My ulterior motive in this photo was really to sneak a picture of one of my favorite houses in town, which I have previously mentioned here.

The rest of my 2010 photos can be viewed here.

Hey, new category! Adventures in dog walking. Because, you know, this website is all about the things that go on in my life; and other than knitting and showing off pictures of Shortie’s dog, walking is something I’ve been doing a lot of lately. So here’s a new category about the things that happen to me, or that I see, or that I think about, while going on a 3+ mile walk every day. It won’t always be directly about the dog, but she’s the catalyst for most of it since … why else would I be out walking?

For instance; Sunday morning I was walking Bridgett before we went out to Keystone Heights for the day. While I was walking her a little bit later than usual, I was still up much earlier than I wanted to be up for a Sunday morning. I started off about 7:30, and for some reason decided not to take the route I usually use. When I came around the corner heading to NE park, I decided at the last second to turn down 6th Terrace before the park and head home, since we’d been walking for close to 45 minutes and Bridgett was starting to pant. Going through the park, although she loves it, would have added close to another half hour to our walk. So I walked down this road that – even though it is two blocks over from my own street – I hardly ever walk down.

About three houses down I see a guy setting up for a yard sale. I’m curious, because I do love a good yard sale, but I don’t have my wallet with me and he’s obviously not open yet, so I keep walking by while kind of looking at his stuff out of the corner of my eye. He has a really neat looking chair, of a wooden variety in almost a mission style… and I can see from far away that the print on the cushion has that 70’s quality of yellows and browns. I can sort of make out a round thing, and I’m guessing that it’s either a cowboy scene or a boat scene… do you know the type of upholstery that I’m talking about? Everybody’s parents had a couch or a chair made with this, in their dens in the 70’s, along with some brown/orange/yellow crocheted afghans and maybe some weed hidden in a box in the side table. Yeah. You know what I’m talking about. The weed made those colors bearable, didn’t it?

But I digress.

The guy calls out “good morning,” because that’s what people do when they accidentally make eye contact while passing. I stop, put Kermit on pause, and we exchange pleasantries centered around dogs. Everybody who stops me and talks in the morning wants to know what kind of dog Bridgett is. So we chat for a few, and he says that I should come back and shop later.

That’s when I got a good look at The Chair.

Now, two things that you may or may not know about me is that (1) I love rocking chairs and (2) I love kitschy things. And this chair? The one with the mission style (not missionary style; drag your minds out of the gutter for a second and stay with me) woodwork? The one with the brown and yellow upholstery? I get a good look at the cushion, and it’s not a cowboy scene. It’s not a boat scene. It is – and you can’t make this shit up – a spinning wheel. And? It’s a rocking chair.

I could have passed out on the spot.

I allowed as how I had my eye on that chair, and that I might come back for it. In my head I’m already making all kinds of excuses to Tim about why I would impulsively buy a chair that I know he’s going to say is fucking hideous. The guy says to make him an offer, but I feel kind of bad because here I am bargaining and he’s not even open yet. As someone who’s had garage sales, I hate it when people come by before I’m open and try to talk me down. So I ask him how much he wants for it.

$15.

$15? For a cushy rocking chair? With spinning wheel upholstery? Dude. Duuuuudes. That chair is so fucking mine! I promise him that I will be back in about 15 minutes, with the cash and a truck.

Needless to say that on the rest of the walk home, I’m trying out different ways in my head to tell Tim that not only do I think I need to borrow about $5, but I also need his help to pick up what is possibly the single most unsightly piece of furniture that he’s probably ever laid his eyes on.

So I get home, but Tim is still in the shower. I get fresh water for the dog. I find my wallet and count out my worldly sums of $7. I sit on the edge of the bed and wait expectantly for Tim to open the door from the bathroom. He does, and wisely takes one look at me and says, “What.”

“You know how when I do really impulsive, funny things? You know how you like that about me? You know how endearing it is that I’m so, ah, impulsive?”

He’s just staring at me, his mouth starting to twitch a little bit.

