Le Pet(omane)

A foul odor floats around the room, as if a phantom skunk is skipping from chair to chair, waving an invisible rotten egg beneath the nose of everyone present; or perhaps the local sewers have exploded and we shall soon be engulfed by a rising tide of effluence. But no, the source of the disgusting smell is more mundane than that: an evil fart has been silently expelled from somebodies turbulent nether regions. Open the windows and light a match before we are forced to evacuate the premises.
The dog did it, everyone agrees, for such a wretched stench could surely never emerge from the bowels of any living person. Frowning human faces and accusatory fingers converge upon the poor, bewildered animal, who, unable to deny the charge, silently assumes the burden of guilt and shame. 

Not only are dogs a man's best friend, they are also his best and most convenient scapegoat. "The dog did it" is a sort of pet-owning equivalent of the mystery author's "the butler did it." Dogs don't complain or seek redress, however; they just look sad and go back to sleep. But, like the foul odor itself, a sense of injustice must still linger in the canine mind. They probably do understand the irony and profound injustice of the situation: they sat beneath the dinner table begging for some chicken but weren't given any, and now fart fumes of digested chicken are stinking up the place and they're being blamed for causing them! It's like one of Job's hard luck stories from the Old Testament. In other words, a typical day in a dog's life.

Roly Poly Fish Head

In the ancient myths, disembodied heads discovered in unusual places always have a lot to say for themselves. They really enjoy the sound of their own foreboding, portentous voices: on and on they drone about the various dooms which will befall their audience if specific instructions are not obeyed and certain tasks are not completed.
So I was suitably concerned when Lola came upon a disembodied fish head on the beach, since nothing looks more gloomily portentous than the frowning face of a disembodied fish head. If a disembodied fish head is speaking, you can bet your last bottom-feeding sand-dollar that its message is going to be unpleasant.

Fortunately, this particular disembodied fish head remained silent during the encounter with Lola. Since such heads are endowed with supernatural powers, it probably knew that Lola only understands two words: 'chewy treat' and 'squeaky toy,' neither of which commonly appear in grim prophecies or baleful prognostications from the netherworld.
Consequently it must have decided that any attempt to converse with the dog was bound to fail. 
'Not wasting my ectoplasmic breath on the stupid mutt,' the disembodied fish head probably muttered to itself. 'It will only pee in my empty eye socket.'
A reasonable conclusion in the circumstances. Still, it could at least have said hello.

The Beast's Feast

You will never witness a facial expression more intense than Lola's when she's staring at food, especially human food. If you're carrying a plate of sausages from kitchen to dinner table her solemn, unblinking eyes will follow you around the room, just like a creepy portrait painting in Scooby Doo. 
She is always entranced by the food-illuminating light in the refrigerator when I open the door; not by the miracle of electricity itself, of course, but by the wealth of edible objects it reveals. She gazes at the shelves of gleaming groceries with spellbound eyes and a quivering nose. You can almost hear the tsunami of drool gushing through her gluttonous jaws. 
Observing her in this fridge-hypnotized state, I'm often reminded of archaeologist Howard Carter peering into the golden tomb of Tutankhamun: 'Can you see anything?' Carter was asked. 'Yes, wonderful things,' he replied. 

To be fair, the canine food pyramid is particularly dull and unappetizing. Compared to our multi-colored cornucopia it's a shapeless lump of crumbly brown things with a thin stratum of rawhide. 
No wonder dogs obsess over our dinners when presented with such dreary rations in their own bowls. For them, a fridge full of people food must indeed be a vision of mesmerizing treasures, especially the back of the fridge where lurks a lifetime's supply of crumbs and blobs of lickable goo. 
Alas, just as tomb-plundering Howard Carter was punished by an ancient Pharaoh's curse, so Lola is also struck down after stealing treasure from its rightful home, even if that treasure is only the remains of last night's shepherd's pie. And just as there is no facial expression more intense than Lola's when she's staring at food, there is none more pathetic than her's when she's puking up that same food all over the floor. 

What Breed of Dog Is That?

It's late and I'm very tired but Lola needs walking before bed. With any luck we can do a quick three block circuit, poop, pee and call it a night. Alas, there are always unforeseen complications when you're escorting a dog down city streets, no matter what the time of day.

Lola's sniffing around our neighbor's forbidden flower beds when a nosy, dog-loving passer-by stops to pat her head. Great, this puerile fool is going to extend the walk by about ten minutes. But I briskly return the dog-loving passer-by's goggle-eyed grin nonetheless. I've one eye watching Lola revel in the attention and the other anxiously examining my neighbor's curtains for signs of movement. 

'What breed of dog is that?' the passer-by asks between slobbering dog licks on their lips.

'Chilean Sea Bassett Hound.' 

'I'm sorry, a what?'

'A Chilean Sea Bassett Hound.' I repeat. 'They are specially bred to dive off boats and dig holes on the ocean floor looking for oysters and clams. We rescued her from a coral reef off the coast of Valparaiso.'

'Oh. Er, okay. She's very cute isn't she ... what's with the one floppy ear?'

