Excuse us for Technorati reasons... 79vr5smftd

79vr5smftd

Out of synch...

Our HEAT & extreme HUMIDITY of late has thrown The Dog's four w-a-l-k-s a day all out of kilter. We are down to two. Yes. Gosh. I wonder if The Dog realizes The Math here? It's a 50% reduction in taking in the urban fabric & its noxious airs.

The Dog now point blank refuses to go out for his 12:03PM departure. May I say? I am not the one who originally chose this particular moment of the day to go outside. Nope. It wasn't me. However, being mildly Democratic of nature, I let The Dog choose his Times and now, I am letting him un-choose them.

Then, the 8:55PM departure... which was, actually, the first outing to be chucked... continues to be A No-Go. Once The Dog has climbed up the stairs to Rest & Nap on his upstairs wool-layered cotton jacquard-covered mattress, he deigns not to descend until the morn. 8:20AM is the norm. This says a lot about Weimaraner Grit. That The Dog can squeeze his sphincter closed and shut the valve to his urinary track for over twelve hours is...? Is...? Well, is a testament to either his laziness or determination not to be bothered after a certain hour of the day.

This leaves us with the 9:00AM... or there abouts... and the 4:40 PM departures. Neither hour is optimal. The morning stroll is to be beseiged by harried commuters since, The Dog enjoys leaving his "donations" at the depressingly ill-maintained park at the Metro subway stop. And frankly, the afternoon ambling could be very well postponed a couple of hours, so that we might enjoy some shade along the oleander lined allee of via Milano... the local province of Pee & Poop.

Ah... but, The Dog insists and I must obey. That's Democracy for you. Gads.

Groooooming...

However... every Now & Then... leaving behind sensations of Fritto-Lays corn-chips, I occasionally have to set The Dog straight regarding his Personal Appearance etc... though mostly his stink. Can he not resist The Temptation to drape himself on a concrete side-walk while I use the ATM?
Let's go right to Our Short Scene...














Moses! Excuse me, but, you have vociferously bad Weimaraner odours. You need a groooooming!

This entails the following regimen...
1. I lead The Dog outside to brush him with a rubber-studded mitten. This may be too S & M for some but, for The Dog, it is Paradise on Earth. He arches his back right & left, lets out a Weimaraner groan of delight and... at times... his tongue flops in & out with... Yes! I have to say it... Ecstasy!!!
Then...
2. We return inside for the Apple-Vinegar Whipe. The Dog HATES this. He bolts for il suo posto... a Contractural Out-of Bounds... and one of two such beds in our two floor loft-open-space appartmento. Nonetheless, the vinegar is the only product which restores The Dog's canine pelt to its original lustrous Weimaraner Glow & Feel, though the residual odour leaves much to desire, competition to his previous stink.
And...
3. The Dog is rubbed-down with his Special Towel... a multi-color Egyptian cotton towel bought for the whopping price of Euro 2.90 at a local street-market. The Dog adores this.
Finally...
4. I have to give him a Treat. Without this Final Step, I fear The Dog would rebel. Thank God, he cannot hide underneath a sofa. Gads.

Dog love...

Sometimes... I don't know... but, I just can't help it...

I become overwhelmed with Love for My Dog!!!

Then, I discover that he smells exactly like a bag of Frittoes.

Naturally, The Dog has no idea why I am sniffing & hugging & clutching & smooching him for so long a time. However, he takes it all in his stride... he is already used to Total Adulation... and yet, he can find it within himself to return the compliment by giving me a great big long Weimaraner lick. Ahhhhhhhh...

Is there no greater love than that between Man & Dog?

Gads.

Canine Spiritualities...

This is Tiziana. She is Our Spiritual Adviser. I asked her to check on The Dog too while visiting us. The Dog has seemed so sluggish lately. Probably, suffering from a post-Sardinian Vacation Slump. Certainly, The Short-person is. Or, it might be the cloudy, cool & humid weather

Tiziana came up with the following spiritual analysis...

Yewr Dowg eeez deeeprss-ed.

The Dog has just heard the "D" word.

Today at the Local Dog Park...

