Balto Came to Dinner

Check out those freckles.

He is the same colour as Sophie, but my leaner and meaner, metaphorically speaking. His owners rescued him, and they think he is part Saluki. C'est possible, but who knows for sure. I'd say there is definitely some sight hound in him.

Most importantly, Balto hugs, with a paw on each shoulder, very gently. Then he rests his forehead against the forehead of the person he's hugging and just stays like that for a long time. He is the sweetest beastie ever.

Retreading old turf

This is one of my favourite photos ever.
Sophie, with her pal Ziggy.

Focus on the dogs, not the rest. The background is a bit distracting. Perhaps if I were a more worthy dog blogger, I would have cleaned it up. Perhaps if Sophie were a more worthy dog, she would pirate the latest version of PhotoShop, crack it, and produce graphic novels, which she would then publish through Drawn & Quarterly, go on a book tour, option the movie rights, adapt it to the screen, play the leading role, and buy her own damn kibble. But alas, I love her just the way she is.

Sophie here,
with an important update.

We might watch hockey.

Two things have happened to suggest that watching hockey at this particular time could be a good idea.

First, we saw a dog playing fetch on an outdoor skating rink, with a hockey stick.
(Sorry, no photos. You'll have to trust me that this actually happened.)

Then, we found out the Montreal Canadiens, a.k.a. The Habs, are winning like crazy.

We are not sure why this one guy is laying on this other guy, but we suspect that hockey is taking it's cue from network television and putting a gay character in every script.

Frankly, we doubt that no matter what they do, hockey and The Habs can't possibly live up to The Wire and Dexter. But there's probably just as much swearing.

The following is from the Nashville Craiglist and just might be one of the best moments CL has ever had.

Note to the dogs

---

Date: 2007-08-16, 1:43PM CDT


Dear Dogs of Mine,

It seems that lately things have gotten a smidge slack around here. I feel it is time to remind you of the rules that heretofore we have operated under. You are both cute dogs, but your continued cuteness in no way negates our previous agreement. Let me remind you of a few details of this agreement.

1. In exchange for room and board, you are to guard the kingdom. That would be guarding the kingdom from any and all bad guys, robbers, serial killers, etc. Feel free to bark maniacally at any of those that should appear in the yard. Guarding the kingdom does NOT include barking maniacally at bunnies, squirrels, cows, sheep and invisible things that only you can see, especially between the hours of 5am (when I stumble out of bed to let you out) and 8am (when I actually have to be out of bed to get to work).
(And let me take a moment here to remind you that the pizza guy is a potential bad guy. He is not your friend. Just because he comes bearing food does not allow him free and easy access to the kingdom. He is potentially way more dangerous than the bunnies that you threaten to tear limb from limb.)

2. All of the stuff that lives in the toy basket is yours. Everything else is mine. Yours includes squeaky balls, random bones, partially unstuffed stuffed animals and chew ropes. Mine includes any and all shoes on the floor (especially the expensive leather ones), underwear that missed the hamper, bras, socks, dishtowels, the remote, the cell phone, the legs of my grandmother's antique chair and the vacuum. Did I mention shoes? ALL the shoes are mine. They come in pairs, not quads, for a reason.

3. The cat gets to sleep on the bed. You do not. You each weigh 50 pounds. The cat weighs 12. You sleep smack dab in the middle of the bed with all four feet spread out covering approximately 12 square feet apiece. The cat sleeps in a neat little ball covering about 2 square feet. The cat does not bring fleas into the house. You do. You, dogs, will never be allowed to sleep on the bed. Quit sneaking up when you think I'm not looking. Your 50 pounds of dogginess negates your stealth superpowers. I know you are up there!!

4. Speaking of the cat- when he hunkers down into that little mound, lays his ears back, squints his eyes and growls way back in his chest, HE IS NOT A HAPPY KITTY. Leave him alone. He does not want to play with you. What he wants to do is poke your eyes out and shread the skin around your face. He can do that, you know. Five of his 6 ends are really sharp and pointy. He has previously shown very little restraint. Clearly he enjoys smacking you upside the head with a paw full of claws. Do not aggrevate him. When he takes your head off after you have cornered him, I will let him. You have been forewarned.

5. The cat is mean. He will lead you down a path to destruction. He likes to tear around the house winding you up. He does this knowingly and intentionally. When you chase him, I will only yell at you for careening into walls and furniture. He knows this. Quit falling for it.

6. If you find something in the garbage can, assume that I intend for it to be there. Platic tampon shells are not chew toys. Don't eat them.

