I had signed up for an Internet dating service. My dating activities were non-existent; I had tried meeting girls in all the usual places—Costco tire store, the West Coast Hubcap Convention, San Jose Jell-O Wrestling Nights, tool rental yards, and even a hip boot fashion show.

Oh, Rex has had a gal for years. Millie is his true love. Even though with her being an English Sheep dog and ten times as big as he, they make a lovely couple. But me? I am a chronic loser when it comes to women. My last date ended in shambles when I asked her to chip in with the tip at Denny’s. I thought women liked to be independent.

So, I had surveyed the available women on the dating site. One in particular, Sky, seemed to be a real stunner and a romantic. Good job, liked walks on the beach, picnics in the park, the Three Stooges, and rebuilding truck engines. I wondered, if she was such a catch, why hadn’t someone already scooped her up? Maybe she was a double leg amputee, since her photo was from the waist up. Anyway, I connected with her and eventually called her. She seemed nice, intelligent, and had a good sense of humor. Better yet, she had her own truck and tools.

We had agreed on a time and place to meet: 5:55 p.m. in the Denny’s parking lot. (I wanted to scoot in early enough to qualify for the early-bird special.)

I had decided to bring Rex and have him vet her. Rex and I sat in the car playing Paper Scissors Rock as a new Lexus drove in. A woman resembling the photo on the dating site got out. Holy mackerel! My heart almost leapt out of my dirty T-shirt. She came over to the car and introduced herself and then noticed Rex with his feet up on the backseat window, panting as though he had just run a marathon.

“Oh, this must be Rexie! Hi, little guy! Oh, Ted, he’s soooooo cute!!!”

“It’s TOM, not Ted.”

“Whatever. Oh, Rexie, Rexie, Rexie. You’re such a handsome young man!”

I got out of the car. “Well, Sky, let’s go in Denny’s and get to know each . . .”

“Oh! Let me hold Rex. Please? Pretty please?”

“Sure.”

She picked up Rex and nuzzled him and fawned over him.

Damned dog! She gives me a hand to shake, and lets him lick her face!!! He’ll pay for that. I slammed the door shut in his face extra hard to convey my being miffed at him.

Inside, we ordered our meals and she excused herself to go to the ladies room. She had been gone for an extremely long time. I looked out the window and there she was, IN THE PARKING LOT. She had snuck back out and was playing with Rex. She came back in. “Sorry, Tony. He’s just so cute.” As she sat down, Rex popped his head out of her purse. “I hope it’s okay that I brought him in, Ted.”

Oh, he’s going to get it when we get home . . .

I swear to God Rex winked at me. No more Costco pizza for him for a frickin’ YEAR . . .

Our meals came. Sky plowed through her lobster and filet mignon as I quietly munched on my hot dog. Rex would frequently poke his snout out of her purse and slurp up a tidbit from her like a wolf eel sucking up a sardine. I’m gonna chain him to the water pipe for a week. . .

As we finished, I mentioned that maybe it would be fun to take in a movie. They were playing “Silence of the Lambs” on the Costco big-screen TVs. She declined, but begged me to let her take Rex home for the night—she’d bring him home tomorrow.

“But . . . but . . . but, maybe we could . . .”

“Oh, THANK you, Ron. I’ll let him take a bath with me, too. He looks a little dirty. I’ll even give him breakfast in bed—he can have my leftover filet mignon.”

She left with Rex. I went home.

I lay there in bed, seething. Were they done with their little bathie-bathie yet? Was he under the covers, poking his wet warm snout into places where even my dreams dared not? Did he fall asleep with his paw on her hip? Did he lie on the pillow, just watching her breathe? Did he kiss her forehead when he got back in bed from getting up to pee in the middle of the night?

I had been out on an expensive date and she couldn’t even get my name right. My dog . . . MY DOG spends the night with her!!!

In the wee hours of the morning, a quiet resolve came over me. I realized I had been looking for love in all the wrong places. Bring on the slings and arrows of defeat. Hope springs eternal. Next weekend there was a TV Remote Control convention coming to town, AND Denny’s was having a two-for-one special.

* * *

Tom and / or Rex can be reached at burns100@earthlink.net.

Death Valley Days

Rex and I were on our way home from our annual camping trip to Death Valley. This year he got to chase wild burrows through the sage, and I think he fell in love with a teacup poodle at the Furnace Creek General Store. He woofed at the pup fish in Salt Creek, and he peed seventy or eighty times as we explored the ghost town ruins at Chloride Cliffs. I swear, he has to have the healthiest renal glands this side of the Pecos.

The highlight of the trip, though, was our walk up the hill in back of Death Valley Scotty’s Castle to pay tribute at the graves of Scotty and his favorite dog, Windy. Rex held off on hosing down the grave stones, which I thought was very admirable on his part.

