected to close it when he delivered our mail that day.
I ran out to the street, and yes, there was Woo, sniffing at some Unidentified Ground Object about fifty feet away. Basenjis are known for their fearless nature, and one of the many things they don't fear are speeding cars. The chief cause of death among basenjis is being hit by passing cars.
I ran back into the house and grabbed my coat and Woo's leash, then hurried back out and looked around again. He had wandered further up the street. I did not run after him. If you run after a basenji, he assumes it's playtime, and he'll start running himself, and basenjis are fast runners even by canine standards. Instead, I walked towards him, calling his name from time to time.
Woo did not run away, but he didn't come when I called either. Instead, he continued his leisurely stroll along the street, and I followed at a walk. He ambled onto Camp Street, wandered its length, then turned onto Raymond Street. I was encouraged when he turned aside onto Fruit Way, since that street led back to our house.
I finally got lucky on Fruit Way, when Woo was distracted by something-or-other on a grassy verge running next to the street. As he was sniffing at it, I was able to quietly walk up to him and snap the leash onto his collar. From then on, we had a normal walk back to our house.
I've also learned a valuable lesson: no more letting the dogs out the back door until I've checked that the gate is closed.
UPDATE 1/17/12: The mailman left the gate open again today; fortunately, there were no dogs outside at the time. It looks as though I'm going to have to get one of those KEEP GATE CLOSED signs.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Dog walk: 1/6/12
Today, Winter makes a down payment on Spring. It's twenty degrees warmer than it was yesterday, and there is Not. A. Cloud. In. The. Sky.
It's time to walk some dogs.
I'm not the only person to decide that today would be a good idea. While walking down Broadway in Stowe, we pass a man walking his two dogs, whom he describes to me as "purebred mutts", and Klea pauses to greet them. A few minutes later, we pass a woman walking her dog, and she smiles at the basenjis as we do so.
Walking down Frederick Street, we pass by a woman standing just outside her house's chainlink fence, and she's petting a brown pit bull inside the fence whom she introduces as Buddy. While the basenjis and Buddy sniff at each others' faces through the fence, a boy comes up to introduce himself as Michael, state that he is 12 years old, ask if the basenjis are chihuahuas, ask if the basenjis bite, ask if the basenjis like children, ask if the basenjis like strangers, ask if he can pet the basenjis, and ask how old the basenjis are. While I explain about the basenjis, Klea walks up to Michael and gives him her customary "do you have any food for me?" sniff. Having established that there is no food forthcoming, she leads us back up the street, and we make our way home.
It's time to walk some dogs.
I'm not the only person to decide that today would be a good idea. While walking down Broadway in Stowe, we pass a man walking his two dogs, whom he describes to me as "purebred mutts", and Klea pauses to greet them. A few minutes later, we pass a woman walking her dog, and she smiles at the basenjis as we do so.
Walking down Frederick Street, we pass by a woman standing just outside her house's chainlink fence, and she's petting a brown pit bull inside the fence whom she introduces as Buddy. While the basenjis and Buddy sniff at each others' faces through the fence, a boy comes up to introduce himself as Michael, state that he is 12 years old, ask if the basenjis are chihuahuas, ask if the basenjis bite, ask if the basenjis like children, ask if the basenjis like strangers, ask if he can pet the basenjis, and ask how old the basenjis are. While I explain about the basenjis, Klea walks up to Michael and gives him her customary "do you have any food for me?" sniff. Having established that there is no food forthcoming, she leads us back up the street, and we make our way home.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Dog walk: 1/5/12
The sun made one of her* rare appearances today (they tell me Pittsburgh is the fourth-cloudiest city in America), so it was time to take the basenjis out for a walk. Despite the sunshine, the temperature was only a few degrees above freezing, so we did not have one of our usual leisurely afternoon walks. Also contributing to the brevity of the walk was the rock salt scattered across the roads and sidewalks in the wake of a recent snowstorm; dogs find walking on rock salt painful.
Nevertheless, the dogs took their time, stopping to sniff at the roadside litter that is an omnipresent fact of life in McKees Rocks. Klea found a paper bag from Wendy's that had been discarded by a passing car on Churchill Street some time before, and was preparing to gorge herself on french fries before I pulled her away. I also had to pull her away from some discarded chicken bones on Fruit Way. Ever since Buffalo Wings have become a fast food staple in this country, discarded chicken bones have become the bane of every dog owner's existence. They're everywhere, and any time a dog gobbles one up, there's a risk of bone shards getting caught in its throat.
But despite its short duration, and despite the hazards we met along the way, it was good to get out into the sunshine with the dogs, a faint echo of better days.