'Well, they use their ears like flippers when they're swimming and she must have broken hers and couldn't swim anymore. That's probably why the Chilean pescadors abandoned her on the coral reef.'

'Oh well, she's very, very cute and she's very friendly.'

'Yes. She probably thinks you're a fish.' 

'Okay. Bye bye little puppy. Bye bye.'

(Under breath) 'Moron.'

Remembrance of Things Past

I often wonder if Lola ever takes a stroll down memory lane, chasing yesterday's squirrel into the bushes of times gone by, barking at recollections of ancient mailmen delivering yet more sepia-tinted synapses. I can certainly imagine her waxing nostalgic for long gone lamposts and fire hydrants she once peed upon; keeping sentimental scrapbooks of favorite bones and long lost rawhide chews; placing faded pictures of her parents beside her little dog basket, assuming she has any idea who her parents were. She might even compile elaborate family trees with roots reaching back to disappointingly unglamorous mongrel ancestors from the nether regions of European backwaters, were she able to register for one of those genealogical websites that are so popular these days. And it might seem somewhat egotistical on my part, but I like to think she'd never forget on what day my birthday falls.

But does Lola possess a memory scent strong enough to follow down memory lane? It seems unlikely. She can't even remember a command stop barking given ten seconds ago. But, of course, dogs and humans co-exist in a slide-rule relationship with time: dogs supposedly living seven years for every human year, so my seconds-old command to stop barking probably already seems like last week to Lola, consequently I shouldn't be surprised she's forgotten to obey. Indeed, if I want to stop Lola barking I should probably order her to stop at least three days before I think she's going to start so that our command timelines coincide. I suggested this method of dog training to TV's The Dog Whisperer but his people failed to get back to me.

To the Poodle Parlour

An early Spring walk through the pre-green woods; still a leafless landscape of vertical
brown sticks, like strolling through the bristles of an old toothbrush. It rained overnight and the path is clogged with lumpy black mud that I leap across and sidestep, as if performing some primitive Wiccan dance. Lola doesn't care, however, she runs and rolls in all kinds of filth without a second thought. 
Dogs have been domesticated for as long as humans have, so it's somewhat surprising that they've never learned to avoid getting dirty, especially since our canine companions absolutely detest being bathed. In fact, a dog in a bath in only slightly less wriggly than a tub full of hyperventilating eels. Dogs apparently prefer the contortionist's trick of trying to lick themselves clean. Alas, rawhide stained saliva is not an acceptable substitute for good old soap, as anyone whose nose is frequently within close proximity to a dog can readily attest.

Consequently, the world of retail commerce has given us the Pet Spa; a combination of breeder's kennel and high street hair salon; the grey area in a dog owner's venn diagram where Vidal Sassoon meets Cesar Milan; a place where you wouldn't be surprised to learn that Garnier Fructis make a flea and tick shampoo. Still, it beats having Lola stink like Mother Nature's unwashed backside.

Mumford & Sons & the Family Dog

Value is a very subjective term when applied to goods and services. Who knows what an article for sale is truly worth? For instance, I have no idea why a banana costs much less than a Mumford and Sons CD; surely a banana is more useful and even more entertaining? A banana can be eaten in a suggestive manner and afterwards its skin can be cast upon the sidewalk to provide hours of pratfall fun. A Mumford and Sons CD, however, can only be played: much to the annoyance, I might add, of anyone in earshot. There is always the drink coaster option, I suppose, but then what would you do with all those old Gypsy Kings CDs already protecting your furniture from unsightly stains? 
Whatever, my point is that you can buy roughly fifty really useful bananas for the price of a single, not very good Mumford and Sons CD. 
Of course, it is a truism that something is only worth what someone is willing to pay for it. Personally, I would gladly pay five dollars for a banana if I wasn't aware that grocers sell them for twenty-five cents each. Perhaps I might even fight a gorilla for one. Would a teenage girl do battle with a gorilla for a Mumford and Sons CD? I think not. But then it's unlikely any self-respecting gorilla would want the wretched CD in the first place (despite the fact that only a filthy, flea-bitten ape could truly relate to the lyrical content in any meaningful way). But I digress.
Perhaps the most bewildering set of valuations occurs in the pet dog market, where the answer to "how much is that doggy in the window?" ranges from many thousands of dollars to free-to-a-good-home. Free can get you a cute little terrier capable of learning enough tricks to be called a canine Houdini; many thousands of dollars, on the other hand, might burden you with a cretinous Labrador Retriever unable to retrieve its snout from its own anus; and vice versa, obviously. So caveat-emptor when considering a canem, as Cicero might advise.
Lola was a rescue puppy; meaning she was free to adopt provided we paid the rescue part, an operation described to us as a sort of Black Hawk Down and Lassie Come Home mash up. Apparently it's expensive and dangerous to transport a cuddly bundle of joy across state lines. But Lola has been worth every penny, even if you add in the total cost of all the shoes, cushions and rugs that she's ripped to shreds and destroyed. Worth more even, I have to say, than an entire boat load of bananas. After all, you can't put a price on a face like this.