On the way out of the Valley, we stopped at the restaurant at Stove Pipe Wells for a bite to eat and to savor the last of our time in Death Valley.

Figuring the county health department made very rare appearances at the restaurant at Stove Pipe Wells, I tucked Rexie under my arm and walked into the eatery.

I knew when I saw the chalkboard menu specials I was in for a culinary challenge: the Catch of the Day was Fish Sticks.

The waitress waddled over to the table. To say she was heavy would be an understatement—she had more chins than a Chinese phonebook. As she sauntered over to the table, scuffling her Muk Luks over the 1950s linoleum floor, she noticed a dog sitting in the booth with her new customer.

She growled, “Ain’t no dogs allowed in here.”

“And good day to you, too.” I leaned over to whisper to her, “This is not a dog, this is my nephew Rex from Indiana . . . don’t stare at him; he was a thalidomide baby.”

Humor evidently was not her strong suit. She took out her order pad and licked the tip of her pencil, stoically poised to take my order.

The Catch of the Day worried me, so I asked her, “What do you suggest?”

“Eat at Denny’s,” was her curt reply.

Like a fool, I went for the humor route again. “Ah, those fish sticks. Are they wild or farm-raised?”

“Don’t know. We buy them from Monsanto.” Her grumpiness didn’t become her.

“Indeed. And do you have stomach pumps on request?” Tough audience. That reminded me never to try stand-up comedy.

She glared at me. “Cute. Don’t ever try stand-up. No we don’t have stomach pumps, but the table setup includes mustard, ketchup, and Pepto-Bismol.”

“That’s comforting. Say, do you suppose I could get a hamburger or something along that line?”

“Yeah. We have two to choose from. The one with green lettuce and brown hamburger is five bucks. The one with brown lettuce and green hamburger is two-fifty.”

“Hhhhmmmmm. Let me think that over. Oh, by the way, is the lettuce wild or farm-raised?”

“I’ll be honest with you. It ain’t real lettuce. It’s pieces of brown butcher paper. If someone wants the fancy five-dollar burger, we spray paint it green.”

“What an ingenious approach to what I’m sure is a masterful presentation. I’m sure that would make a stunning centerfold in ‘Sunset Magazine.’”

“Don’t know about that, but we did make the centerfold of ‘Ptomaine Digest.’ Got a few copies left if you want to buy one,” she huffed.

“Are they wild or farm-raised?”

“Listen, smart-mouth. I’m going to backhand you if you don’t stop with the ‘wild or farm-raised’ bit. It’s not funny, never was funny, and never will be funny. Now what to you want to eat?”

Rex wagged his tail furiously upon hearing her admonishment of me. I could deal with him later.

“Oh, I’ll splurge and get the five-dollar burger. And one for Rex as well. No lettuce. No bun.”

Without comment, she shuffled back into the kitchen and returned in a short while with a burger on a paper plate and slammed it down in front of me. She turned to leave and said, “Rex’s will be ready in a minute or two,” and set sail for the kitchen again.

In a moment she came back and regally placed a chopped-up filet mignon on a silver platter in front of Rex. Rex put his paws up on the table and dove into his steak. She left for the kitchen again without saying a word. I tentatively lifted up the top of the bun to survey the contents of my burger. Looked okay, so I munched away as Rexie lapped up the last of his filet.

I finished and took Rex to the counter to pay. She wandered out of the kitchen and wrote up a bill for five dollars. Curiously, I asked, “Only five bucks? What about the steak for my dog?”

“Dog? Ain’t no dogs allowed in here.”

I gave her a five and she held it up to the light, as if inspecting it. She gave me a suspicious look and asked, “This five-dollar bill. Is it wild or farm-raised?” Then she burst out laughing and handed the money back to me. “The meals are on me. I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun! Bye, Rex. You two come back, ya’ hear?”

* * *

Tom and / or Rex can be reached at burns100@earthlink.net.

Rex and I were out for a walk around the block. We came upon my neighbor, Jay Throckmorton, walking across his front yard. He had a coil of wire slung over his shoulder and under his arm. He appeared to be on a mission.

“Mornin’, Jay.”

“Mornin’, Tom. Mornin’, Rexie.”

“Ah, Jay, what you up to?”

“Gophers.”

“Gophers?”

“Yep. Gophers. Making my life miserable for years. Tryin’ something new.”

As Rex and I walked over to a gopher mound in Jay’s front yard, Jay unslung his wire bandoleer.

Rex sniffed the gopher mound, and Jay squatted down and explained to Rex his latest endeavor to rid the

yard of gophers, not unlike Sheriff Andy Taylor of Mayberry explaining to Opie how to put a worm on a fishing hook.

