Andie in Tummy Rub Mode (aka: odalisque )
Our weeks are now settling into a pattern. Andie is getting much better at house training and I am forever noted as that old man who carries a plastic bag around the neighborhood. The village sewer line runs right down the middle of the street and Andie, like Bodhi Dog before her, can sense it and follow it for some distance before a cat or bird diverts the rapture. The condition of that street probably resembles something found in the Middle Ages with ruts and pot holes deep enough to drown her if we ever get any rain. We have had one middling rain in the past six months.
Thankfully, someone came along and filled the sink holes with homemade asphalt last week. Naturally, Andie thought they looked very inviting, but not very tasty. Although our street looks like any other in our two block downtown, it is in fact a ‘private’ road and completely neglected by the county. Our cottage sits on a slight rise, maybe twenty feet above grade so, several of us now consider ourselves to be living on a ‘private’ road in the Heights as opposed to the Flats.
Times are changing and we must adapt. The San Francisco Chronicle featured an article last week that stated our little two-stop town is destined to be the next haute wine county chic destination. Andie and I live not more than five minutes from the Country Farm House Inn, which in the old days was a $wenty five a night flop house for hippies and out-a-town river rats going to the Russian River. It’s cheapest rooms are now in the $400.00 a night + (two night minimum) range. Andie of course knows nothing of the gentrification and expensive ruin brought on by arrogant techi millennials, who have polluted San Francisco like the Prada Borg and are spreading outward to create rural pleasures of the exquisite not known since Marie Antoinette. Thankfully, our pot-hole streets and country shabby environs will delay the inevitable until Andie has had her full run of puppy-hood.
In spite of the terraforming horror of viticulture that has leveled all within view of old Redwoods and Live Oaks, our neighborhood is still filled with fruit orchards. Andie habitually explores everything in sight with her nose to the ground. So, I am still pulling peach and plum pits out of her mouth. The plum pits are too small for her to crush so they don’t seem to harm her and the victory she scores on escaping my hovering concern fills her with delight. The peach pits, however, are large and I worry about the traces amounts of natural arsenic they contain.
Several days ago she barfed up something that I swear came from Ghost Busters—-I won’t elaborate, but it scared the hell out of me. Poor little thing. But for all that, she’s still a pup, and undauntedly hunts trash like a compacter. Yesterday, however, was a singular triumph for Andie. She seems addicted to cigi buts, and by Gawd, scored a cigar stub several days ago. All these treasures seem concentrated around the streets near the Methodist Church which hosts AA meetings on a regular basis. But, fortune continues to bless Andie, she found a cherry tomato in the Church parking lot and carried it around for a whole day before she ate it—on the bed, where she reigns in complete security among a pile of squeak and pull toys.
So, such is the week’s report on my little darling.