“Well, ah… can I borrow $8? And can you help me go pick up… ah… a rocking chair I just bought?” I’m giving him that silly grin and batting my eyes, playing it badly for all that it’s worth.

He just starts to laugh and shake his head, mumbling as he always does about what a goof I am.

We get the money together, and go to get the chair, and have no problems loading it into the truck or getting it into the house, and have I mentioned what a great sport Tim is? He’s the best. I could tell the second he saw it, that it burned itself into his inner eye… which he is now going to have to gouge out with a spoon. It really is an ugly chair. I love it! I! LOVE! THIS! CHAIR! And I spent the rest of the day mentioning how much I love my new chair. Hee.

Oh, but did I mention how once we got it home, that it wouldn’t fit in the corner of the living room? We had to move the furniture around for about half an hour to get it to fit… and at one point I was just collapsed with laughter. We’re going through all these contortions to make room for this chair that my long-suffering husband is not ever going to want to see again. I’m giggling now, writing about it. Don’t worry if you’re not laughing. It may have been a “you had to be there” moment.

The chair is not perfect. I need to patch a couple holes where you can tell someone dropped a cigarette and burned the fabric. And the wood needs to be cleaned. But it is comfy as all get out and… and it has a spinning wheel on it! How perfect is that?!

So thank you, Bridgett, for being too tired to walk through the park. If I hadn’t turned down that road to head back to home, I would never have seen The Chair.

And now you too can see the spinning wheel chair; the eye-blinding chair; the perfect chair. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Edited to add: when I wrote this four years ago, there was a pop-up link to a photo of the chair. That was lost when the old Snarkland posts were lost, but here – I found one in my flickr pages!

Jack Handy says that he is never more aware then right after he hits his thumb with a hammer. Well… I am never more aware then when my dog is taking a ginormous crap on a busy street.

And why is that? I crap. You crap. Everybody craps. Every single thing that eats on this planet, excretes in one way or another. So why is it that when Bridgett decides to let one out, I stand around looking down the street like, “is somebody who reads my blog driving by right at this very second watching my dog take a dump as big as her head?!” Why is it that my friends husband, when they are both walking their dog, he will walk away when their dog begins the business? “As if,” my friend says, “he didn’t even know me?”

I mean, really; I spend the whole walk up 9th, from 16th to 8th, thinking don’t take a shit here, wait until I turn onto a less-traveled road, are you about to crap, please don’t sniff the ground like that, and if you do, I at least hope it’s solid this time……

And why is this? Do other dog owners go through this? And why do we feel that way? Is it because for us (in most cases) pooping is so private? Is it because I know I’m going to have to pick it up and carry it? Is it because sometimes she shits out a solid rock so big that I suspect she may be pooping not just for herself but for three other dogs as well; and sometimes she squirts out this sort of… poop soup that I don’t know how I’m going to get into the plastic bag?

Speaking of picking up poop, I thought there was some sort of pooper-scooper law here in Gainesville…? I’m trying an internet search now, but I’m still half asleep and thus am not having a lot of luck (besides, I’m rushing through this so I can go walk my dog, and she can take a huge poo as you are all watching me walk down 9th Street <—life imitates blogging!). So I scoop Bridgett’s poop for two reasons. 1) I thought I had to and 2) since she usually takes a dump the size of a 1967 Chevelle, it’s the polite thing to do. Nothing like leaving a car-sized pile of shit in a neighbors yard, to help those relations along! “Hi, new neighbor; welcome to the neighborhood! I made you this lovely gift myself!”

And with the exception of the “Go Gators” guy I see in the morning walking his crusty-nosed Dalmatian, I think I may be one of the few people who does collect the poo. Because there’s usually two or three times on my walk where Bridgett has to stop and excitedly sniff someone else’s waste. Sometimes it’s somewhat fresh, but most times you can tell it’s been there for a day or so. It’s usually small… is there something about small dog poop exception in the law that I can’t find? Do small dog owners not realize their dog is poo-ing? Or, unlike with my dog, do they figure it’s so tiny that there’s no chance of someone stepping in it and falling up to their neck in the Golgothan shit monster…?