“And that, Rexie, is how I’m going to kill that dad-gum gopher.” Jay’s plan was to fill the hole with acetylene gas and attach an electric match to the gopher’s bunker and blow him to smithereens. Rex sniffed the hole again and looked up to me. I could see the wheels turning in little Rexie’s golf-ball-sized brain.

As Jay unrolled the copper wire and stuck one end at the mouth of the gopher hole, he explained his past failures. “Tried the garden hose several times. Soil’s too sandy, and they build a very deep hole in their burrows that let water escape the tunnel, which it does. Great engineers. Tried Map gas—welder’s gas—but that dissipated too quickly. Tried mothballs. That didn’t work. Supposed to, you know. Doesn’t work. Nope.”

Rex went around to Jay’s side yard. I called out to Rex, “Hey, we’re going to have some heavy-duty blasting here in a minute, Rex. Get back here.” I heard Rex barking soft little “woofs.” “Rex, get back here.” No Rex.

Jay continued his history of gopher assaults as I envisioned a scene from Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner. “Then I tried a guillotine device that showed promise but didn’t deliver a victory; the gophers won that time, too.”

Jay’s wife Ellen came out on the front porch with a tray of lemonade, wearing a pensive smile. “He never gives up.”

“Mornin’, Ellen.”

“Mornin’, Tom. I thought I saw Rexie out here a minute ago. Have some lemonade.”

“He’s around in the side yard.”

I went to the side yard and saw Rex digging furiously. “Rex! What the hell are you doing?” He shot me an indignant look for distracting him.

I was about to reprimand him again, but stopped as I noticed the gopher poke his head up out of the bottom of Rex’s crater. The gopher pulled himself up and out into the open as Rex bent down and picked the gopher up in his mouth. Rex, gopher in mouth, walked over to the side fence, shimmied under it, and returned to Jay’s yard in a second—without the gopher.

“Hey, Tom,” yelled Jay. “Come back over here; don’t want you to get hurt when this baby goes off. Bring Rex, too.”

I picked up Rex and returned to ground zero. I sipped lemonade and held Rex under my other arm.

Jay’s eyes flashed with maniacal evil as he set the electric match just inside the gopher hole and sealed it shut.

We all stood at attention as he did a theatrical countdown. “Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . ONE!”

Kabbbbbbooooooooooommmm!

Jay smiled, sensing final victory. “No gopher could live through that! Ha ha ha!”

I ran to the side yard, and, seeing the crater Rex had made, said, “Holy smokes Jay! Come look at this crater. Must have been a gas pocket. Must a’ blown that critter sky-high!”

Jay and Ellen ran over to witness the huge, gaping hole. I sat Rex down and he sniffed the hole and shimmied under the fence.

He returned in a moment, wagging his tail. I knew why he was wagging his tail. He knew why he was wagging his tail. Jay? He thought his gopher troubles were over.

* * *

Tom and / or Rex can be reached at burns100@earthlink.net.

Pillow Talk

I awoke on my back in bed that Saturday morning with an eight-pound weight on my chest. As my eyes came into focus, I noticed Rex perched on my sternum. He struck a regal Sphinx pose: parallel legs outstretched in front, stoic look on the face, and a casual wagging tail. (Historic note—the Sphinx does not have a casual wagging tail.)

As I cleared my throat to speak, I remembered that I’d had heaps of Limburger cheese and several cloves of fresh garlic on my home-made pizza last night. Perhaps my breath would be somewhat revolting to my bed companion. Once, when Kathy “Chesty” McCormack had spent the night and I’d had Limburger Garlic pizza the night before, my morning greeting to her, as she lay in bed moaning from a hellacious hangover, was apparently offensive to her.

As I romantically lilted, “Hey, babe, brace yourself. This will only take a minute or two,” my stinky, cheesey, garlicy breath wafted over to her side of the bed. Evidently, even in her clouded tequila state of mind, the pungent aroma of Limburger and garlic weakened her constitution to the point that she rolled out of bed onto the floor, in the fetal position, and threw up on the carpet. That put the kybosh on my romantic intentions. (Barely.)

I cleaned her up and took her home. We finally broke up the night she showed up for my Bastille Day party and got wasted on French absinthe. I found her out on the sidewalk, naked, quoting Shakespeare in Pig Latin to anyone who cared to listen. So much for Chesty. Boy, but she sure could . . . well, I don’t need to go into that here.

So. Rex was on my rib cage staring at me intently. Do I cover my mouth so as not to offend him with my breath, or do I just blast him with it? After all, he eats cat turds and digs up and rolls in dead fish parts when Mr. Hendricks buries them in his yard. So why be dainty with him?

