Singing at The Dog...

The Brit pop-star La Roux's 80's style video hit Bullet-proof was playing on our big screen TV the other day. I noticed that The Dog... suddenly... had a new swagger to his hind regions. So, putting 2 + 2 together, I started singing the song's reprise to him...

This time, Baby... I'll beeeee... bullet-----proof!

Naturally, The Dog just thinks I am singing the praises of his favourite topic... Treats! He licks me profusely & ardently on every last sung bullet-roof. It must rhyme with the word bread somehow.

We try to have fun here.

But, if I am going to continue with these shenanigans, I must have a new hair-style. One with a distinct & asymmetrical up-sweep to it. A whig would be necessary. Gads.

He won't hold still...

... for the darn camera until I am obligated to say the Magic Phrase...
It's a Treat, Moses!
Gads.

Christmas Salivating Satisfactions...

Work on your bone, Moses! Work on that bone!

The Dog looks positively delirious from chewing on his Special Christmas Bone.
What do those dog-chow folk put in the bones to make them so irresistible?
Cats get nip, so Dogs get cheese & garlic enriched muscle fibers twisted to look like the femur of a Colorado calf?
I don't want to know. And, The Dog doesn't share... Thank God!!!
All I want is for My Adored Dog to be happy without being laid low by a bout of diarrhea. Gads.

Dog satisfaction at Christmas Time...

Work on your bone, Moses!

The Dog looks drugged from chewing on his Christmas Special Bone. What do they put in the bones to make them so irresistible? Cats get nip. Dogs probably get garlic flavored muscle fibers. I don't know. Moses doesn't share which is fine by me. I would not care to try, even if they were made with natural peanut-butter! Gads.

The Dog is bezerk...

... and on Christmas Eve, no less. Why so? Well, because it has been raining for a over a week now... with intermittent snow, freezing rains & Siberian winds too...

and The Dog don't go out in dat stuff!!! Gads.

Categorically refuses...

The Dog categorically refuses to go out into the snow. There are Weimaraner skid marks in the snow outside my apartment building's front door. I hope no-one notices. It could prove embarrassing. Gads.

A Special Citation...

This is my brother's dog, Rufus. He is a one-eyed dog. And, he is the gentlest of God's Canine Creatures. Nothing more to say.

Thanksgiving Thugs... Part II

The real & absolute thugs of Thanksgiving has to be my veterinarian sister's two creatures.
The white one... named Neem...I doubt it is a Shih-tzu. It could be a really nasty Lohpso-ohpso mix. They're mean AND stupid at the same time... BITES!!! No. Sorry. It LUNGES AND BITES!!!... from within the range of only a yard.
Mauser... the ugly brown thing that snorts and faintly resembles the Creature from the Black Lagoon... far exceeds Wick's bio-disasters by peeing AND pooping relentlessly upon my mother's prized Oriental carpets... naturally, there is one in every room... or, wherever & whenever inspiration hits. True to its thug nature, Mauser does so exclusively inside. The outdoors is just the outdoors to this animal and not the toilette it is to any other d-o-g.
Thankfully... Thanksgiving came & went and, so did many of The Cousins too. I have never been so glad to see My Dog than when I returned home... safely buffered by lots of water. Gads.

Thanksgiving Thugs... Part I

My Dog is a paragon of Christian Virtue, Superb Breeding & a Disciplined Education.

I cannot say this about The Dog's distant & American relations... The Cousins, if you will... during my recent Thanksgiving visit. In fact, I can well say... they are all various degrees of delinquents, except one, who gets A Special Citation. But, that is for later.

Let's take my mother's two Shih-tzus... a canine sub-species, if there ever was one.
Ms. Wicks is nearly blind, probably deaf, certainly incontinent and she definitely poops in the Sun Room when Mom & I trot off to the movies. It might help if Mom would desist in referring to the Sun Room as The Slammer. I suppose there is some consolation... Wicks deigns to evacuate her bowels always in the same locale... under the dining table next to the computer. And, since she is My Mother's Dog, there are sanctions against Complaints. Mum's the word... dammit.

Thug Number Two is called Toby. His distinct fault is... he never comes when you call him.  Never. He's not interested. Toby likes to canvas any moving object... man or machine... for Friendship & Fun. However, I did not pay several thousand Dollars to come to America for Thanksgiving only to see My Mother's adored yet recalcitrant Shih-tzu squished by an oncoming Mercedes-Benz SUV... thank you very much. I'll stop there. Why dither? There are those darn sanctions.

Too be continued...

Ooooo!

Oh! And while I was at the preferred dog emporium, I bought a new bright green nylon collar & leash twin set.