*All Tolkien aficionados know that the sun is feminine, and the moon masculine.
Nevertheless, the dogs took their time, stopping to sniff at the roadside litter that is an omnipresent fact of life in McKees Rocks. Klea found a paper bag from Wendy's that had been discarded by a passing car on Churchill Street some time before, and was preparing to gorge herself on french fries before I pulled her away. I also had to pull her away from some discarded chicken bones on Fruit Way. Ever since Buffalo Wings have become a fast food staple in this country, discarded chicken bones have become the bane of every dog owner's existence. They're everywhere, and any time a dog gobbles one up, there's a risk of bone shards getting caught in its throat.
But despite its short duration, and despite the hazards we met along the way, it was good to get out into the sunshine with the dogs, a faint echo of better days.
*All Tolkien aficionados know that the sun is feminine, and the moon masculine.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
A portrait of James Street
Somehow or other, I wound up owning a copy of Life in a Putty Knife Factory, a collection of humorous anecdotes published in 1943 by journalist H. Allen Smith. In addition to reminiscences of celebrities such as H. L. Mencken and Tallulah Bankhead, Smith also talks about some of his fellow journalists and writers.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that one of the writers he talks about is James Street, author of Good-bye, My Lady, the quintessential basenji novel. As a service to my fellow basenji enthusiasts, I now present, in full, Smith's account of Street. (Is Life in a Putty Knife Factory still under copyright? I eagerly await word from Smith's literary executors.)
* * *
(the following excerpt is from Chapter IX: Taking Pride in My Profession)
One of my best friends among authors is James Street, whose typewriter erupts novels, short stories, movies, magazine articles, and indignant letters. Mr. Street is forever working himself into an elevated dudgeon, usually over some fatheaded Yankee's gross misinterpretation of the War Between the States. He is from Mississippi, and most of his writing is about the South, and he spends long hours worrying over the Dred Scott decision, the Missouri Compromise, and Harriet Beecher Stowe. When he has achieved a proper degree of anger, he leaps to his typewriter and lets go with a long letter full of bitterness and invective. He seldom mails one of these letters. He writes them, signs them, thrusts them into envelopes, puts stamps on the envelopes, then lays them on a table and sits and glowers at them for an hour. Then he tears them up.
Like myself, Mr. Street attends the movies regularly. Whenever he happens into one involving the habits or history of the South, he comes away in a tremendous fury. I remember when he went to see Gone with the Wind. He came out of the theater cursing David O. Selznick and everyone else connected with the production. Mr. Street's violent dissatisfaction with the picture was based on one single detail: he said that in the burning of Atlanta the fools had the smoke blowing in the wrong direction.
He is a neighbor of mine and works in a room where he pursues one of his hobbies -- collecting potted plants. He has a couple of hundred plants, of all shapes, colors, and sizes, in that room, and on entering it a visitor sometimes finds difficulty in locating Mr. Street and his typewriter. Whenever I find myself in the place I unconsciously begin making Tarzan noises and start peering through the foliage for Dorothy Lamour.
I first met Mr. Street in the winter of 1933 at a Santa Claus convention. He had just come up from the South and was writing feature stories for the Associated Press, whereas I was doing the same for the United Press. One day a note came in the mail saying the department-store Santa Clauses of New York City would hold a convention at Grand Central Palace the following afternoon. This was the period of the NRA Blue Eagle codes and the Santa Clauses were assembling for the purpose of drawing up a program of ethics. A novel spectacle! By the very nature of his calling a department-store Santa Claus has to be a proficient liar -- a man as fundamentally dishonest as a real-estate agent. Moreover, I know it to be a fact that the average department-store Santa Claus hates and despises his customers -- the little ones -- and would enjoy nothing so much as running amuck in a crowd of tots.
At Grand Central Palace I wandered around in the various exhibition halls, finding no Santa Claus convention, and at last I sat down near the elevators to rest my feet. I was sitting there when an elevator door opened and a short young man stepped out. He glanced all around and then approached me.
"Begya pahdon, suh," he said, "but I'm lookin' for a bunch of dad-blamed Santy Clauses."
It was Mr. Street, and soon we were sitting down comparing notes and swapping newspaper experiences, and after a while we went wandering and found the convention. The Santa Clauses were in a little room far off in one corner of the building. There were about a dozen of them, and they had a keg of beer on a table. They were dressed in their Santa costumes, all but their whiskers which had been laid aside to facilitate the taking in of beer. If you have ever seen such an assemblage of Santas, minus their whiskers, you have seen something. And if you have ever heard them talk, you have heard something. They came in all shapes and sizes and there wasn't a jolly one in the group. Since that day I have never believed in Santa Claus.