I let loose. “Good morning, Rexie.” He quivered briefly, but quickly recovered from the onslaught of my horrid breath. “Ready for breakfast?” The noxious gasses had taken their toll. Usually he can’t wait for me to feed him, but now, enveloped in a toxic fog, he had apparently lost his appetite.

“Ready for a big bowl of those Bark-Right Kibbles? Maybe a little of my leftover Mexican Three-Alarm Meatloaf?” He started to bob and weave in the fusillade of the repulsive thunderheads of Limburger Garlic nerve gas. He fell off the bed onto the floor, in the fetal position, and threw up. Just like Chesty. Mercy.

I cleaned him up and sat him back on the bed on my way to the bathroom. I had to fix my breath—the Jehovah’s Witnesses usually stop by on Saturday morning, and I certainly didn’t want them to end up on my porch in the fetal position throwing up all over themselves.

“Be right there, Rexie. Steady yourself. Breathe deeply. I don’t have a brown paper bag to breathe deeply into, but you could breathe deeply into one of my socks. No, forget that. That’s not a good idea in your condition. Let me brush my teeth and gargle and I’ll be right back.” I don’t know if he heard me or not; I didn’t hear any deep breathing.

The brushing didn’t help. The mouthwash didn’t work either. Baking soda! That’s supposed to get rid of smells! I went into the kitchen, got the box of baking soda, tipped back my head, and filled my mouth completely with the white powder. Now that’s a sensation that is hard to describe.

I walked back into the bedroom to check on Rex. Of course the baking soda mixed immediately with my saliva, which turned the baking soda into a mouthful of saline mush.

Rex looked at me. I must have looked like a hamster with my bulging cheeks full of the salty load of baking soda. I had been breathing through my nose, but needed more air. In my gyrations to get more air, I sucked a little down my throat, setting off more sensations that one can only experience with a mouth full of baking soda. The salty glob slid down my esophagus and into my stomach: I needed to get this stuff out of my mouth. Now.

Before I could get to the bathroom to spit it out, I dropped to my knees next to the bed, fell over onto the floor, in the fetal position, and threw up all over myself. Once it was over and I had composed myself, I sat up.

On the edge of the bed was Rex in a regal Sphinx pose, looking at me, casually wagging his tail.

No . . . more . . . Limburger . . . Garlic . . . pizza!

* * *

Tom and / or Rex can be reached at burns100@earthlink.net.

Rex had that look in his eyes. I had seen that look before—it was the look that he had done something bad and knew he was going to get caught.

“Reeeeeeeeeexxx, what did you do? What are you up to? What’s going on? Why that look?”

I had decided to give him four questions, allowing him to answer any one of them. He answered none of

them. He just looked at me with those dark eyes, conveying the message of knowing he was going to get caught and scolded, or worse, maybe cut off from ice cream and Costco pizza for a month.

I fed him his dinner and decided to hunt around for the evidence.

I checked the legs of the kitchen table. On occasion he will lift his leg against a table leg to convey his displeasure with something I’ve done. Nope. Kitchen table legs were dry.

The azalea bushes in the back yard! Bet that was it. On the porch, I surveyed the back yard for signs of disruption. He will frequently rip out a few bushes, especially the azalea bushes, if he finds one of my decisions to be incongruent with his worldview. Bushes were fine. His squeezie toy was pretty tattered, but that was from usual wear and tear.

Maybe he had made another tunnel to Millie’s yard. I have always allowed him two tunnels: his “main” tunnel and a backup tunnel should the main tunnel suffer from collapse or cave-in. In checking the fence line, I found no signs of his undertaking another tunnel project.

Hmmmmmmm. I wandered into the living room again to check the sofa pillows. In the past, when in the process of actively hating me for some indiscretion, he would destroy a sofa pillow. His incisors could lacerate a sofa pillow in the blink of an eye. Once one went missing and was never found. My conclusion: he ate it to hide the evidence. (Once my wheelbarrow went missing, but I couldn’t envision his eating a whole wheelbarrow.)

Later that evening I sat on the couch watching a PBS special (“Rust: Friend or Foe?”). Rex sat in the corner of the living room and continued to look guilty. The sofa legs! Once he had gnawed off an entire sofa leg because I made him wear a rhinestone collar in the Pet Parade. I got down on my hands and knees and checked the remaining three legs—the missing leg having been replaced by a brick. Nope. Nothing amiss. I did find half a dozen dust bunnies, but decided to leave them until my biannual vacuuming.

I also spotted a pair of my underwear under there. That was either a result of my four-keg Fourth of July party, or the lost weekend when Kimmie the CPA brought over those six bottles of tequila. Next to the underwear I noticed a bottle cap and two pairs of handcuffs, so it was probably from the Kimmie incident. (She’s in AA now; I’m still in denial.)