The Dog was totally not-interested in this or, even with the new water bowl I had purchased for upstairs. Moses! It will save you an arduous trip downstairs to get a sip of water... which is filtered for your own protection... thank you very much. Not even the Short-person gets such special treatment, I'll have you know, Mr.!!! Gads.

New cold-weather rain slicker...

The Dog Sitter forgot to give me back The Dog's spiffy lined rain-slicker when I came to retrieve him after my return from Thanksgiving in America.

Coincidentally, the thermometer dropped into negative numbers and The Dog had no wrap. So, off I went to my favorite pet-shop to procure him another. And, what did I find? An even spiffier lined cold-weather wrap. It has velcro straps and only one tiny insidious elastic ribbon for The Dog's tail.

The architecture of this outfit is depended upon getting that ribbon onto The Dog's tail.  He automatically retracts his surgically-shortened Weimaraner tail, making it damn hard for me to get this vital element on him correctly. Co-operation is not one of The Dog's many Virtues.

Anyway, once the ribbon is secured on, it's a piece of bread... with the nifty velcro straps, both front & mid-trunk.

I adore the shush-shush-shushing noise of the washable nylon & synthetic cold-weather pile lining. THE DOG HATES IT!!! He tries to hide as a wall.

So be it. He can't seem to appreciate all the trouble I've gone to in order to protect him from freezing his Weimaraner balls off... if he still had them.
Now, if only Mankind would invent ear cuffs for dogs, the outfit would be complete!!! Gads.

The aftermath...

More action photos of The Dog and my generous offer to share the spoils of my breakfast...

Naturally, The Dog lobbied for another piece of bread. Gads.

Resolute in his desires...

Oh! Some action shots of The Dog when I came out of the Kitchen munching on a piece of toast. He was very insistent that I share.

The Dog loves his bread.

A couple of days ago, a girl-friend & I conducted an experiment with The Dog & bread. It was administered under very strict conditions... we were in her Kitchen and The Dog was way down the hallway on his bed in the Guest Bedroom. When all was quiet, we put out a loaf of fresh bread on a nice big wooden platter between us. WITHIN SECONDS!!! The Dog was sitting by my side awaiting A Treat of some b-r-e-a-d.

When The Dog gets excited about A Treat... and, especially, when bread is involved... he has to itch himself. Or, he sniffs his Private Parts. I chose not to include a photo of that.

But then... lo' & behold... The Dog's back into position for what he feels is His Rightful Due. Gads.

Report of an alarming nature...

Well, not three hours after being torn from the Presence & Being of My Adored Canine at our local airport...
The Dog continued to sleep curled-up in the way back of The Short-person's AUDI. Said place is his third and, probably, the one most enjoyed of his several beds. Apparently, from what I can surmise, the hum of the car's four wheels tearing over Italian asphault is unbeatable for provoking A Good Nap. Yet, in The Dog's defense, it was a radically early 6 in the morning. The Dog doesn't stir from his upstairs bed at home until at least 8:30AM. Sadly, I was thusly kissed-off by The Short-person without so much as one Parting Glance FROM THE DOG!!!

...was not a report of the most alarming nature received from The Short-person.

While standing in line to board mon vol Air France pour l'Amerique... just one of way-too-many such human pilings compressed into the hour and ten minute change-of-plane jaunt at the massively disjointed CDG aeroport... why does the French Government feel the need for an alphabet soup of terminals, not forgetting that to get from G to E requires visiting A, B, C, D, and F?... did my cellphone not suddenly jump to life with the following Text Message... here it is in its entirety AND unedited for Posterity...

Your Dog is INSUPPORTABLE!

Gads.

Oh, Moses...

It is Thanksgiving next week and I must attend to My Dear & Aged Mother. The rest of My Family will be present too for the Food Festivities. One or more of them gets to do the cooking. I will watch while sipping a dry pro-secco. My Mother says she is of The Age when we'd be lucky to get a Swanson's Deep-dish Turkey Pie out of her. Too bad... I love Swanson's! Their crusts are divine!!!

In the meantime, The Dog knows nothing about...

A) Thanksgiving... though, if he did, he would be enthusiastically hoping for some morsel of "white meat" or an entire Swanson's all to himself...

and...

B) My Imminent Departure avec la compagnie Air France.

Let's go right to Our Scene...

Me... Oh, Moses... Oh, Moses...  I will be leaving you in a few short hours and I have these Parting Words for your edification... 

The Dog... ?**!!#@???