Okay. Enough of this crap. I need to go walk my dog.

A number of things factor in to where I walk my dog. In order of importance: Are there pretty houses and yards upon which I can feast my eyes? Are there sidewalks? And if there are not sidewalks, is walking in the road a deathtrap? If two cars were on this two-lane road at the same time, would my dog and I both have an area of safety in which to step? Are there any aggressive dogs? And if there are aggressive dogs, are they in a well fenced yard from which there is not an easy escape? And if there is no “aggressive dog cone of safety” is there anything close by with which I can use to kill an angry dog?

Did anyone notice how I wrote all of that without ending any questions with a preposition?

Right. Moving on.

So, yesterday morning, I’m all jazzed up for a great walk. I think I’ll go a little farther, I think on 6th Street, and go all the way up to 2nd Avenue. See the back of the … what is that, the Kirby Center? Anyhoo. I get to the corner of 6th and 2nd, and from behind the not – very – well – constructed – wooden – fence I hear that sound. That sound I hate to hear. The growling barking of an aggressive dog. I see loose boards. I see the boards end and wire fence begins, and I swear it’s a rabid Dashound trying to get at us through the … what is this fencing called? We always called it goat fence, out on the farm; it’s not chicken wire, but has 4-6 inch rectangles. Maybe Nurgen can tell me. And that dog was about the same size as the holes in the wire fence. Panic and adrenaline numb me. Which way do I go? I’m almost at the end of the house now, so if I turn around and go back the way I came, I’ll be longer at it than I would if I just kept walking. I pulled Bridgett close – she’s so trusting she thought the other doggy wanted to play, when clearly it wanted to eat our faces.

That’s when the dog pushed the gate open.

There was a fallen tree branch with a nice sharp spike on it about five feet ahead; I think I may have teleported to it. I was reaching to grab it and crazily putting myself between Bridgett and this ravenous rat-dog, when it realized that we were farther ahead of it. So, being the brainiac that it is, it squeezed back in through the gate and ran through the yard to where we were at the corner of the fence. I shouted “no” and “sit” (something Aunt Gay and Uncle Joe do to stray dogs who follow them when they’re bike riding) and pulled Bridgett down the rest of the block. Shaking the whole way.

You know that feeling you get, when you haven’t eaten yet, and all the adrenaline just runs out of your body leaving you flat?

I know it may seem funny, being petrified by a dog that looks like a hot dog with legs. But a dog fight is something I hope to never get caught in (again*). You can’t reason with dogs, you can’t tell them to stop, you can’t distract them by showing your boobs, and if you get in the middle of it you are going to get injured.

So I decided that really? I was done walking for the day. I scooted over to NE Boulevard (the street so nice they forgot to give it a number) and was heading straight home, where I could contemplate having bourbon for breakfast.

I’m about half-way down the street, feeling shaky and sorry for myself and sweaty and just like I’d rather start the day over… and I see a car coming towards me and slowing down. Are they slowing down for the speed-bump (that I had never noticed until last week some time)? Are they slowing down to ask for directions?

HAH! You’ll never guess!

It was Cindy, slowing down to say hello and introduce herself and her charming daughter! She had recognized me and wanted to say hello so we could put faces with names. Her daughter, by the way, has one of my favorite names (I won’t tell you what it is, to let the girl have some privacy). But how cool is that?! It totally made my day, and certainly made my day much better. And do you know what? If it wasn’t for that atrocious vicious monster of a canine, I wouldn’t have even been on that street that day. So I guess I owe that miniature cretin a thank you.

Maybe I can deliver it with my foot.

Cindy, you’ll have to meet us at Books, Inc some Sunday for some knitting!

* Tip: if you are ever involved in a dogfight, pull the dog away using its tail. This keeps you away from the biting end, and doesn’t hurt the dog as much as it may seem.