7. Also not for doggy consumption- anything you find in the litter box. This is why you no longer get to kiss me.

8. You are allowed to sleep on the furniture. You are not allowed to eat the furniture.

9. Yes, I have to leave every day to go to work. No, you cannot go with me. That's why there are two of you, so you can entertain each other. The cat gets to stay in the house. You both have to stay outside while I'm gone. The cat does not chew things up. You do. Quit whining about it. Your porch is air-conditioned. It's just like inside the house minus the sofa. If you'd quit chewing up dog beds, it would be just like inside the house. You have made your own proverbial bed by destroying two very expensive dog cushions.

10. I have opposable thumbs. This is why I get to be in charge. I can open cans, doors, and bags of treats. I am the only one in the house that can operate the hose sprayer. I'm also the only one with a driver's license and a car. I win. Being cute is no match for opposable thumbs.

While I in no way wish to suppress your rightful dogginess, I feel that these very simple guidelines will allow us to continue to co-exist in peaceful harmony. Please know though, that should you choose to continue in willful violation of these rules, I WILL PUT THE CAT IN CHARGE. He has just been itching for a position in management.

Much thanks,
The Human

CL PostingID: 398608788
http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/nsh/398608788.html

Wondering where Sophie lives?

This isn't our street, but a reasonable facsimile of.

We live on the Plateau, in Montreal, which Utne Reader once claimed was the coolest place to live in North America. Well, it's pretty damn cool right now, with all this bloody snow.

Housing stock on the Plateau is almost all triplexes built between 1880s and the 1930s, with some bad 1960s boxes thrown in here and there, where fires destroyed the original.

See those exterior staircases in the photo above?
They are trademark Montreal, especially on the Plateau, and they can be hard on letter carriers and a poor old dog's old joints.



This is kind of what our new house looks like, except it's not on a corner. We will live on the top floor, with a lovely wrought iron balcony (nicer than this one) on the front and a great big one on the back. It's not quite country living, but we will have two really big parks within two and three short blocks, so major walks all the time.

Parc LaFontaine has a lake where swimming dogs tend to spontaneously happen, when the cops aren't looking.


If you want to see more of Montreal, check out this link:

http://forum.skyscraperpage.com/showthread.php?t=118738

It will give you a great sense of this place, the good and the ugly. For me, it's a little shot of much needed summer. I can't wait for the green to return. Even Sophie seems to be tiring of the snow and is especially irritated about the freezing rain that's on its way.

Looks like an Airedale to me.

Wire Fox Terrier, maybe

***

Being of the Retriever ilk,

I guess Sophie is allowed.

Sorry terriers. It appears to be an exclusive club.

Exception made for one BT.

This dog is in the Iditarod

but that's not the only great race out there.

Check out Iditapug.
First great pug in the last great race.
This is a must see! A not to be missed!

There are four great episodes of this race, starring a pug, a lab, some cattledogs, a bordie collie.

If the link doesn't work, just search Iditapug on You Tube.
Oh, and that photo up there is from the Globe & Mail website.

Tag, I'm IT! Now where's the bar?

I usually don't do tags, but this one cut right to the core of Sophie's intellect. You know, she is always reading. Reading, reading, reading. She is like the literati of the canine world, and often contracts herself out to write dissertations for distraught and distracted academics. (Distraught and distracted academics take note.)

Asta from New York wanted to know what the beast was reading, and more than that, she was being incredibly nosy about page 123. I'm sure it's some strange plot to take over the world. Has to be. You know those terriers.

Anyway, the book closest to Sophie at the time of this strange request was appropriately, Paul Auster's The New York Trilogy.

Appropriate, of course, because Asta is a Manhattan girl. It's also possible that Asta's been drinking a few too many Manhattans of late.

For those of you interested in imbibing, a Manhattan is:


5 cl Whiskey
2 cl Sweet red vermouth
Dash Angostura bitters



Stirred over ice and served straight up and garnished with a cherry.


If you don't have one of those saxophone stir sticks, you're out of luck. You might as well just have a rye and coke.





This reminds me of a bar at a lake in Saskatchewan that serves rye and coke by the pitcher, but that's another story, and I don't like rye or coke, so on to the book.

By order of Asta, the very short, page 123 of Paul Auster's City of Glass, the first of the New York Trilogies:

"Yes," said Quinn. "The only one."
"If you need me for anything," said Auster, 'just call. I'll be happy to help."
Auster reached out to shake hands with him, and Quinn realized that he was still holding the yoyo. He placed it in Auster's right hand, patted him gently on the shoulder, and left.


Always with the editor's eye, Sophie thinks this book would have been far more successful had Quinn handed Auster a pink tennis ball.

Na na

na na na