Me again... I want you to understand that you will be under the care & feeding of The Short-person. It is important to know that this Person has COMPLETELY & TOTALLY DIFFERENT parameters of Discipline, Behaviour & Care of A Dog. So, brace yourself. The Dog Sitter will SAVE you on Sunday.

The Dog, again... ???*!!!***?

Me, for now... I'll be back in two weeks. Be A Brave Weimaraner! 

Gads.

My echoes heard for days...

There is no Photographic Documentation for what I am about to tell... and probably just as well too...
The Dog fell 10 feet off a staircase at a friend's country house last weekend!!! Yep. But, there was NO CRASH-BOOM!!! Nope. Not at all. Somehow, The Dog's mighty hefty 65 lbs. of spoiled & recalcitrant Weimaraner... coupled with Nature's ever-acting Gravity... orchestrated The Dog back up & onto his all-fours... an acrobatic gesture lightly akin to what circus performers do after a Death Defying Leap off a trapeze. The Dog had made an ill-executed rearward march around a little iron gate on a landing to a terrace. It's a bit different for entertainment value. The Thrills & Chills were something else. However, I do not consider this A Stupid Dog Trick. During The Dog's unexpected change of level... shall we say... I had cause to let out a monstrously loud...
Ohhhhh! Moooszzzsesss!!!
...which resounded for hours afterwards throughout the local mountain valleys. I must say, this was a very effective alarm. Suddenly, between blinks of horror AND leaping to save My Dog, 10 house-guests gathered immediately by my trembling side to give whatever Aid & Succor to the fallen animal they could. I was easier to attend to. All I needed was a LARGE white wine. I could have cared less that it was ONLY 10:17 in the morning.
But, where was The Dog?... they all asked. 
Oh, well, gainfully restored to an Upright Position, The Dog had trotted off to continue with either of Two Dog-in-the-country Options...
A) continue with his Terrorist Campaign against the insidious castle cats...
OR...
B) off to sniff ca-ca di capra on the trails in the olive groves above my friend's medieval keep.
I felt like a fool for having wasted a good yell for That Dog. Hopefully, it will be his last circus-style performance for a while. My 60 year old heart might not stand another shock like that. White wine can only do so much, you know? Gads.

His rain-slicker...

I'll have you know... the only way I could get this photo was through the auspices of Bribery & Deceit. Doggie-cookies. Aren't they an amazing invention? They work every time. Often though, I can trick The Dog into thinking my little SONY digital-camera is a treat too. Not always but, enough times to get a few good dog-portraits. Sadly, this was not the case this morning. I had pulled out his rain-slicker for a w-a-l-k in the rain.

Yes... The Dog is sporting his rain-slicker. He HATES it. He shouldn't. It's wool lined. Nevertheless, when he hears the shush-shush of its nylon fabric, The Dog goes post-haste al suo posto... normally, the downstairs one...  hoping what he heard won't happen... Silly Dog. Eets beeeg raining outsyde!!! Let's get this rain-slicker on you. 

Finding the whole exercise of putting on the rain-slicker more than just tedious, The Dog's next tactic is to curl into a tight little Weimaraner ball... Come here, Dog, and be brave. Give me one of your hind legs, so I can slip these straps on over your Weimaraner behind. This is what The Dog HATES the most. Those thin elastic leg straps, which force him to bend his leg in what The Dog believes to be an un-natural position. So be it. The rain-slicker goes on The Dog!

Several wasted minutes later, The Dog is dressed for the rain & wind & cold outside. However, he is so embarrassed to be attired in a rain-slicker, he retreats again al suo posto... the upstairs one... far, far away from our front door and imminent Public Shame. Apparently, wearing human-style garb is TOTALLY against The Code of the Weimaraners. So be it. I am not having any accidents in my house because...

A) The Dog HATES rain & refuses to go out in it...

and...

B) because thinks he can hold it until the five day forecast changes for the better.

Right.

So, I have to pull out the big guns of more Bribery & Deceit... pieces of bread. WHOOOSH!!! Guess who is at attention at our front door? Yep. Mr. Recalcitrant in his Navy blue rain-slicker. Gads.

Defects of Design... dammit

As is The Custom in Our Home, at strategic moments during Our Evening, while The Short-person is on a final ILS approach to falling asleep in front of the TV... and after a delicious meal of sauteed pork-chops with zucchini... I go over & adore My Dog. Normally, The Creature is to be found on his Upstairs Bed... sleeping. He is united with The Short-person on that.

Adoring entails giving goolie-goolie. This is Our Local Custom of scratching a certain body part. For The Dog, it is one of two Inner Thighs. Knowing full well of this Custom, The Dog awakes & lifts his leg in preparation for what is to come... the soothing effect of my delicate tickling where his hair don't grow and he can't reach. It is My Public Service to The Dog.