“Rex. Rex, what did you do? I’ve looked everywhere. You don’t look like that unless you’ve done something bad. Fess up.”

Rex did not fess up. He lowered his head, looked up through his eyebrows in a form of canine contrition.

Nothing from Rex except an almost unnoticeable quiver. That worried me. The last time he quivered was the time he pooped on the sofa during the Super Bowl party. That was bad enough, but Stinky Felix didn’t notice it—he doesn’t have a very good sense of smell (neither do I) and he plopped down in the couch smack dab in the middle of it. The scene was very disruptive, and most of my guests left except Kimmie, who was passed out in my bathtub in her underwear.

I checked the spare bedroom before I went to bed. Nothing out of place; the Bowflex, treadmill, weight machine, and the Pilates Reformer all covered in a fine layer of dust from non-use.

“Come on, Rex, let’s head for bed. I’ve got to get up early to help Del and Estelle set up their Amway stall at the flea market. Coming to bed?”

Rex stayed in the living room, which was uncustomary. As I walked around to the nightstand on the far side of my bed to set the alarm clock, I stepped in something that had cooled but was still very wet and slippery.

“RRRRRREEEEEEEEXXXXXXXXX!!!!!!!!”

***

Tom and / or Rex can be reached at burns100@earthlink.net.

Rememories

I had been lying on the couch listening to my pirated CD of Abba Sings the Blues. It was a dreary Saturday morning, and I was feeling a little sorry for myself. The doggy door in the back door made that familiar swooshing sound, and soon my little comrade sauntered into the living room, hopped up, and sat on my chest.

“Hi, Rexie. I’m feeling a little down today.” Rex gave one cursory swish of his tail to acknowledge my comment.

“I’m lying here thinking of all the wrong turns I’ve taken in my life. Now that I think about it, the only good move I’ve made in my whole life was bringing you home from the pound.” He yawned, walked a few circles tight circles on my thorax and collapsed on my chest.

“The women. Oh, the women in my life. Remember Kimmie the C.P.A? She said I treated her ‘like chattel, as if she were my personal possession, as if I owned her.’ She used to say to me, ‘you act as if I belong to you.’ We’d still be together today if I hadn’t lost her in a poker game.” A flip of the tail indicated he was still paying attention to me.

“You? You’ve got Millie. You two play all day long. Never seen you fight with her. Never heard an angry bark between you two. You romp all day, chase butterflies, dig in Mrs. Leudenschtengler’s flower beds, hunt for cat turds together. Yep, Rexie, you’ve got it made. Me? I go from one failed relationship to another. Things are fine until they see my car or house, or they discover that I yodel before I go to sleep each night.” I heard the soft sounds of snoring on my chest.

“Oh, for crying out loud, Rex. I’m pouring out my heart to you and you decide it’s nap time. Now wake up and pay attention. Do you think I enjoy dredging up all this muck that I call my life?” A slight movement of his tail let me know he was back in the game.

“Then there was Spring 4th. Odd name, odd girl. Remember her? Purple hair? Hamster named Thor she kept tucked in her bra? Remember how we used to watch Thor shimmy over from her left cup to her right, and then back and forth? Hours of fun. Remember her? They say she got religion and now has a tent revival in the Midwest. She was hot on getting married to me and wanted to have my child. My only concern was, if we had a boy, where would she put the hamster?” Rex rolled over and put his paws over his eyes. Evidently he remembered Spring 4th.

“Then there was the time I sunk my life savings in a timeshare in Greenland. They said the Springs were wonderful there, and then I found out there is no Springtime in Greenland. There’s just less ice in the Spring. I finally sold it for pennies and the next day I heard about global warming. If I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.” (I had just heard that on the Abba CD and thought I’d throw it in the conversation.) Rex sat up and stretched. He yawned again. If he had a wristwatch, he would have looked at it.

“Do you have an appointment with someone? Bus to catch? Now just sit there and listen to me. I’ve gotten used to being rejected by women, but right now, right here, being rejected by a four-pound goofball with a brain the size of a walnut is more than I could handle. Did I ever tell you about my weekend in Tijuana stuck in an elevator with the Scottish Women’s Wrestling Team?” Rex stared out the front window-an avoidance tactic that he frequently utilizes.

“That does it, Rex. I think it’s time to curl up in the fetal position and have myself a good cry.”

His tail flipped back and forth like a Geiger counter at Chernobyl. He dove off the couch and blew through his doggie door as I reached for the box of Kleenex. Probably going to go see his gal.

***

Tom and / or Rex can be reached at burns100@earthlink.net.