So that was the beginning of a long and interesting friendship. Mr. Street and I sometimes go adventuring together, and while our roamings occasionally prove trying to organized society, sometimes even offending the body politic, we have fun.
There is one story I want to tell about Mr. Street but to get into it I've got to bring up the matter of the round chickens. One day in 1942 I chanced to meet a citizen of Peoria, Illinois, who was visiting in New York. He turned out to be a chicken fancier, and he said he had come East to acquire some round chickens.
"Round chickens," he said, "come originally from India. They got practically no necks and almost no legs. A hen will weigh as much as fifteen pounds and a caponized rooster will weigh as much as twenty. If they scrooched up a little and bounced, you could almost dribble them like a basketball. The poultry growers of the country are going to get wise to these round chickens. They got almost as much meat on them as a hog, and it's wonderful white meat. Once we get going with them, you won't go into a restaurant and order fried chicken or half a broiled chicken. You'll order a chicken steak."
It is the clear duty of a writing person, when he hears such a thing as this story of the round chickens, to get to work and find out all the facts, so I got to work. After a couple of hours at the Public Library I concluded that the Peorian had reference to the Cornish game chicken, or one of its kinsfolk.
Next I telephoned the Department of Agriculture's poultry division. They dug up their best chicken expert and I told him the story.
"Well," he said, "I think the man from Peoria is pulling your drumstick. If he says these hens grow to fifteen pounds, he must have hens with some ostrich blood in them. And the roosters -- if they got to weigh twenty pounds -- would be unmanageable. You'd have to build a steel-and-concrete fortress to hold roosters that big. They'd tear down an ordinary chicken house and they might even turn on their owners and murder them."
On my way home I stopped at Mr. Street's house, having remembered that in his early days he had been a chicken fancier. If these round chickens existed anywhere on earth, I figured Mr. Street would know about them. Having swallowed a good dose of quinine, I took my machete and hacked my way through the jungle of his study until I found him at his desk. We made our way back over the perilous trail until we reached the living room, where I laid the results of my research before him and did him the honor of asking his opinion.
He grinned at me and said he had never heard of round chickens and that, moreover, he was willing to make a confession.
"I was never actually very handy with chickens," he said. "It all dates back to an unhappy experience I had with chickens in Mississippi."
It appears that when Mr. Street was first married, down in Mississippi, he was a preacher -- the youngest clergyman in the country, known as "The Boy Preacher of the South." Under provocation he can still loose a sermon that'll curl the wallpaper. As a preacher he had a house and time on his hands so he decided to raise chickens. He built his own chicken house and made an elegant structure out of it. He bought a tribe of Rhode Island Reds and a flock of Plymouth Rocks, and then somebody told him that he should be careful never to let the breeds mix. He should never, they said, permit the Rhode Island Red roosters to raise dust around the Plymouth Rock hens, and the same went for the Plymouth Rock rooster and the Red hens.
So Mr. Street constructed his chicken house carefully with an eye to segregation. The building had two sections and there was a long chicken run with a fence between. This was certainly all correct, and he moved his flocks into their respective quarters.
He was extremely careful to keep Rocks separated from Reds at night. In the daytime he simply let all the chickens out into the yard together.
"Somehow," he said, "the notion was in the back of my mind that if I kept them apart at night, everything would be okay. I had this idea in my head that they only did that sort of thing at night. Before I knew it the whole thing was a mess. That's how much of a chicken expert I am."
I was pleasantly surprised to find that one of the writers he talks about is James Street, author of Good-bye, My Lady, the quintessential basenji novel. As a service to my fellow basenji enthusiasts, I now present, in full, Smith's account of Street. (Is Life in a Putty Knife Factory still under copyright? I eagerly await word from Smith's literary executors.)
* * *
(the following excerpt is from Chapter IX: Taking Pride in My Profession)
One of my best friends among authors is James Street, whose typewriter erupts novels, short stories, movies, magazine articles, and indignant letters. Mr. Street is forever working himself into an elevated dudgeon, usually over some fatheaded Yankee's gross misinterpretation of the War Between the States. He is from Mississippi, and most of his writing is about the South, and he spends long hours worrying over the Dred Scott decision, the Missouri Compromise, and Harriet Beecher Stowe. When he has achieved a proper degree of anger, he leaps to his typewriter and lets go with a long letter full of bitterness and invective. He seldom mails one of these letters. He writes them, signs them, thrusts them into envelopes, puts stamps on the envelopes, then lays them on a table and sits and glowers at them for an hour. Then he tears them up.