A while back, I told The Dog that God was Very Kind & Generous in bestowing upon him two Inner Thighs. Thus, saving him the indignity... or the uniqueness... of being a three-legged Weimaraner. The Dog only HARRUMPHED!!! for more goolie-goolie. It IS addicting. Just ask The Short-person. I am obligated in doing his back & bumpy-head.

Anyway, what I am about to describe I have known since The Dog was just a wee puppy but, last night, a particular detail of his Weimaraner physiology struck me as especially odd...

The Dog has a nipple on his pee-pee!!! 

However, I will NOT dignify this with a photo.

Now, don't you think someone... someone Real Big & All Encompassing, who lives upstairs... or everywhere, as the case may be... and whose name begins with a "G"... yep, we're talking about God Himself!!!... has screwed-up? My Dog has been burdened with a weird sort of Design Fluke!!! Not Very Kind OR Generous. Gads.

Fun games...

When The Dog & I are in Genoa, most evenings, we go downstairs to the garage and I throw The Dog's Special Ball around. It's yellow and it has these spiky things on it. They are akin to a LARGE gum massager. Frankly, I would think those spiky things might hurt The Dog's tongue... and his gums too. However, he does not seem to mind. The Special Ball is covered in his own brand of Weimaraner drool. So, The Dog is very fond of it.

The Objective of this exercise... My Objective of this exercise, I should say... is...

A) The Dog can get some badly needed aerobics in before he turns into a Michelin Dog. You know, The Dog insists on two meals a day + treats. I do try to reduce the quantity of these meals... since he hates to w-a-l-k lately... but, if "The Dog don't see what he expects" in quantity AND in bulk, then, he comes to wherever I am in the house and HE BARKS AT ME until I remedy the situation.... forthwith...

B) We can have additional Special & Private Moments for bonding beyond the nearly attached-at-the-hip variety we already enjoy. I have never considered myself to be all that much fun to be with, but, since The Dog arrived on My Doorstep... with much thanks to The Short-person's generosity for My 50th Birthday... I have come to think of myself as pretty darn fun... and mightily generous too, what with  interrupting The Cocktail Hour to throw a darn ball in a subterranean garage!!!

and...

C) I can grab a bottle of white wine out of The Short-person's garage. Why they are housed there is a mystery. The Dog thinks that the purpose of The Short-person's open garage-door... besides sniffing that the beat-up ol' AUDI is OK... is so he can prance about & show the four walls that he is Master of his Special Ball...

Oh... what a Good Dog you are, Moses! So Brave! So Talented!! So fierce too!!! 

I do not have the heart to tell him that the walls could care less. Anyway...

The garage in the basement of our palazzo is ideal for these sorts of shenanigans. It is as long as a bowling alley which, as a matter of History, it once was. All one has to say to Folk in these parts is...

Oh... we live in the building of the ex-Bowling of Genoa...

and they nod their Italian heads in understanding. The 100 meter long garage gives ample room for The Dog to skid while scrambling for his Special Ball without colliding with much but a stray motorino. Look out, Moses!!! Good that there are hardly any vehicles running about. Not so good about the noise his overly long Weimaraner nails make scratching the slick concrete of the flooring. This doesn't happen much, however. No. The Dog feels that after he has retrieved his Special Ball once or twice, and pranced about some, it's time to go back upstairs to bed... i.e. please note the attached photo. However...

I have a bottle of an excellent Gavi white wine in hand so, I am more than copacetic to ascend. Gads.

A night-time stalker...

I just want Everyone to know the look The Dog gives me just seconds after getting up & off my Swiss comforter in its Italian ga-zillion count cotton duvet cover. A guilty look, if I ever saw one.

He is not brazen enough to steal my cover in broad daylight. No. He does it while I am snoring away in la-la Land in the middle of the night. Gads.

The Dog ought to be glad...

What Dog has an owner, who will whistle him the entire score of The Magic Flute, while said canine enjoys the spaciousness of the entire way-back of The Short-person's beat-up ol' AUDI at 90 mph?

He knows NOT just how lucky A Dog he is. Gads.

A Question of Languages...

Often, strolling along an Italian thorough-fare with My Adored Canine in tow, I am frequently stopped by admiring Italian folk... of said Dog and not of My Ample Girth, as The Short-person claims... and am asked The Question...
What language do you speak with your stunning...? Stunning...? What color IS your stunning dog?