BIG Puddy Tat

It was a Sunday morning. Rex was lying on the couch, paralyzed in fear. He was rigid as rebar and panting in shallow, measured breaths. His eyes bugged out like bloodshot grapes as he cautiously, slowly scanned the living room for any signs of mountain lions.

“Rex, Rex, Rex. It’ll be okay. You’re safe. No mountain lions are going to get you. Calm yourself down.”

Rex’s previous exposure to the feline world consisted of his occasional bouts with the neighborhood bully, the Hernandez’s alley cat. Once or twice a year, Rex would come limping into the house with a bead of blood on his nose and perhaps a small missing chunk of fur, surgically removed by the cat’s razor-sharp claws. The cat wasn’t much bigger than he, but that cat was not something to mess with.

To that end, and perhaps in error, I had taken Rex to a book signing at Borders Books the previous day. The book, East Garrison, set at the old Ft. Ord location, is an incredible book written by a friend of mine, Gwyn Weger.

I had smuggled Rex in under my jacket. What appeared to be a beer gut was a Dachshund gut. Once seated, I zipped the jacket open to let a curious small black snout peer out. So far, so good.

I should mention that an ongoing “character” in East Garrison is a mountain lion living in the shrubs and bushes of Ft. Ord. Gwyn had milked that menacing aspect beautifully. She had brought with her to the signing a paw print cast of a huge mountain lion, a skull as an exhibit, and an on-going recording of a screaming mountain lion, among other things.

I think it was the recording that initially sent little Rexie over the edge. His past confrontations with the Hernandez’s cat involved hissing and snarling I’m sure, but when he heard the mountain lion snarls, he started to shake.

“Calm down, Rex. It’s just a recording,” I had told him. “Don’t make a scene or you’ll get us both thrown out of here. I don’t mind being thrown out of a bar every now and then, but what would the guys say if I were thrown out of a bookstore? Now settle down.”

I tried to pay attention to Gwyn as she told as much of the book as she could without giving away the entire plot, which involves relationships, fear, and raw courage.

A cougar claw, as big as my thumb, and some scat which had what looked like Dachshund fur mixed in it, was passed around. Rex almost fainted.

At one point she passed around the plaster casting of the paw print. As it passed down our row, Rex looked at it and then looked up at me, his eyes searching for meaning and an image of something that would have a paw that big.

It was at that point that his eyes glazed over.

The print was almost as large as my hand with my fingers splayed apart. His pupils constricted; not a good thing. It reminded me of my old girlfriend Fiona when she went to that “secret dark place” in her mind, which was not a good place. We finally broke up after Fiona had stayed in her “secret dark place” for two weeks. I had to get Rex relaxed.

“Rex, just breathe deeply. There’s no mountain lion. You’re not in harm’s way.” It was too late.

The intense squirming was the first indicator of the trouble that lay ahead. His stomach was convulsing. Then a retching sound brought to my attention that I had a big problem at hand. Rex was so afraid, he was about to throw up. Probably in my jacket; for sure on me. It was time to leave.

Gwyn saw the commotion and offered a quizzical look. Out popped Rex’s head (he had evidently been “deep breathing” inside my jacket). As I started to stand up to leave, it happened. Down my coat and into my lap.

Of course, everyone looked at the scene and Gwyn stopped her presentation. I took Rex out of my coat and held him under my arm as we exited as gracefully as we could. I had a mess on me that resembled this morning’s leftover Costco pizza. (He had half a cold pizza for breakfast.) He was shaking and quivering (multi-tasking) as more eruptions of pizza plopped along our path out to my truck.

I would highly recommend East Garrison as a good read by a local author, but if you have a small black Dachshund who is afraid of neighborhood cats, beware.