Like myself, Mr. Street attends the movies regularly. Whenever he happens into one involving the habits or history of the South, he comes away in a tremendous fury. I remember when he went to see Gone with the Wind. He came out of the theater cursing David O. Selznick and everyone else connected with the production. Mr. Street's violent dissatisfaction with the picture was based on one single detail: he said that in the burning of Atlanta the fools had the smoke blowing in the wrong direction.
He is a neighbor of mine and works in a room where he pursues one of his hobbies -- collecting potted plants. He has a couple of hundred plants, of all shapes, colors, and sizes, in that room, and on entering it a visitor sometimes finds difficulty in locating Mr. Street and his typewriter. Whenever I find myself in the place I unconsciously begin making Tarzan noises and start peering through the foliage for Dorothy Lamour.
I first met Mr. Street in the winter of 1933 at a Santa Claus convention. He had just come up from the South and was writing feature stories for the Associated Press, whereas I was doing the same for the United Press. One day a note came in the mail saying the department-store Santa Clauses of New York City would hold a convention at Grand Central Palace the following afternoon. This was the period of the NRA Blue Eagle codes and the Santa Clauses were assembling for the purpose of drawing up a program of ethics. A novel spectacle! By the very nature of his calling a department-store Santa Claus has to be a proficient liar -- a man as fundamentally dishonest as a real-estate agent. Moreover, I know it to be a fact that the average department-store Santa Claus hates and despises his customers -- the little ones -- and would enjoy nothing so much as running amuck in a crowd of tots.
At Grand Central Palace I wandered around in the various exhibition halls, finding no Santa Claus convention, and at last I sat down near the elevators to rest my feet. I was sitting there when an elevator door opened and a short young man stepped out. He glanced all around and then approached me.
"Begya pahdon, suh," he said, "but I'm lookin' for a bunch of dad-blamed Santy Clauses."
It was Mr. Street, and soon we were sitting down comparing notes and swapping newspaper experiences, and after a while we went wandering and found the convention. The Santa Clauses were in a little room far off in one corner of the building. There were about a dozen of them, and they had a keg of beer on a table. They were dressed in their Santa costumes, all but their whiskers which had been laid aside to facilitate the taking in of beer. If you have ever seen such an assemblage of Santas, minus their whiskers, you have seen something. And if you have ever heard them talk, you have heard something. They came in all shapes and sizes and there wasn't a jolly one in the group. Since that day I have never believed in Santa Claus.
So that was the beginning of a long and interesting friendship. Mr. Street and I sometimes go adventuring together, and while our roamings occasionally prove trying to organized society, sometimes even offending the body politic, we have fun.
There is one story I want to tell about Mr. Street but to get into it I've got to bring up the matter of the round chickens. One day in 1942 I chanced to meet a citizen of Peoria, Illinois, who was visiting in New York. He turned out to be a chicken fancier, and he said he had come East to acquire some round chickens.
"Round chickens," he said, "come originally from India. They got practically no necks and almost no legs. A hen will weigh as much as fifteen pounds and a caponized rooster will weigh as much as twenty. If they scrooched up a little and bounced, you could almost dribble them like a basketball. The poultry growers of the country are going to get wise to these round chickens. They got almost as much meat on them as a hog, and it's wonderful white meat. Once we get going with them, you won't go into a restaurant and order fried chicken or half a broiled chicken. You'll order a chicken steak."
It is the clear duty of a writing person, when he hears such a thing as this story of the round chickens, to get to work and find out all the facts, so I got to work. After a couple of hours at the Public Library I concluded that the Peorian had reference to the Cornish game chicken, or one of its kinsfolk.
Next I telephoned the Department of Agriculture's poultry division. They dug up their best chicken expert and I told him the story.
"Well," he said, "I think the man from Peoria is pulling your drumstick. If he says these hens grow to fifteen pounds, he must have hens with some ostrich blood in them. And the roosters -- if they got to weigh twenty pounds -- would be unmanageable. You'd have to build a steel-and-concrete fortress to hold roosters that big. They'd tear down an ordinary chicken house and they might even turn on their owners and murder them."
On my way home I stopped at Mr. Street's house, having remembered that in his early days he had been a chicken fancier. If these round chickens existed anywhere on earth, I figured Mr. Street would know about them. Having swallowed a good dose of quinine, I took my machete and hacked my way through the jungle of his study until I found him at his desk. We made our way back over the perilous trail until we reached the living room, where I laid the results of my research before him and did him the honor of asking his opinion.
He grinned at me and said he had never heard of round chickens and that, moreover, he was willing to make a confession.