This is The Dog at the local Dog Park. Pretty scuzzy looking. Please note: the accumulation of refuse way down at the other end, right where a KILLER Dobermann is chained to a wrought-iron bench. Thank God, it's securely anchored down.

The Dog loves the Dog Park. He adores the smells, etc. To me, the pestilent stink rivals an elephant house at the zoo. Instead, it's an odiforous buffet for The Dog. It takes him from 30 to 40 minutes to sniff-sniff-sniff... occasionally lifting his leg on cogent traces... all around the make-shift perimeter fence which, encloses The Dog Area off from the People Park. I usually read a freebie newspaper left behind on a bench or, talk with folk I know & like until The Dog is done. Then, he wants to head for home... immediately. The Dog is not keen on the canine riff-raff. They bother him. The Dog does not play well with others.

That not-so Golden Retriever splayed out on the scuzzy gravel is Tea. She is The Dog's ex-flame. It was Hot & Heavy there for a while, lo' these many years ago, back when they were renegade puppies. Now, Tea can't stand him. She shows him her teeth! Gads. The Dog has just been thwarted in his 3rd Rape Attempt. Tea did more than just show him teeth. She growled & nipped at him. Time for home.

New Canine World Order...

This is the happy countenance of a Weimaraner secure in the notion that he is just one of us. Life was SIMPLER... ever so much simpler... when The Dog thought we were all like him. Sometime between Then & Now, a change occured and I am now socked-in by The Dog's New World Order... dammit! Naturally, this New Entitlement requires the rigourous adherence to the following Regime of Things...
1. The Dog tells me when & where & how we go for one of 4 w-a-l-k-s a day... thankfully, if he doesn't want to go out, WE DON'T GO OUT!
2. The Dog tells me when he is hungry and/or it's Treat Time... he disdains the "healthy" doggie cookies acquired at our local doggie emporium. No. Now, I must ALWAYS have on hand a life-time supply of dried bread, Swiss cheese and/or low-salt chicken hot-dogs. And, those have to be the "Gulliver" brand. Nothing else is accepted! I find it curious though that, apparently, he is not in the least upset by this last item's name. How do you say "C'est la vie" in German?
3. The Dog tells me when it's Play-time too... and his Preferred Hour is exactly when The Short-person has fallen asleep on the moderne sofa in front of the wide screen TV... he barks if I do not immediately toss one of several hundred Special Bones. The trick is for me to figure out which one his barks means... darn-it!
Both The Short-person AND myself... stressed & irritable by this change in canine pyschology or, do I mean politics?... are hoping this is only A Passing Phase in The Dog's Weimaraner Self-developmental Journey... dammit... AND that he will grow out of it very, very soon. Then, we can resume our age old order of..
"Moses! We are Men. You're a Dog!"

Well, if you must...

Ah, yes...
"Moses! You are so highly appraised!"
At least, by The Men of The World.
As for The Ladies, they're only interested in the safety of their illegally parked SUVs.
The Dog is used to this.

However, what he really wants to know is... post-haste... while serving as a photographic subject...

A) Why are we not moving? It's Nap-Time.

B) Why are the accomodations for Dogs so pitiful & uncomfortable... i.e. must that hand-brake poke my Weimaraner head?

C) How come pieces of bread, cheese, hot-dogs or, that entire can of meaty dog-food I saw you surrepticiously throw into the trunk of the car not served during Our Jaunt-to-Who-Knows-Where?

and..

D) Where is my sun-visor & Ray-bans... i.e. if you have a pair, I should have a pair too?

Well, I had inform The Dog that he was lucky to have been brought along. The Dog made NO COMMENT. Gads.

A Moses Medley from Sardinia...

Azzurro...

We are on the ferry-boat for home after our Sardinian vacation. It's a ga-zillion degrees on that bright blue iron flooring. The Dog spent 10 hours flipping himself. What else to do when you cannot pee or poop?