VALENTINE’S FOR MILLIE

“Rex, it’s time to think about a Valentine’s gift for Millie. She’s your main squeeze, so we have to get an appropriate gift for her. Last year’s Valentine was a dud, if you recall. We got her a cow bone to gnaw on, remember? Half a femur, I believe. She felt the ‘cow’ implication was a comment on her size. Females don’t like any gift with the word ‘cow’ involved, Rex. The fact that she’s an English sheepdog and is ‘big boned’ didn’t help, either.”
My canine companion sat next to me on the couch as our conversation progressed.
“I imagine clothing is a bad idea, too. Anything she could squeeze into would have to be a Large or XLarge, and you would just lose more yardage with that, as well.”
Rex looked as if he was pondering the possibilities, but in fact, he was probably wondering how long it was until dinnertime.
“Now Rex, I’ve had my share of Valentine’s with women over the years. It can be a treacherous slope, pal. I once bought a girl a book on Proper Tire Rotation and a set of crescent wrenches. She seemed ungrateful. I was hurt. One word led to another and before I knew it, she kicked me out of her trailer. Lived in my truck until I met Dakota. I wised up and got Dakota a matching can opener-toaster set. She LOVED it. She let me use them to make dinner for her every night I lived with her. Both nights. I guess she could only stand so much canned Dinty Moore Beef Stew and Pop Tarts.”
Rex seemed to take interest in this leg of my marathon, but I realized he was just stretching.
“See, the thing to remember Rex, is . . .” Rex had nodded off. A tactic he frequently uses as hint for me to shut up and feed him. I ignored him. “See, the thing you have to remember is to get a gift that truly reflects your feelings for Millie. Do you want a gift that says, ‘I will love your forever,’ or maybe something less committal, such as ‘Want to look for cat turds together?’ or maybe something more casual, such as, ‘Want to sniff each other’s butts?’”
Rex had rolled over onto his back, wagging his tail, indicating I should interrupt the riveting conversation and scratch his belly.
“No, Rex. Listen, we’ve got to get this Valentine’s thing off your To Do list and not wait until midnight of February 13th, like I did for my girlfriends. The good cards are gone by then. Once I had to alter the last card in the drugstore-a Get Well card-into a Valentine’s card. It was in Spanish, too.”
Rex had put his paws over his eyes-a feeble attempt to close me out of his world.
“Knock it off, Rex. We’ve got to get a gift for Millie. My God, she has everything a guy could want! Silky hair, bright eyes, pleasant disposition. Shoot, if she wasn’t a dog, I’d ask her out myself!”
Rex uncovered his eyes and stared at me. I think I had crossed a line with him I shouldn’t have.
“Well, you know. I was just speaking figuratively. Don’t get your hackles up. How about a nice dog tag? ‘With Love from Rex?’ ‘Rex and Millie Forever?’ ‘You’re a Fine Canine?’ Hmmm?”
Rex was hanging his head upside down over the edge of the couch. His chops hung open in total abandonment. He half-closed his eyes and was making choking noises.
“Forget it, Rex. I know you’re faking it. You’re not choking and I’m not going to give you the Heimlich maneuver like I did in the McDonald’s parking lot. Behave yourself. I’m trying to help you. Oh, forget it.”
I got up and left him to his silly diversions. He could get his own gift for Millie. I’ve got to hand it to him, though-at least he has a girlfriend. Me? Maybe next year

I took Rex down to Point Piños in Pacific Grove. We stayed in the car for a while-he woofing at seagulls and me woofing at the girls doing yoga in Spandex on the sand in front of me. The gulls and the girls finally disappeared, and we ventured down to the waves.
A Canada goose had been honking overhead, and dove down and glided in for a landing in front of us. Rex took immediate notice of the intrusion and looked to me for guidance.
Before I could tell Rex to honk back at the goose, it arched its neck, spread its wings, and charged my four-legged friend. Rex, rather than get into a dustup with a goose, simply sat down and wagged his tail. The goose, having been ready for a brawl and seeing Rex sitting down and wagging his tail, stopped in its tracks. (I’ll have to remember that tactic next time I’m in a barroom fight.) The goose relaxed and Rex went up to it and sat down, turning around. They both looked at me.
The reason for the goose’s immediate nasty temper became apparent: another goose flew in; probably its mate. Canada geese mate for life, I’m told, so it was probably a spouse. The three of them looked at me. I looked at them.
Was Rex on my team, infiltrating the enemy, or had he abandoned me for the company of two regal-looking fowl? I took a step toward them to test Rex’s loyalty. Rex failed-the two geese charged me and Rex stayed at the rear, wagging his tail.
Perhaps Rex really was loyal to me, and needed to prove his fake loyalty to the geese, such as a vice cop infiltrating the crime-ridden Mafia, or the Hell’s Angels, or the Lawrence Welk fan club.
As the geese charged, I had to decide whether to run away or stand up to the geese. I looked around to see if the girls in Spandex were still around-if they were, I couldn’t run away like a wimp. Rats! They were at their car watching the whole thing. One had a camera; I couldn’t run. It could be a video camera and I’d be on YouTube in twenty minutes. Eighty billion people watching a wimp at the beach running from two geese. No, I had to think fast, which has always been a challenge for me.
“Rex! You run to the left and distract the geese! I’ll run to the right and make a get-away! Meet you at the car, buddy! Save yourself!!!”
Unfortunately, that was way too much information for my little friend to assimilate and act upon. As I ran to the right, he ran toward me. I ran with all my might as the geese put it into overdrive and chased me, Rex running on their parallel flank.
“Rex!” I yelled, “for God sakes, just sit down and maybe they’ll stop! Don’t run WITH them.” Again, too much info for Rex’s walnut-sized brain.
I came to a rock the size of a Volvo station wagon. Here was my chance. A chance for what, I didn’t know, but here it was. I jumped up on the rock. The geese and Rex came to a screeching halt and I looked over to the yoga girls, as they watched a full-grown man run from two geese.
Improvising (my usual method of making it through life), I made a yoga pose and faced the Spandex contingency. “King Dancer Pose-Natarajasana!” I yelled out to the girls. They waved and came running over, and, having put away the video camera, I felt somewhat safe.
As they ran up to my rock in admiration and gleefulness, the geese ran away. Rex stayed.
“Oh,” they said, “that’s a great Natarajasana! Wanna’ do some more poses with us? Maybe you can teach us a few things!”
I looked at Rex. He looked at me. The geese were halfway down the beach chasing a teacup poodle. I looked back at the girls. “Swami Tommy at your service. Last one into the Urdhva Dhanurasana pose is a rotten egg!”
Later that night, as I was on the floor applying salves and lotions to my destroyed tendons and muscles, I looked at Rex. “The two girls are coming over tomorrow night to do some more yoga. Wanna’ bring Millie and make a five-some? Let me show you the Parsva Bakasana so you can impress your gal. They love stuff like that, you know.”
Lying on my back, I heard geese overhead. I wonder if that is them.