It’s an older house, a bit run down but not nearly as shabby as the one next to it. Dark grey clapboard, with recently painted white trim. No air conditioning, or at least not that they’re using, because the sash windows are all up. One window has a box fan. The rest of the windows, on both stories, have tie-dyed sheets as curtains. They are all different colors, and I wonder what the rooms look like when the sun shines through. Is it like stained glass? In one of the four windows on the top floor, there’s a white cat stretched out on the windowsill. He blinks at me as I look up at him, walking past.

—-

It’s a house on a corner that sticks out a little bit, like a triangle. The house is catty-corner on the lot. Walking from one direction I always see the front door, the bumpy brick walk leading up to the door, and the porch on the side with the torn-down screens. Coming from the other side, I get a glimpse into what little back yard there is. The same bumpy brick makes a circular area that doesn’t need to be mowed, and there’s a round table with many chairs around it. Stairs leading down from the house next door end just next to the edge of the brick. I wonder if they like their neighbors; if they invite them over for beer and hamburgers on a Saturday afternoon. The seating area is shaded. I bet it’s a lovely place to sit and watch the world go by.

—-

Walking from one direction, the yard looks almost overgrown. A bush that is almost up to my shoulder is growing from the sidewalk to the tree a few feet into the property. I can see flowers, impatiens, mixed with ivy, covering the ground in an area about the size of a twin bed. Coming from the other direction, I can see there’s a small stone path that leads from one corner of the flowerbed to the tree. The stone marker leaning against the tree is partially hidden by the large bush. There’s a cat carved on it, and a name I can’t quite make out. Puffy? Fluffy? I think about the kind of person who would make such a lovely place for a departed pet. I wonder if they think of the pet every time they go outside, or if there are days (and I have those days myself, what with time passing and numbing the loss) when you walk past and forget.

—-

It looks like it may have been a garage at one time, or a workshop. It sits back from the road and is partially hidden behind the house, partially hidden behind a row of trees. You can only see it when you get to the driveway area. It’s an apartment now, most likely rented out by the homeowner; or possibly a mother-in-law suite. My guess is apartment, because it has that well-used look that places in Gainesville get when student after student passes through. Hanging plants line one side, with a small gap where the door is. There’s a porch rail, if you can call the small paved area a porch, and there are dozens of small terra cotta pots with spider plants and aloe. The building is green, with red trim. It looks very happy. I wonder if there are as many plants inside.

—-

I like looking at the houses on my walk, and wondering about the people who have lived there before down through the years, the people who live there now. I don’t want to know them; I just want to imagine them. Bridgett, of course, doesn’t care at all. She just wants to stop and sniff the flowers.

I almost didn’t want to go for a walk this morning, because an over-protective yappy dog owner yelled at me yesterday. I’m deliberately being vague about whether it was the dog or the owner who was “yappy”.

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen me walking my woolly mammoth dog down the road, but she’s a healthy girl (she would like me to point out that she is not “fat,” she’s just “big boned”). And sometimes, even though I may be a keen observer of the human condition, I’m a bit rusty when it comes to doggy etiquette.

For instance, when another dog (and hopefully, a human walking with it) is coming in my direction, do I cross the road? Because in my world, crossing the street so as not to pass directly by is an indication that perhaps you are afraid that the person coming towards you might mug you. I’m walking with a 75 pound dog. I’m not so afraid of being mugged. Of course, if you know my dog you know what a joke that is. My dog is afraid of swooping birds—she’s not too likely to take on a gun-wielding maniac. People should be more afraid of me than my dog. I mean, when we pass the guy walking his Dalmatian and Chihuahua, Bridget hides behind me because she is afraid of the Chihuahua! Clue to people: my dog is not muzzled nor on a body leash. Chances are very good that she is easily subdued.

Anyway… how hard is it to be courteous? Apparently, it’s a challenge for some people. I’ve been stopped and thanked on a number of occasions for scooping my dog’s poop. At the same time, I’ve been glared at by homeowners until I scoop the poop. Hello, but I AM NOT CATCHING IT AS IT COMES OUT OF MY DOG’S ASS! Give me a few seconds before you glare at me. It’s a bag, not a damn catcher’s mitt.