"I was never actually very handy with chickens," he said. "It all dates back to an unhappy experience I had with chickens in Mississippi."
It appears that when Mr. Street was first married, down in Mississippi, he was a preacher -- the youngest clergyman in the country, known as "The Boy Preacher of the South." Under provocation he can still loose a sermon that'll curl the wallpaper. As a preacher he had a house and time on his hands so he decided to raise chickens. He built his own chicken house and made an elegant structure out of it. He bought a tribe of Rhode Island Reds and a flock of Plymouth Rocks, and then somebody told him that he should be careful never to let the breeds mix. He should never, they said, permit the Rhode Island Red roosters to raise dust around the Plymouth Rock hens, and the same went for the Plymouth Rock rooster and the Red hens.
So Mr. Street constructed his chicken house carefully with an eye to segregation. The building had two sections and there was a long chicken run with a fence between. This was certainly all correct, and he moved his flocks into their respective quarters.
He was extremely careful to keep Rocks separated from Reds at night. In the daytime he simply let all the chickens out into the yard together.
"Somehow," he said, "the notion was in the back of my mind that if I kept them apart at night, everything would be okay. I had this idea in my head that they only did that sort of thing at night. Before I knew it the whole thing was a mess. That's how much of a chicken expert I am."
Monday, November 7, 2011
Dog walk: 11/7/11
By long custom, the basenjis know that the afternoon dog walk is long, slow, and leisurely: I amble along and enjoy the sun, while the dogs cast about looking for Unidentified Ground Objects. The afternoon dog walk typically takes one or two hours.
By equally long custom, the other two daily dog walks -- in the evening before I prepare for work, and in the morning after I return from work -- are different. There's not enough time for a long walk, so instead we all pile into the car and drive to the local no-leash dog park. There, the basenjis can sniff around unencumbered, and get to know any other dogs that happen to be around, before getting down to the serious business of doing their business. A trip to the dog park usually only lasts about ten minutes.
Back in Newport, the municipal dog park was a brief five-minute drive away. When I learned about the move to McKees Rocks, I went a-Googling, and found the nearest dog park fifteen minutes away at Riverview Park, across the mighty Ohio. There, atop Observatory Hill, the dog park sits beside the Allegheny Observatory.
Tonight, unusually, instead of making their standard inspection of the grounds of the small dog park, the dogs seemed intrigued by something out in the dark, beyond the park's chain-link fence. Louis in particular was fascinated, staring out into the darkness at I-knew-not-what. After about five minutes of this, Louis finally gave up his staring contest with whatever-it-was, and took care of business. I wondered what it was all about. Was there another dog hidden in the darkness? A skunk? Who could say?
We got back into the car, and started making our way down Old Barn Road, the much-patched single-lane road that leads up to the observatory. Looming in the headlights on our right, I saw three deer munching on the observatory's back lawn. After slowly passing them by (with the basenjis' attention rivited), another hundred yards down the road brought another set of three deer into the headlights. I stopped and waited for them to move away from the road (with the basenjis staring avidly), then continued on my way.
By equally long custom, the other two daily dog walks -- in the evening before I prepare for work, and in the morning after I return from work -- are different. There's not enough time for a long walk, so instead we all pile into the car and drive to the local no-leash dog park. There, the basenjis can sniff around unencumbered, and get to know any other dogs that happen to be around, before getting down to the serious business of doing their business. A trip to the dog park usually only lasts about ten minutes.
Back in Newport, the municipal dog park was a brief five-minute drive away. When I learned about the move to McKees Rocks, I went a-Googling, and found the nearest dog park fifteen minutes away at Riverview Park, across the mighty Ohio. There, atop Observatory Hill, the dog park sits beside the Allegheny Observatory.
Tonight, unusually, instead of making their standard inspection of the grounds of the small dog park, the dogs seemed intrigued by something out in the dark, beyond the park's chain-link fence. Louis in particular was fascinated, staring out into the darkness at I-knew-not-what. After about five minutes of this, Louis finally gave up his staring contest with whatever-it-was, and took care of business. I wondered what it was all about. Was there another dog hidden in the darkness? A skunk? Who could say?
We got back into the car, and started making our way down Old Barn Road, the much-patched single-lane road that leads up to the observatory. Looming in the headlights on our right, I saw three deer munching on the observatory's back lawn. After slowly passing them by (with the basenjis' attention rivited), another hundred yards down the road brought another set of three deer into the headlights. I stopped and waited for them to move away from the road (with the basenjis staring avidly), then continued on my way.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Dog walk: 10/13/11
A street map of McKees Rocks, Pennsylvania doesn't do the place justice. You have to look at a topographic map to see just how steeply the land rises from the Ohio River floodplain. The new house is perched on a hillside, facing west down the Ohio Valley.