He's taupe, thank you.
Naturally, I take their confusion in stride, knowing full well that Italian DOES NOT HAVE AN ADEQUATE WORD FOR TAUPE!!!... and attempt to return them to The First Part of Their Question. Naturally, I can readily accept The Original Question because, I AM, in fact, an English-speaking person dragging a stunning Taupe Weimaraner Dog along a traffic congested Genoese street.
My Answer is very simple. Our Standard Procedure is...

Any & All Commands/Summons/Other are spoken in Italian, such things as...

Seduto... Park it, Dog!

STOP... Yes, STOP is an Italian word too...

Vieni qua... Come here, canine!

Piano... Go slowly or you'll be hit by that taxi speeding over the double-white lines!

Andiamo... Let's go. It's time for lunch!
Subito... Now, or you are Dead Meat, Dog!

FAI POOH-POOH!!!... Do The Hard-stuff... NOW!!!

Whereas, Any & All Discussions of Political, Social or Historical Import, are entirely conducted in English, such as...

Your realize, of course, My Dear Dog, that the advent of a neo-Fascist party in the United Kingdom is due to the deplorable management of the economy and the ill-conceived social initiatives by New Labour for the marginalized of English Society.

Naturally, The Dog could care less for these kinds of arguments. He's ONLY interested in his dinner. Gads.

The view from the top...

A muddy labyrinth...

Yes, very disgusting. And, good that you cannot see "way down deep in dere". The Dog's Weimaraner labyrinth for an ear quickly converts any ol' dust into a bio-rich sludge rivaling that of the Nile, the Ganges, the Tiber... or, those euwcky canals in Bangkok.
The tell-tale sign of an over-abundance of ear-gook is The Dog's incessant flapping or scratching of one or, both. Normally, this occurs while I am administering intense goolie-goolies on The Bumpy-headed Short-person. And, paar for the evening, who is also asleep in front of the TV tube. Nonetheless, I know then, Duty & a Q-tip calls.

A Perfect World would be for The Dog to clean his own ears. No such luck. I am The Anoitted One to chase him around the house with a pack of Q-tips in hand. Certainly, The Short-person... who is a doctor too!!!... would ever deem to do so. No. In these sorts of cases, The Dog is mine. So be it.

The Dog seems to know... instinctively... that A Deep Cleaning is in his immediate future. And, even before I have gone to the upstairs bathroom for the tips. He dashes for either of one i suoi posti... a mattress-like safe haven and made so by official contract too... hoping to avoid the encounter. This tactic is useless. It leaves me no other choice, but to grab him by his green nylon collar and I yank him off his bed and over to a bright light for A Mud Confirmation. Blessedly, this actions keeps me within the contractual confines... i.e. of never administering medicines or Q-tips while The Dog is on either of i suoi posti.  Naturally, The Dog attempts to forestall the impeding procedure by digging into the Oriental carpet... a very expensive one and a gift from The Short-person's mother... with his hugely long Weimarner nails. If the rug could talk, it would yell "OUCH!!!" They're sharp talons.
What I am given to see makes me want to swoon or... and, this 2nd one is a decidedly less pleasant option... of throwing up. No need to describe the scene "way down dere!" However, 10 to 12 Q-tips later, I stand up and say to The Dog... "It's all better, Moses!" Then, I have to go right to the Kitchen for a treat. If not, The Dog barks his absolute displeasure. So, I hurry, 'cause his ears are clean. Gads.

Back with The Dog...

Yes, Dear Readers, I am back & united once again with The Dog after a wonderful trip to the US with The Short-person in tow. It was our best excursion ever. Here are a few photographic highlights...
 
Sunrise on Fernandina Beach...

The Main drag on Cumberland Island...

A stately mansion on a square in Savannah.
Actually, The Short-person & I have been back for some time now. I have had to spend the aftermath of My Absence by re-establishing discipline with My Adored Canine about the following unwarranted behaviors...

1. Dragging me by his leash where I DO FEAR TO TRED...

2. Suffering The Dog's irritation WITH A BARRAGE OF WEIMARANER BAR-RUFFS when I refuse to share with him what I am nibbling on while sitting at my desk...
which, reminds me of A Very Important Point...

I don't go after The Dog with Q-tips or medicines or his grooming mitten on His Hollowed Ground... i.e. either of his two beds in our open-space-loft domicile... so, why should The Dog afflict me at Mine? This is ONLY Fair Play. I would hope that The Dog would Cease & Desist but, it seems he will not.

3. Asking The Dog to choose a more Civil Hour of The Day... please... AND NOT AT 3:45 AM IN THE MORNING... to lick his hind-parts incessantly. Deep Cleaning is better done at, say, 11 AM, when I am gainfully employed elsewhere, like at the gym. There I cannot hear The Dog's basso slurping noises.

and...