Rex and I had been watching a PBS special on TV. The program was about bats; I have always liked them and found them fascinating to observe. Read the rest of this article »

A Heart Torn Asunder

I had just finished watching a PBS special, Raging Torrents of Black and White: When Good Pandas Go Bad, and noticed Rex was sitting in the kitchen looking at his empty food bowl.
“Oh, rats, Rex, we used the last of your food this morning. Let’s hop on down to Ocean View Veterinarian Clinic and get you some more. Maybe Dr. Kocher will give you a treat! Grab your coat and hat and let’s go!” Of course the words meant nothing to him, but when I whispered “car-car,” he ran in circles at the jingle of the truck keys.
Read the rest of this article »

My plans for that sunny fall Saturday were to plant some new azalea bushes along the back fence and then get up on the roof and patch the fireplace flashing at the roofline with some black goopy stuff.

But first, the azaleas. I remembered my last attempt at planting azaleas in the back yard-Rex had evidently decided that the azaleas were not the proper things to plant there: he excavated them all out as soon as I had finished. He had shredded them to the point they were only good for the compost pile. Where happy little azaleas had just been, lay flora-strewn open pits. That was a hundred bucks down the drain. Damned dog. Read the rest of this article »

I found myself holding Rex up to my face—I held him up under his armpits to allow us to stare at each other intently. His nose was almost touching mine as we proceeded in “the game.” The first to blink lost. However, this time I was determined to win: I had eaten thirteen cloves of garlic just before I lifted him to my face.

“Lovely day isn’t it, my friend?” The first blast of garlic breath made him quiver. His face contorted from the odorous shockwave, but he didn’t blink. That dog has staying power! Read the rest of this article »

Rex was gone. I don’t mean he had zipped through his secret burrow over to Millie’s back yard, and I don’t mean he was hiding under the bed. My dog was gone.I had noticed him being missing after our fight over what to watch on TV. He had wanted to watch a rerun of “Lassie,” and I wanted to watch a PBS special, “The History of the Paperclip.” Even though his brain is the size of a walnut, he is pretty good at punching buttons on the remote and finding a show that interests him. Read the rest of this article »

I found the Foolish Times deadline for the “Adventures with Rex” story fast approaching, and nothing came to mind to write about. In fact, nothing had happened in the last month.”

Rex, what are we going to write about? Nothing is new.” Rex, who had been sleeping on his back on the sofa, cracked an eye open and gave me a dismissive look. His look indicated it was MY problem, not OUR problem. Read the rest of this article »

I had recently read a book on meditation, and felt I was making great headway in becoming enlightened. My only problem was Rex. He frequently disturbed my bliss. I needed to get him enlightened, too, so he wouldn’t bug the bajeesus out of me.”Rex, I’m going to teach you how to meditate. Just watch me. It’s easy.” I closed my eyes and envisioned a brilliant ball of undulating light in my third eye. My breathing deepened and I suspected I was becoming One With the Universe. I opened my eyes to monitor Rex’s progress. He was gone!

“Rex, you slacker! Get back here. How can I teach to meditate if you wander off without the least bit of interest in becoming enlightened?” Read the rest of this article »

I had been rummaging through the hall closet looking for my high-school senior year book, deciding if I should attend the reunion. The last one I went to, I found out my old flame had married Stinky Jimenez. In a way I wanted to go to see if they were still together; if they had split up, I might make a run at her, but then, any woman who would marry Stinky Jimenez would be the epitome of damaged goods. My old checkerboard set fell from a shelf and Rex buzzed in like a scud missile to investigate. Read the rest of this article »