“What do dogs do on their day off? Can’t lie around – that’s their job.” – George Carlin
I met Bobo about a week ago. He came to the brewery with a very sweet lady from the Kauai Humane Society, which is his current mailing address. He had a bit of a Buddha thing going on, very placid. The encounter triggered so many dog memories for me.
I decided to take him out for a “Field Trip”, kind of like “Rent A Dog For A Day”. We went out today, which I purposely scheduled for my Rain Man writing schedule of every Friday, finishing up on Saturday. I will come back to our initial meeting, because it somehow made all my dog memories feel like yesterday.
It is a no brainer to imagine I’d likely be thinking about my first experience and go from there. Feinstein was a Basset Hound I adopted when I was finally sprung from home. Going to Queens College in NYC had me stuck there. The older I got, the more complicated it got. Don’t get me wrong, my mother put up with a lot of shit from me.
I think I always wanted a dog, but it just couldn’t work until I finally landed in the East Village, on Avenue A and Fourth Street, ensconced in the Cave, a seven room catacomb. I was living there around ’68, with a bunch of guys, all of whom worked at NBC, where I managed to find myself and that is way too long a story. It was a perfect move for me.
By day, I worked at NBC, cheap suit and attache case, the uniform of an up and comer. I don’t know how many nights I was stoned out of my gourd, walking around Alphabet City, which is what my neighborhood was called and it was not a compliment, believe me. The motorcycles of the Hell’s Angels were right up the street, where they had a place.
Back then, the air was filled with the excitement of the times. Somewhere, in the blur of long ago memories, I even had a 250cc Honda that I recklessly road all around Manhattan and over bridges and through tunnels to visit my mother in Queens. My favorite armor was a beat-up looking, cracked, black leather, bomber jacket. Like dogs, I have my own bike stories.
Aside from wallowing in all my new found freedom, the idea of a dog slipped in between my ears. Considering my circumstance, it was pretty, fucken dumb. Feinstein was a traffic-stopping Basset Hound puppy. I really loved this funny looking character. He had a great presence, like he knew he was cool. It didn’t take all that long to realize my lifestyle was all wrong and I found him a farm in Delaware.
I iced my desire for around twenty years. I moved to Santa Fe, NM, living far enough south of town that I was out on some serious land. I bought a small, adobe womb for myself, sitting on five acres, adjoining something called BLM land. It’s a government deal with million of acres leased to ranchers all over the country. Trust me, coming from NYC and getting “beamed” into endless space was revelatory. I took on some of the trappings of living out there. I let my hair grow. I wore cowboy boots. I bought a brand new, red Toyota truck. I got to live in jeans.I even became a Turquoise Trail Volunteer Fireman.
I heard about a very eccentric dude, living off the grid and off the road. He raised hybrid wolves, supposedly breeding them with German Shepherds. Through some mystical formula, you were told your “almost wolf” was X% the real deal.
For someone, aggressively sucking on the turquoise boob of the High Desert Country, a hybrid wolf is right out of Central Casting. Before heading down the washboard roads of the arroyos, I went to the library, I shit you nut. I wanted to get a Navajo dictionary and find the word for friend, that’s how deep I was getting sucked into the myth. No, there was no fucken Google, so back off.
My new friend was Sik’is. We had less than two years together, out on my land. It took a while, after he eventually ran off, to realize what a mind fuck it must have been for him. He was never really sure what he was, but I loved him and all the magic he conjured up in me. There was a wolf in there, for sure.
The wolf got the best of Sik’is and one day he just didn’t come back from his ever increasing trips out there, where he kind of came from. I was really sad and also a moron for not getting him neutered. Real men don’t fix their own. I was a schmuck and I didn’t even know it. In my defense, I was living a life I only dreamed about and I probably could have done a better job. What else is new?
Then, came Clifford. I don’t remember how he came into my life. He was a pretty good size, wiry haired guy, named after the cartoon character. I wish I could say I recall how I ended up with three dogs. They mostly stayed outside, but if it got really cold, which it did, they’d come in. I’d pile them into the back of the red Toyota and we’d all go camping in the middle of nowhere, mostly in southern CO. At no time while I had the trio, where there ever any leashes or plastic bags to pick up their fecal deposits.
I decided to sell my house. I had already gotten together with a wonderfully gifted, yoga instructor. Miraculously, the new owners where thrilled to inherit my brood, which was perfect. They couldn’t have come with me and they belonged out there. They were living the life.
In the next couple of years, a few dogs happened into my life. One actually got poisoned by drinking some antifreeze, lethal for a dog and a lousy death. We put him down and after the injection, he died in our arms, which was very painful. The last try was a Dalmatian. They are dumber than fuck and high strung. I am surprised they don’t jump off the fire trucks. We found him a home with a lovely schizophrenic couple.
My time with Bobo reminded me of the stories of the Picture Brides, a serious part of Hawaiian history. Asian men, working here in the cane fields wanted to find a woman to marry and there were none to be had. Whether they wrote to their own villages back home or not, women would send just a photograph of themselves. On that basis, men would choose them as their bride. Now, that was a game of serious roulette.
Based on my initial meeting with Bobo, I had it in my head it was going to be a super chill day. Before I go any further, the experience for me was incredible, because of what it tapped into from my past. Truth be told, he was a bit of a pain in the ass.
Now, imagine you have been in prison for weeks, maybe months. Every now and then, you are led out with a leash and special harness. You are met by a complete fucken stranger, who immediately starts talking in some kind of dumb-ass gibberish.
The best part of the time was when I first got him into my car. He was stretched out on the back seat. The moment I started driving, I felt a vaguely familiar kind of otherworldly relaxation. I am with some being, who understands absolutely everything I say, absent of even an ounce of judgement. He agrees with every single thing I have to say. We had a great conversation and even the silence was special. I remember that feeling very well, particularly with Sik’is.
What a great friend to have, possibly your best friend.
PS: I love the Kauai Humane Society and you ought to Rent A Dog. It will do you a world of good.