4. Accept that there will be times when taking The Short-person's beat-up ol' AUDI IS NOT POSSIBLE and that, as A Gentle-dog, he would be kind enough to curl himself up into a micro-ball of Weimaraner on the FIAT sport-car's minimal right-hand seat, keeping track that his LARGE Weimar-ears stay of the stick-shift... thank you very much.

I have had my work cut out for me. Gads.

To My Dear Readers...

The Short-person & I are about to embark upon a trip to the United States this coming Thursday. Sadly, this means, I will be off-line with The Dog's Stories... so to speak... until the first of October. 

For those of you worried about The Dog, he will be consigned to the Dog-sitter this coming Wednesday for the duration of Our Trip. Not to despare, however. The Dog is quite delighted by the respite from Our Company and is looking forward to getting some much needed rest on The Dog-Sitter's sofa. At Our House, this sort of shenanigan is... ABSOLUTELY FORBIDDEN!!! Gads.

WANTED...

This animal here has KDFST... Known Delinquent Food Scavenging Tendencies. Yes, it's a bit long but, what can I do about it? It's The Dog.

The other day, I ran into a neighbor of ours who said Moses had come wandering into her home unannounced. Oh! Mamma mia! I said, I am sooo sorry. Oh! No problem, she replied, I think Moses is a wonderfully well-behaved dog. Better than some of my children! Gads. Could that be possible? Ha! I retorted anyway, if only to keep up appearances as a RDP... Responsible Dog Parent. He was only looking for a treat! The neighbor promptly asked, Does he like bread? Oh! I said, It's Numero Uno! Well, maybe Numero Due, right after meat. However, I had to inform Our Dear Neighbor that The Dog's entrance into her house is The Fault of everyone who meets this scavenger-animal-food-disposal. All because another neighbor gives The Dog whatever he barks for... sweat & tasty biscuits, meat just off the kitchen grill, pasta with tomatoes & wild mushrooms... and even a dessert of Tira-mi-su, for cryin' out loud!!! Then, naturally, The Dog comes & throws it all up at me feet minutes later. Gads.

This phases The Dog not in the least. Perhaps he thinks the up-side outweighs the down on the Food Scale. Chissa? Who knows?
The other evening, The Dog dared to pester Our Generous Hosts & us Guests too at a lovely meal served out on their scenic terrace. The full August Moon glowing down upon us from the Tuscan Heavens above along with an exhausted Venus having traipsed to & fro all the summer long. Anyway... The Dog hovered & paced from one side of the table to the other like a fly at a barn buffet. His ample & potent Weimaraner nose poked close to everyone's plate piled high with a magnificent tuna & capers pasta, tomato salad with tiny zucchini and some of the best carpaccio & pinoli this side of the Arno River. Then, by chance and in between sips of an excellent local white wine, I happened to spy Our Handsome Host AND his Father too, surreptitiously passing morsels of various edible divinities off their plates for The Dog to enjoy to his COMPLETE & TOTAL Satisfaction. I should have know that he was responsible for that tell-tale SNAP every Now & Then!!! I thought it was the mosquitoes. Instead, it was The Dog's Weimaraner jaws clamping down on a mouthful of pasta alla conchiglia oozing with tuna-fish & olive oil.
I must say... The Dog ain't too smart. The least he could have done was avoid that final SMACK of his Weimaraner lips, so not to be caught IN FLAGRANTE!!! He should have sat down & savored said morsels and have let me resume my white wine drinking!!! But no, he did not. I had to yell at him!!! I could not loose face with The Short-person... one fervently & ardently OPPOSED to The Dog's presence within 6 meters of a dining table... sitting between me and those two culprits. Gads.

So, if you find The Dog snooping in your house, let him have whatever. But, please, don't tell me know about it. And, be sure The Short-person is far, far away too!!! Gads.    

What I mostly see of My Dog...

His Weimaraner butt!!!

Lovely hind-quaters, no?

His Special Bone...

Every Now & Then, The Dog feels it is time to show me what kind of Weimaraner stuff he is really made of. 

So, seeing me hard at work on blogs & things, The Dog trots-off upstairs and pulls out of his dog-toy box his Special Bone. He then returns, plops on his downstairs bed and proceeds to work on his bone, while I sit typing at my desk beside him. 

It is The Special Communion between Man AND Dog. 

Unfortunately for The Dog, that bone then must come with us wherevere we are, wherever we go... whatever we are doing...

in the car... 

on our w-a-l-k-s... 

to the bar for a cappuccino... 

or, on the rug in front of the TV upstairs. 