It rained almost nonstop on the evening of the 12th, and as basenjis aren't noted for their enjoyment of getting wet, there was no chance to walk them then. At 5 AM on the morning of the 13th, the rain had stopped, and I decided that it was time for a walk.
We went south up a street rising at a 20 degree angle, the night sky overcast and the pavement still wet from the night's rain. There was an occasional car or truck passing by along Island Avenue at the bottom of the street, but no traffic up on the hillside.
Today was garbage day, and the dogs were inevitably attracted to the trash cans sitting in front of the houses. As we made our way up the street, they made frequent stops to sniff at plastic trash cans that all leaned slightly out of true, sharing the sidewalk's gradient. Most of the houses were decorated for Halloween with skeletons and jack o' lanterns.
The dogs were still uneasy about the unfamiliar streets, and within twenty minutes they were ready to return home. Ten minutes after we returned to the house, it began to rain again.
It rained almost nonstop on the evening of the 12th, and as basenjis aren't noted for their enjoyment of getting wet, there was no chance to walk them then. At 5 AM on the morning of the 13th, the rain had stopped, and I decided that it was time for a walk.
We went south up a street rising at a 20 degree angle, the night sky overcast and the pavement still wet from the night's rain. There was an occasional car or truck passing by along Island Avenue at the bottom of the street, but no traffic up on the hillside.
Today was garbage day, and the dogs were inevitably attracted to the trash cans sitting in front of the houses. As we made our way up the street, they made frequent stops to sniff at plastic trash cans that all leaned slightly out of true, sharing the sidewalk's gradient. Most of the houses were decorated for Halloween with skeletons and jack o' lanterns.
The dogs were still uneasy about the unfamiliar streets, and within twenty minutes they were ready to return home. Ten minutes after we returned to the house, it began to rain again.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Dog walk: 10/10/11
After we realized that we couldn't avoid forclosure, my wife arranged for us to move in with some friends of hers in a remote house in the Lehigh Valley. It was while she was there, making preparations for the move, that she (and they) were informed that the house was scheduled for demolition, and that both households would have to find new quarters.
A frantic search eventually resulted in the purchase of an astonishingly low-cost house in McKees Rocks, Pennsylvania, just outside of Pittsburgh. And so it was that around 11:30 AM on the morning on October 10, we packed up the last of our belongings and left Newport for the last time, mere minutes before our street was closed off by the Columbus Day Parade.
Due to the odd circumstances surrounding the move, our first day's journey ended at the remote house in the Lehigh Valley late in the afternoon. By the time we had ordered a dinner of take-out pizza, night had fallen. I was ready for bed then, but the basenjis needed one last walk for the night, and so I took them.
It was overcast that night, and there were absolutely no street lights along the thousand-foot driveway leading from the house to the nearest road. Dark woods lined both sides of the driveway, and what sounded like a million birds filled them with noise. The basenjis were two dark shapes moving back and forth across the driveway, most of their motion filled in by my mind's eye from memories of a thousand such walks in the bright Newport sunshine. On each side were strange new scents to be sampled, and sample them they did. The only distinct features I could make out were the white fur of Louis' collar and legs; everything else was shadows against the deeper dark of the night.
We went slowly down the driveway to the road, and then just as slowly back up again. The dogs had all the opportunity they needed to relieve themselves for the night, though the darkness kept me from learning whether they had taken advantage of it. Then we were back in the house, and it was time for me to sleep, momentarily suspended between past and future.
A frantic search eventually resulted in the purchase of an astonishingly low-cost house in McKees Rocks, Pennsylvania, just outside of Pittsburgh. And so it was that around 11:30 AM on the morning on October 10, we packed up the last of our belongings and left Newport for the last time, mere minutes before our street was closed off by the Columbus Day Parade.
Due to the odd circumstances surrounding the move, our first day's journey ended at the remote house in the Lehigh Valley late in the afternoon. By the time we had ordered a dinner of take-out pizza, night had fallen. I was ready for bed then, but the basenjis needed one last walk for the night, and so I took them.
It was overcast that night, and there were absolutely no street lights along the thousand-foot driveway leading from the house to the nearest road. Dark woods lined both sides of the driveway, and what sounded like a million birds filled them with noise. The basenjis were two dark shapes moving back and forth across the driveway, most of their motion filled in by my mind's eye from memories of a thousand such walks in the bright Newport sunshine. On each side were strange new scents to be sampled, and sample them they did. The only distinct features I could make out were the white fur of Louis' collar and legs; everything else was shadows against the deeper dark of the night.