Once, an ambulance turned off it’s siren as it passed me, so as not to distress the dog. That was courteous. I waved at them. They waved back. Bridgett wagged her tail.

I walk in the grass when I see bicyclists or joggers heading towards me. I walk in the grass when I’m on a road with no sidewalks and I see a car coming towards me or hear one behind me. Which reminds me—which side of the road am I “supposed” to walk on? Because sometimes people glare at me when I’m walking against the traffic… but sometimes people aren’t paying attention and swerve TOWARDS me when I’m walking with the flow of traffic… so is it better to be glared at or hit? Easy choice. Glare away, mo’ fo’s!

When people look interested in my dog, I stop and say Hi. Especially if they have kids, because Bridgett loves kids and I think that’s a great way for wee ones to meet big dogs… to have them meet one who is a complete pushover. I chat with the folks, I pet other dogs, and we exchange pleasantries about the neighborhood.

There is a particular look that a happy, healthy, alert, friendly dog will have. Ears and tail up, head looking around, and the hair on the shoulders is down (not up and ridged). This is a look that Bridgett has almost all the time—with the exception of when she is sticking her head in some flowers, or sniffing the ground. It’s a look that says, to me, “I’m having a great time and would feel terrific about meeting other dogs.”

So I was a little taken aback when this guy hollered at me from across the street to “keep to that side of the street.” He even held his hand up as if playing traffic cop, and actually yelled out “STOP!” To me. Because my dog looked like a threat to him. His dog, he claimed, was frightened of larger dogs that might attack her. I looked at her, and saw her tail wagging, her ears up, and she was pulling on her leash to come towards Bridgett. Not barking, not growling, but sniffing the air as if trying to catch her scent. Bridgett was behaving the same way. I’m pretty sure that I’ve met that dog before, too, but with a woman walking her. If it’s the same dog, she and Bridgett got along well and we walked together for a block or two before parting ways. Keep to that side of the street. Well, sure. I can understand that as a warning, if your dog isn’t friendly. And I can understand being yelled at if I was doing something illegal, or dangerous, or was throwing rocks at your dog. But all I did was come around the corner, with my happy stupid puppy, and this guy goes ballistic.

Then he walks through the gate into his yard, slams his gate shut, and stomps into his house and slams his door. Making me feel like a criminal.

Hello, who would yell at someone for no reason and then SHOW THEM WHERE YOU LIVE?! I could have been carrying. I could have come back later with a flaming bag of poo. WTF, dude?!

Sigh.

The rest of my 2010 photos can be viewed here.

Sometimes I sing along with Kermit [Ed Note: this was the name of my first iPod, which was green] in the morning. Just under my breath, more humming than singing, and the only person who I believe to ever have noticed is a woman down the street who never smiles anyway; so if it annoyed her I could care less. Anyway, chances are good that if you’re tooling about at 7 in the morning and you pass me, if I’m not listening to a book on tape then I might be mumbling and humming to myself.

The other morning, and this isn’t unusual, but Bridgett kind of tangled up the leash a little bit. I was juggling Bag o’ Poo, leash, and Cup o’ Coffee (which I now carry, even when empty, lest I lose another mug). Leash in my right hand, traveling over my front, to where the dog was sniffing something to the back and to my left. Humming/singing out loud – albeit softly – to myself, I raised my arm over my head to have the leash at my back instead of at my front. Since I was wondering what was taking her so long, I also turned around backwards to see if she was peeing, or just being a punk. Overall I imagine the move looked like some sort of dance move where you spin your partner around under your arm… only I was partner-less.

As I turned back around to my front, still singing, I realized that on the side porch of the house I was in front of, there were two people sitting, smoking, not five feet away from me. They were both giggling. What could I do? Wave. Smile. Keep walking.