Yes. To another person in Our Household, Weimaraner teeth cutting haphazardly into bone is not the most pleasant of accompaniments. This is especially true when The Short-person is watching a Lucchino Visconti film on mad ol' Ludwig. Then, the Special Bone is summarily separated from the Dog by said Viewer of the film. Have you ever heard a Weimaraner pester someone with incessant whinning? Pathetic. And, annoying too. So, Dog, Bone and myself go back downstairs to work and The Short-person is left to his Italo-germanic feel good film starring Helmut Berger. Gads. 

An Official Emergency Sack...

This is An Official Emergency Sack. It is for The Dog's bio-waste... or, solid donation... pooh-pooh... ca-ca... and so on and so forth. By Italian Law... and this is of vital importance... I am obligated to have at least 3 of these things on me... at all times... when out with The Dog. The Question is... how am I to maintain the constant quantity of 3, if The Dog uses 2 on our w-a-l-k-s? And, because of how things do or do not work here in Italy, you live in constant Terror of being confronted by a Vigile or by a Vigilessa... basically... a low-grade AND annoying sort of meter reader in a blue uniform. However, they are also entrusted with additional duties of making your civil life in the city UN INFERNO by fining you for every infraction of the city's Rules & Regulations they see committed. One of these would be how you manage your dog's bio-waste. But, enough about them... 

In the meantime... I am sure you all are anxious to learn of the key details of just what makes An Official Emergency Sack. Now, don't deny it! So, here we go...

1. It needs to be plastic... yes, waste creates more waste when the real waste makes fertilizer for the city's under-nourished flora...

2. It needs to be LARGE enough to do The Job but, SMALL enough to avoid creating unsightly bulges in your back pants pockets...

3. Handles are important... for that final bow before tossing the O.E.S. into the nearest bin...

4. Recycled sacks are the best... it's such a great advertisement for the local supermarkets & pharmacies... 

5. NO HOLES at the bottom. Need I say more?

Now, if you will excuse me, The Dog wants to go out. Gads.

The Dog Park in August...

Oh! By the way... here is the Creature Count during our visit to the Aquasola Park where there is fenced-in strip of gravel dedicated to dogs and cleverly referred to by the locals at the Dog Park...

The Dog... on his lonely peregrinations...
2 mothers...

and their 5 children.
That was it! A city, even a big one like Genoa, can be pretty darn vacant in August at Noon.

And, you have certainly noticed how superbly maintained the park's "grounds" are? Gads.

Median strips...

Yes. Here is The Dog blatantly disgracing himself by burying his large Weimaraner snout into the uncharted territory of the greenery in the median strip in front of the "Juvenile Delinquent" Court here in Genoa. He picked his spot well, didn't he? 

We were supposed to be on our way to a special out-of-hours visit to the city's Dog Park. Scuzzy place, as per a previous blog. I thought it would be a change for the Dog to leave the confines of an air-conditioning loft and instead, re-acquaint himself with the wild urban outdoors. The Dog took the liberty to partake of all along our way. I finally had to yank him away from any further fall before the court. Also, I had only put in a single Euro coin in the parking meter. We had to hurry! The ticket gave us 30 minutes. Gads. 

Stuff for a dog to slobber over...

Well, yes... the first time I opened a can of this brand of dog-food, The Dog, hearing the POP!!! of the can's metal tab and the aromatic WHOOSH!!! of meaty things to eat, bounded down from his upstair bed and into the Kitchen in Record Time. There he was parked just inside the Kitchen's doorway, anticipating Heaven in his dog bowl.

Yes, well... this Heaven, which comes to The Dog in two daily doses and purported to be from lands down-under is... from what I can tell of the micro-printing on the can's label... a hometown product from right here in Genoa, Italy, Europe. The Dog never knew he was so close to Paradise. Gads.

Dog in the heat...

It has been violently hot here this summer. It still is too. The days alternate from a convection oven to a steam bath with hardly a variation in the heat or humidity. The temp seems to always hover around 100+.

This is NOT good weather for a Weimaraner. 

I am a bit amazed we even made it to this little non-descript park today. It's down this major artery from our apartment in our smog & heat-wave throttled city in the middle of August. And, I am mystified too that the grass is oddly lightly green. Dogs water it. That must be why. 
Normally, The Dog does his Dance to go out, and then, just stands on our apartment building's front stoop, drooling, head in the hang-dog position and his laser eyes glaring up at me like I must be mad. Well, I have to say to The Dog... 
Tis not I, Dog, who asked to be taken out for a w-a-l-k at Noon! 
Naturally, rejecting any Responsibility for his decisions, The Dog turns & points his 30+ kilo Weimaraner body towards the door. This means The Dog wants to return to the Comfort of air-conditioning. Gads.