We went slowly down the driveway to the road, and then just as slowly back up again. The dogs had all the opportunity they needed to relieve themselves for the night, though the darkness kept me from learning whether they had taken advantage of it. Then we were back in the house, and it was time for me to sleep, momentarily suspended between past and future.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Dog walk: 10/8/11
Sunny skies, temps in the mid-70s. If you live in a northern climate like New England, global warming has its positive side. And as if to match the summerlike weather, Newport has summerlike crowds of tourists thanks to Oktoberfest at the Newport Yachting Center.
Today's first "Are those basenjis?" encounter took place in front of Newport City Hall, when a tourist stopped me to tell me about the pet basenji he had in his youth, and to remark on how good-looking my own were, which is certainly true enough. The second took place on Lower Thames Street, in front of Ben & Jerry's, when a couple stopped me so they could point out to their daughter what the basenji half of their basenji mix looked like.
The basenjis and I were crossing Aquidneck Park when I got a call from my wife telling me that she had just made reservations at Sardella's restaurant in half an hour. As I've noted before, I received a Sardella's gift card for Christmas, and since we're leaving town for good in two days, this would be our last chance to use it. It was a near-run thing, but the dogs and I managed to make it back home in time for me to dress for dinner, and we turned up at the restaurant at the exact time we had reserved. I had the pasta marinara with a side of garlic bread, and it was delicious.
Today's first "Are those basenjis?" encounter took place in front of Newport City Hall, when a tourist stopped me to tell me about the pet basenji he had in his youth, and to remark on how good-looking my own were, which is certainly true enough. The second took place on Lower Thames Street, in front of Ben & Jerry's, when a couple stopped me so they could point out to their daughter what the basenji half of their basenji mix looked like.
The basenjis and I were crossing Aquidneck Park when I got a call from my wife telling me that she had just made reservations at Sardella's restaurant in half an hour. As I've noted before, I received a Sardella's gift card for Christmas, and since we're leaving town for good in two days, this would be our last chance to use it. It was a near-run thing, but the dogs and I managed to make it back home in time for me to dress for dinner, and we turned up at the restaurant at the exact time we had reserved. I had the pasta marinara with a side of garlic bread, and it was delicious.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Dog walk: 10/7/11
Sunny, with temps in the low 60s. Still good dog walking weather.
The basenjis and I were walking up Thames Street, across from the Brick Alley Pub, when I heard the words, "Are those basenjis?" A women was smiling at the dogs, and I assured her that they were, indeed, basenjis. She told me that she had had a tricolor basenji as a pet years before; unfortunately, he bit the paperboy and had to be put down. She adored Klea and Louis, though, as well she might.
We stopped in at the Black Dog store on Bannister's Wharf, where the basenjis are often given treats by the staff. They're having their "Black Dog lookalike contest", and though the basenjis are red dogs, I entered them anyway, since every contestant receives a free bag of dog treats, and it's against the Guild Rules for basenji owners to turn down free dog treats.
In Perrotti Park, a long line of cruise ship passengers was waiting to embark on MSC Poesia. Twice, a passenger stopped me with the words "Are those basenjis?"and of course I had to let the dogs enjoy some well-earned praise. Such is the hard life of a basenji owner.
The basenjis and I were walking up Thames Street, across from the Brick Alley Pub, when I heard the words, "Are those basenjis?" A women was smiling at the dogs, and I assured her that they were, indeed, basenjis. She told me that she had had a tricolor basenji as a pet years before; unfortunately, he bit the paperboy and had to be put down. She adored Klea and Louis, though, as well she might.
We stopped in at the Black Dog store on Bannister's Wharf, where the basenjis are often given treats by the staff. They're having their "Black Dog lookalike contest", and though the basenjis are red dogs, I entered them anyway, since every contestant receives a free bag of dog treats, and it's against the Guild Rules for basenji owners to turn down free dog treats.
In Perrotti Park, a long line of cruise ship passengers was waiting to embark on MSC Poesia. Twice, a passenger stopped me with the words "Are those basenjis?"and of course I had to let the dogs enjoy some well-earned praise. Such is the hard life of a basenji owner.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Dog walk: 10/4/11
Partly sunny, temps in the 60s. Still good dog walking weather.
We were coming down Tilden Avenue when we ran across a woman who was also walking her dogs, a pair of Jack Russell terriers. She was just entering Governors Graveyard with her dogs, who were off leash, and the basenjis and I followed her. We had crossed paths with her before, but never had a chance to stop and talk. It turned out that her dogs were recent acquisitions, one from the Potter League for Animals, the other from a shelter in Arkansas. Her previous dog, another Jack Russell, had been attacked and killed by a pair of German shepherds while she was walking him. She was still horrified by the memory, as you might imagine.