Passing them, I got a whiff. Are those clove cigarettes? Because for a very brief time I dated a guy (if by “dating” you mean “friends with benefits”) who smoked cloves. And for a moment I wasn’t walking Bridgett. I was sitting with him on the front porch of the house I rented with another girl in the student ghetto, late in the evening, smelling his cloves and listening to Bob Marley drift from inside the house, singing that we should emancipate ourselves from mental slavery. Crickets are chirping, the heavy chains of the swing are creaking, we are young and we are unafraid and the world is ours.

Then I take another step, and get another whiff. It’s not cloves, it’s something else. I chuckle to myself, because we did an awful lot of that, too.

And I would have laughed my ass off if I had been waking and baking, and a woman walked by dancing with and singing to her dog.

Welcome to Snarkland, bloggy home to knitting and discussion of my dogs! Some day I will have more topics. Maybe spinning, since I just plied a bunch of singles off of a shitload of bobbins. Aren’t you excited?!

New pup’s name—We’ve decided to go with “Corwin”, sometimes “Cori” for short (just like we sometimes call Bridgett, “Bridgy”, or “Bridge”). Thank you everyone for weighing in! She’s already cocking her head and reacting when we say “Corwin”, so I don’t think it’ll be long before she’s fully acclimated to the change.

Other things…

On her second night, she walked away from her food dish to go inspect a cat. Bridgett was immediately interested in abandoned food (having scarfed hers down—she’s a much faster eater when there might be competition), and started finishing Corwin’s dinner. Corwin ran over and sniffed at Bridgett, and then just sort of sat there, alternately watching her and one of the cats. Absolutely no distress about the situation and she didn’t show any food aggression. Awesome!

While I was walking them yesterday, she grabbed a piece of chicken that some asshole had thrown out by the side of the road. I didn’t see it at first in the tall grass, and thought she was just sniffing until she proudly came up with a big piece of chicken hanging out of her mouth. “Drop it,” I said firmly, and she looked at me like, “huh?”. So without even thinking it through I grabbed at the part sticking out of her mouth and pulled it out. No barking, no growling; but her mouth wasn’t closed… so I reached in all the way and pulled a HUGE chunk of chicken out of the back of her mouth. She never even blinked an eye. Didn’t growl, didn’t bark, and didn’t go after it when I threw it away. My thought process after that was “thank god she didn’t bite me… oh gross, I have now touched disgusting, half-eaten chicken with dog drool and someone’s nasty-ass germs… oh, crap! I’m allergic to chicken! No puppy kisses today!” And then I boiled my hand when we got home.

Speaking of walking, we’ve gone on three walks by now (that’s me, Corwin, and Bridgett; Tim has also taken her on two walks with just the two of them) and it only took her one day to realize that getting out the ear buds for my iPod means “walkies!”. Smart little thing! I have noticed that over the three days she has gotten more pully when we pass squirrels. She even points at them! But as much as I would love to encourage her to chase the little tree rats in our own yard, I want to discourage her to try to chase them during our walks. So there may be a little learning curve about not going after squirrels. Sadly.

One last thing—can I just tell you how *freaking cute* it is when Corwin bounds over to Bridgett in the middle of the walk and jumps up and licks her ears? Almost like “aren’t we having fun? Isn’t this fun? I love going on walks with you!” and Bridgett is all… “meh. Crazy kid, just stay offa my lawn!”. I feel like a grandmother who sits back and chuckles because her hellion daughter has had a hellion of her own. Bridgett, I am here to tell you, that nine years ago you were just. like. Corwin. Which means that I have high hopes for the future!

1. 21, 2. 20, 3. 19, 4. 18, 5. 17, 6. 16, 7. 15, 8. 14, 9. 13, 10. 12, 11. 11, 12. 10, 13. 09, 14. 08, 15. 07, 16. 06, 17. 05, 18. 04, 19. 03, 20. 02, 21. 01

I think it’s really funny that it loaded them all backwards. Also, #01 and #02 are really snuck in from yesterday – I couldn’t resist!