A local aside... that atrocious blue... azzurro... is The National Color of Italy. The Italian national soccer team wears it on their uniforms. The metal signage in all the Italian train stations have it. Ditto for the lamp-posts too. It is a preferred color for economy model FIAT cars. And, the Moby Line ferries are painted with it. Well, the Moby whale is an orangey-red. I have never seen an orangey-red whale... in My Life! Thank God, Tweety-bird and the Tasmanian Devil are not. Why those two characters are even painted on the flanks of a ferry-boat is beyond me. Nevertheless, the azzurro certainly does make The Dog's taupe look almost silver. Not bad, eh?

And... that extreme radiant heat off that iron cladding soothes The Dog's arthritis!!! Yes. Poor thing. 8 years old and already he hobbles. Little old Italian ladies stop us on our w-a-l-k-s to ask why My Dog stumbles along. I have to explain that it's his arthritis. They nod in sympathy. Then, they ask what we do for it. I explain about The Dog's arthritis combatting dog food... his arthritis combatting integrator pills... and his arthritis combatting medicines. The ladies pipe in with their list of combatting ailments, medicines and therapies and, suddenly, we are a crowd of folk gathered around an American with his Weimaraner talking Health Issues on a Genoese side-walk. Gads.

Caught in the act...

Here is a Little Scene from Sardinia...

But, first...

The Dog loves his Sardinian apartment. It has a sunny sea-view balcony, all the better to sunbathe undisturbed and, more importantly, to control who is passing on the street below. Mostly, it's Sardinian geriatric folk with lounge-chairs on their way to the beach.

The Dog loves his Sardinian bed. He'd better. It cost a lot of money. It has 6 inches of tied wool- batting layered & hand-stitched & covered in a festive cotton multi-stripe mix, befitting a Sardinian vacation apartment.

The Dog also loves the cool Sardinian marble flooring, especially when the local thermometer climbs towards 90 degrees Fahrenheit... or there abouts.

However... The Dog HATES the Sardinian apartment building. Used to being the Top Dog in our palazzo in Genoa... he is The ONLY Dog in our palazzo in Genoa!!!... he is NOT in Sardinia. Nope. There are other dogs. Too many too. And, they all dare to bark at The Dog as he goes up & down the Sardinian stairs.

So... I caught The Dog sniffing at the door to another Sardinian apartment. There's Devil... pronounced Dvveeell by its owner, a formidable & commanding Sardinian woman we refer to as La Generalesca... on the other side. Stupid name. Stupid dog. This Sardinian animal pees against the inside of his apartment's door whenever The Dog is outside it... or, so explained La Generalesca. Then, the Stupid Dog barks & barks & barks & barks & barks, etc. at The Dog. What is he supposed to do but answer back in kind. By the way, The Dog has a beautiful Weimaraner baritone bark. He gets his point across... Ha! You stupid dog. I am going to the beach and you aren't. You Sardinian ninny!

Well... The Short-person DOES NOT abide by this sort of Canine Communication. And, he blames it ALL on The Dog!!! CAN YOU IMAGINE??? The Short-person grabs The Dog by his leash and summarily leads him inside our Sardinian apartment... adding his own verbal condemnations, such as... Cattivo! Cattivo! Cattivo! Poor Dog. Yet, if I comment... naturally, in a more favourable vein in order to protect My Dog from False Accusations... The Short-person turns & barks at me... Yew rrr spoillng yewr dohgg! Gads.

Noble aspects...

Is there a more noble creature than this?

Is there any other Dog designed to rest at my feet, lending me his taupe companionship... and, perhaps, his myiopic protection too, scanning the distant horizon for any unruly Jack Russell Terriers stalking about The Dog Park, as is his want... while his Master desperately tries to figure-out from the Italian instruction booklet just how in The Frigging HELL his new-fangled super-dooper AND expensive digital camera works?

I dare to hear a negative response.

What The Dog will resort to...