I mentioned to her that I would be leaving Newport in six days due to foreclosure, and she said that her home was facing foreclosure too. She had been trying to get a mortgage modification for five years, and had never managed it. After losing her job, she had been forced to stop making mortgage payments, and was only a couple months away from losing her house.
I wished her luck, and she wished me luck, and the basenjis and I went on our way.
We were coming down Tilden Avenue when we ran across a woman who was also walking her dogs, a pair of Jack Russell terriers. She was just entering Governors Graveyard with her dogs, who were off leash, and the basenjis and I followed her. We had crossed paths with her before, but never had a chance to stop and talk. It turned out that her dogs were recent acquisitions, one from the Potter League for Animals, the other from a shelter in Arkansas. Her previous dog, another Jack Russell, had been attacked and killed by a pair of German shepherds while she was walking him. She was still horrified by the memory, as you might imagine.
I mentioned to her that I would be leaving Newport in six days due to foreclosure, and she said that her home was facing foreclosure too. She had been trying to get a mortgage modification for five years, and had never managed it. After losing her job, she had been forced to stop making mortgage payments, and was only a couple months away from losing her house.
I wished her luck, and she wished me luck, and the basenjis and I went on our way.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Dog walk: 9/29/11
A foggy morning has given way to an overcast day, but with temperatures still in the 70s, it's a good day to walk some dogs. As usual, the basenjis spend some time early in the walk policing the front lawn of Newport City Hall, just in case someone has left something edible on municipal property. By law in Newport, all food found on municipal property must be left in place for passing dogs to consume.*
Three people were sitting on the bench in front of City Hall, and one of them happened to be a young army veteran. The three found the basenjis fascinating, as people so often do, and the vet asked if the dogs would like half an oatmeal cookie from his MRE. I saw no reason not to, so he broke the cookie in two pieces (with some difficulty), and gave each to one of the dogs. While they were enjoying the treat, the vet remarked on how fitting it was that the dogs enjoy them, given how similar the cookies were to dog biscuits. When the cookie was gone, I thanked the vet, and set off with the dogs.
Perrotti Park was again full of cruise liner passengers, this time off the ms Eurodam, which was on the final leg of a twelve-day cruise from Quebec City to Ft. Lauderdale. It may have seemed like a good idea to someone at the Holland America Line to combine the names Europe and Amsterdam for their latest cruise liner. Apparently nobody told them how amusing the name sounds to Anglophones.
Later in the walk, I was approaching Mary Street when my phone rang. It was my wife, and she wanted to know if I would like to go out for dinner as a belated birthday present. I remembered receiving a gift card for Sardella's restaurant for Christmas, so I suggested that we eat there. My wife couldn't find the Sardella's gift card, but she did find one for the Brick Alley Pub, so that became our new destination.
I brought the dogs home, and joined my wife in her car for the drive to Thames Street. Just as we were pulling onto Broadway, I saw the army vet coming up the sidewalk. He recognized me, and we waved to each other.
*Not intended to be a factual statement.
Three people were sitting on the bench in front of City Hall, and one of them happened to be a young army veteran. The three found the basenjis fascinating, as people so often do, and the vet asked if the dogs would like half an oatmeal cookie from his MRE. I saw no reason not to, so he broke the cookie in two pieces (with some difficulty), and gave each to one of the dogs. While they were enjoying the treat, the vet remarked on how fitting it was that the dogs enjoy them, given how similar the cookies were to dog biscuits. When the cookie was gone, I thanked the vet, and set off with the dogs.
Perrotti Park was again full of cruise liner passengers, this time off the ms Eurodam, which was on the final leg of a twelve-day cruise from Quebec City to Ft. Lauderdale. It may have seemed like a good idea to someone at the Holland America Line to combine the names Europe and Amsterdam for their latest cruise liner. Apparently nobody told them how amusing the name sounds to Anglophones.
Later in the walk, I was approaching Mary Street when my phone rang. It was my wife, and she wanted to know if I would like to go out for dinner as a belated birthday present. I remembered receiving a gift card for Sardella's restaurant for Christmas, so I suggested that we eat there. My wife couldn't find the Sardella's gift card, but she did find one for the Brick Alley Pub, so that became our new destination.
I brought the dogs home, and joined my wife in her car for the drive to Thames Street. Just as we were pulling onto Broadway, I saw the army vet coming up the sidewalk. He recognized me, and we waved to each other.
*Not intended to be a factual statement.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
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