Looking out my Backdoor: Barking up the right tree

My human asked me to write the column today. She begged, pleaded, and to my shame, she groveled. She also gave me a beef bone with tatters of meat from the carniceria in town. I caved.

I told her, I am a dog, “The story I tell will be incomprehensible to human kinds.”

She said, “That’s OK. Anything I wrote today wouldn’t make sense either.”

She then told me that she is feeling way down in the dumps. Lower level. I don’t understand. Isn’t being down in the dumps a good thing?

I rode along in the truck once when Leo was taking a load of trash to the dump. Wowsers! I was excited, almost turned myself inside out sniffing at all the delicious smells, so rich, so provocative, and pathways I yearned to explore. Leo would not let me out of the truck. Meany.

I wanted to pout but how can one pout when one is introduced to an entire new world of amazing possibilities. Unfortunately, the dump is several kilometers from home but I could find the way. I would go, but my job is on the ranch with my human.

Jqvip und ivx’[[d vprommy omzalst jump nok’a ip ip lum ouk. Brxpptu oceapp il net,

Oops. Sorry about that. You try to operate a keyboard with paws instead of fingers. Sheesh.

Since this is my story to tell, I’ll let you know that my life is filled with extra fussy-wussys and treats in the past week, all because one night I alerted everybody within hearing of my “fierce-aggressive” bark-voice of an intruder. The police came and took the man away. And just like that, people treat me special.

I only use my “fierce-aggressive” voice when there is danger. I may bark a greeting but the tail is a give-away to my softer ‘friendly-greeting’ bark. Like a helicopter roter, that tail.

Everybody always has liked me. Now they fawn over me. Instead of walking past with a “Hi, Lola,” the neighbors now walk up, stick their hands through the wrought iron gate and say, “Hi Lola. You are such a good doggy,” followed with lots of pets. Ariel sneaked me a chunk of liver one day and a bite of steak another day. Don’t tell my human that I’m getting extra treats.

All I had done was my dog duty that is imprinted in my nature. DNA, I believe you people-types all call it.

I do like to be fussed over. This morning Leo came for a few minutes. He always wants me to sit. “Sit, Lola,” he says. I sit. He ruffles my neck. This morning he asked me to give him my paw. “Mano,” he said. I am willing to pander to his lower nature when I get a dog cookie for “sit” and another for “mano.”

I, of course, am bi-lingual. Now and then it is to my advantage to pretend I don’t understand a command. Spoken and unspoken, English or Spanish. I understand. Mfuzat.

Last night, my human and I went over to John and Carol’s yard. The humans sat around the fire in the chimenea, drinking limonada and laughing a lot. I followed nose-trails over and around their large yard. Dog gone it, I did not know there was danger aflame.

I followed one lovely scent-trail up to the chimenea. Fire, like many elements, has two natures. One nature provides warmth, comfort and cooks meals. The other nature sneakily shot out a flame and singed a swatch of fur alongside my head. A little smoke. No fire. There was some talk about eating hot dogs. More laughter. Humans are weird.

But, as we say in Mexico, “Don’t worry. Be happy!” The humans all seemed more scared than I was. So I got lots of pats and belly rubs and play.

Except for a few vopllares, I mean glitches, with the keyboard, this has been fun. We say, every dog has her day, so this day is mine.

I’ve worked like, well, like a dog over this missive, yuk, yuk, and now I’m dog tired. I’m going over to that patch of shade under the ruffled Hibiscus to dream of possums, so let this sleeping dog lie.

Lola The Dog for Sondra Ashton

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].