The Dog is NOT happy. He wants to go home... and eat breakfast. Nor is The Shortperson. He wants to be left in Peace... after his breakfast.
But, who cares about him? He's just an ol' grump. A Dog for him stays in his kennel until otherwise called upon to be paraded around for all to see before being carried back to the kennel by their un-paid keeper... i.e. Moi!!! Gads. What a Life. NOT for My Dog. Nor for Me.
Please note: the crossed arms of said Short-person. Don't miss the pursed lips either. So be it. I'd like to see him lie down on a cold & damp stone pavement, while Mr. You-know-who gets to munch on a fresh brioche & drink frothy cappuccinos the whole morning long while on vacation in Sardinia. The Dog's Tactic simply says...
Hey! I'm on vacation too and I am hungry, since you DID NOT BOTHER TO GIVE ME any of your brioche with marmalade stuffed inside... some of which fell on the same pavement I was condemed to drape myself upon! Don't you know it's Christian Charity to share??? And you, a Catholic!!! Better to be an Anglican, like that other person... whatever his name is.
I agreed.
Naturally, giving The Dog MY VOTE is politically risky, perhaps, even unpleasant. I must perpetually suffer the Politcal Comment of The Short-person, riguarding The Proper Behaviour of A Dog in Public, such as, in this case...
Look at what Your Dog is doing!!!
Are you implying... par hazard... that My Dog is misbehaving in some fashion? I'll have you know that The Dog is EXTREMELY well mannered and... for your fine information, Mr. Short-y-person... he is highly appraised AND applauded by one & all for his Beyond Repute Comportment en Publique... merci beaucoup, Monsieur. Furthermore, has it escaped your attention that all the bar-boys & girl, plus the entire complex of clientelle have come over to caress My Dog? Well, baring that one Swede-person with the back-pack.
Then, The Short-person's launched his "Harrumph"... in Italian. It's an ugly noise. Be glad that there isn't audio on this blog. And, Italian is such a beautiful language too.
Also, please note: The Dog did NOT come & bother me. The Dog knows... instinctively... who to inflict his brand of Weimaraner Sturm und Strang. I think he picked just the right person. I knew how to share! Gads.

What The Dog does at the beach...

Yes, visual proof that we have been on Our Annual Sardinian Vacation. Two weeks of sun & frolick for The Dog & Short-person too. I had to labor under My Normal Land-side Tasks of grocery shopping, feeding & walking these lazy characters. They did graciously allow me time off to read my exciting book on the innumerable conspiracy theories behind Princess Diana's death.. way back in '97!!! Frankly... I believe Diana's fame did her in. But then, that's not nearly so much fun as to think that M16 smeared an undetectable poison on the steering-wheel of the already bummed-out Mercedes-Benz... it was stollen two weeks before the tragedy. Kind of suspicious, no?... which then sent the French driver into cardiac arrest while the car sped pell-mell through that tunnel under Paris. C'est la vie.
Now... about The Dog on vacation...
Please note: that nasty bit of eco-erosion is all The Dog's fault. He is resting after digging-digging-digging it, Item #2 on his "Yippee! Stand clear, boys. I'm at the beach!" The area of our encampment often looks like it was bombed & strafed by marauding B-52s, once The Dog has had his fill of Dog at Work. Seems there is no greater satisfaction. Trims his nails too.
Item #1 is The Dog goes & jumps immediately in the water. Naturally, where no right-minded Human Being would ever dare to dip a toe... in the yuckie smelly algae invested pools of sea water gurgling around rocky shoals without the benefit of n'er a wave to disrupt its stinky & sulfurous Peace. This is no surprise to me, in light of The Dog's insistence upon utilising his Weimaraner schnoz for sniffing the most disgusting flotsam etc. found on Our Walks. Algae smell is... apparently... Paradise on Earth. However, The Dog ought to take it upon himself to wipe himself off before galloping over to lick me... thank you.
Item #2, previously mentioned...
Item #3 is The Dog works on his tan. He turns silver. Pretty cool, no? Moses is very sensitive to the sun. Did you know Weimaraners are canine albinos? Yep. I'd smear him with sun-protection, however, he'd just lick it off... damn-him. This is not helpful either. He gets really red around his leg-pits where there is hardly any Weimaraner hair to protect him. And yet, he insists on curling up under the blazing Sardinian sun.
There is no Item #4. I am very thankful it isn't something like... barking at passerbys. No sense in scaring some unsuspecting Swedish-person trekking to inspect a WWII bunker. Gads.