An Important Reminder...

Here is An Important Reminder, a note for One & All to incorporate into the scheme of your daily ebb & flow...

Moses is the Mostest Moses of all the Moseseseses!!!

and so on and so forth. Gads.

Every dog needs a song...

I think every dog needs A Special Song. Moses has many. Here is his Summer-Time Song... with much thanks to Mr. Paul Anka...

Put your Weimaraner head on my shoulder

Let your big ears flop in my face, baby

Snuggle your 30+ kilos next to my 110+

Show me that you love me too!

Put your Weimaraner lips close so I can smell your bad dog-breath

Don't lick me, please, not even once, baby

Just a sniff Goodnight, maybe

You and I will fall in love!

Put your Weimaraner head on my shoulder

Try to whisper rather than bark in my ear, baby

Words I want to hear and not that you demand a Treat

Tell me, tell that you love me too!

Gads.

Ruled by his equipment...

Yes, all a Weimaraner really needs to make his way in The World is...

his nose, all the better to sniff disgusting things... 

and... 

his Weimaraner tongue, all the better to lick them. Gads.

The Dog is a damn clock...

Yep. The Dog is upset with me. Very upset. He got tired of waiting. So, he came into the Kitchen and barked...

Where is my dinner? It should have been served nearly 15 minutes ago! I have been on my downstairs bed waiting patiently for your call, "Come and get it, Moses!" and what do I discover? It isn't ready! Instead, you are sautéing fish for that Short-person,  who twists my ears thinking I like that. Can't he just scratch my head like the others? Now, where is my dinner?

Nope. He was not the least bit interested that I was busily fixing The Short-person's evening repast. Just another one of My 24/7 Duties. For The Dog, priorities are priorities and his ALWAYS must take precedence! Dinner is at 6PM.

Yep. The Dog is a clock with an alarm set for the following hours...

9AM... Time to go out for W-a-l-k Numero Uno... 

10AM... A Treat followed immediately by Breakfast. Then, a nap...

Noon... A Treat and, if it isn't over 80+ degrees outside, W-a-l-k Numero Due. Then, a nap...

4PM... W-a-l-k Numero Tre', unless it is over 80+ degrees. Then, he'll take a Treat and wait until 5Pm for the W-a-l-k...

6PM... Dinner...

9PM... A very short W-a-l-k Numero Quattro, longer, but not too long, if the outside temp is not over 80+ degrees. Then, it's Beddy-bye Time.

At 9:01Pm, I am all done in. But then, there's The Short-person to attend to. Gads.

Stripes make him impatient...

Another look. This one says...

OK... while I fry in this 100+ heat, why are you not in the driver seat putting this tin can-with-no-roof into gear to stir up some much needed breeze?

I did. And, still The Dog insisted upon putting his floppy-eared Weimaraner head next to the gear-shift handle.

Please note: there's no towel where I sit to protect my fanny from the scalding black leather upholstery.

Gads.

What not to do on a beach in August...

This is The Dog on the freebie beach in Sardinia. Yep. The Dog digging again. We escaped there for 10 days of R & R... I was accused of being nervous, hysterical and a poor dinner guest. I agreed so, I grabbed The Dog and we took the next boat. I should have taken a peek at a calendar though. We arrived smacked at the beginning of the August Vacations. Big mistake. You don't want to be around Italians... any & all Italians... furious for Fun & Frolic on their own professed shores. Yes, because, these actual shores belong to The Sardinia Region... a semi-quasi-sort-of republic. Seems logical. There is a sizeable body of water separating the island from the Italian peninsula. This half-baked distinction means the Sardinians get to keep some of their own tax monies, unlike the rest of Italy. Their Euros have to go to Rome. Must be why the Italians invade every August. Revenge. 

But, enough...

There was a second reason for going to France... Sweden... or even to little tiny Switzerland, for cryin' out loud... over sailing to Sardinia. The Dog dug up sleeping yellow jackets. Yep. August is just about the time those critters wake-up & pester the world. The Dog & I had to beat a very hasty retreat to the car and high-tail it for home.

That was fine. The Dog resumed Nap #43 on the cool marble floor of the apartment and I watched Shakespeare in Love... what a bunch of icky Hollywood dribble called acting. But then, what does Gwenyth know how to do otherwise? She doesn't even look good in Ralph Lauren... while sipping an excellent Sardinian Vermentino. 

And, we never went back to the beach again. Gads.

Cool...

Beatrice and The Dog at nap time.