But where the heck is Southport?

This last weekend was nuts. Filling in for a sick walker, I forsook my own beloved dogosphere for a whole new pack of pups in a whole new part of the city.  Things started out poorly as I rode around on my bike looking for a street that I knew existed, had seen and traveled on before, but for some reason just couldn’t find.  After many confounded miles riding back and forth, swearing under my breath that when I finally found Southport Boulevard I was going to kick it in the shins, I finally asked a bus driver stopped next to me at a red light for directions.  He told me there was noSouthporthere.  South of Clyborn it changes its name to Noble.  Ah of course, silly me.

Streets disappeared on me all weekend, and I started to wonder what good a grid system is if it only applies sometimes.  When I came upon streets that had no street signs, I began to wonder if the whole idea of a city wasn’t a total failure. I made silent ultimatums in my head: either send an emergency sign crew to name this intersection immediately, or I’m moving to the woods.  The city ignored me, and it called my bluff.  Oh well, at least I’m not walking dogs inVeniceorShanghai.  Venetian dog walkers would probably kill forChicago’s imperfect grid. But whatever, they’re inVenice.

Once I found the dogs, things got much better.  Without fail, whatever the stress or anxiety that is besieging my skull, it all disappears in a puff when I meet the dogs, dispelled by the mighty wind from a wagging tail. Sometimes if poor directions or bad drivers get me riled up, I pause by the front door to take a breath and put on a happy face for the dog that awaits me on the other side. This ritual is totally unnecessary, because the dogs themselves are instant antidote to the travails of urban living.  One look at a big-toothed smile and I am convinced that all the world is roses.  I can offer no debate.  Should the puppy also be bouncing or doing the whole-butt wag, I turn to putty in his paws.

The first dogs I walked were sweet.  Hard to find and a bit shy, but no problems. The next dog was an Australian Shepherd, which is to say, totally energetic. Aussies are wonderful dogs; one could even argue that they are the most wonderful breed of all, being generally handsome, healthy, friendly and crazy wicked smart.  It’s this last trait that can lead to trouble though, since some Aussies don’t have sufficient stimulation for their massive intellects, and as a result, go just a wee bit nuts.  I’ve seen it many times, in about a third of the Aussies I’ve come across. This dog I walked was hilarious.  We walked about ten, maybe twenty feet down the street before he flopped over on his side, refusing to budge.  Curious as to the strength of his conviction not to walk, I tried to keep walking to see if he’d let himself be dragged. He did.  So I didn’t.  Most dogs, as in every dog I’ve ever met, will give up this silly display of spoiled petulance if you pull them up onto their feet. But since I was clearly up against a great and determined mind, we turned around and walked the other way.  We got about ten, maybe twenty feet to the other side of his front door and he did the same thing.  Flop and sprawl. Okay…how about we cross the street?  Sure, no problem. Once we reach the other side however, flop sprawl.  No go. This Australian was determined not to venture more than a treat’s toss away from his home, and was prepared to go to any length of non-violent resistance to have his way. Fortunately, he quickly did his business, and we got on to the business of playing fetch inside.  It was a test of wills and I lost. I’ll just say that had it been my dog, I’d have dragged him until he had it very clear that I, the giant shaved monkey thing, was totally in charge and that he, the tail-less quasi wolf-thing, was not at all.  But it wasn’t my dog. It’s not professional to drag him.  And it looks bad.

The next dog was Max, an old lab (31 years old according to the typo on his notes, and doing pretty good I must say), which is another way of saying he’s a friendly, courteous and all together delightful walking companion. So far so descent:  2 for 3.  But then the next two visits, oh help.  That’s what I called to say to the office: “Oh help.” First was Jack who was a Pomapoo or some such thing, and he was sweet and adorable and just smart enough to know how to avoid all my attempts to lure or trick him into going back into his crate.  For 40 minutes.  I resorted to begging him, but pity and cuteness don’t necessarily go together like you might think; besides, Jack was having too much fun watching me suffer.  But in he went eventually, and on I went to the next trial.

This one was a twofer.  They were Boston Terrier sibling named Emma and Ollie, both adorable and both so terrified of me that they were shaking at 1000 bpm. I’ve mentioned before that I tend to scare little dogs at first.  I won’t go into it now beyond reiterating that I don’t blame them for being scared, and it only hurts my feelings a lot. So when I managed to get one to come to me to get harnessed up, I was feeling pretty good.  Until I looked around for the other.  And kept looking.  All over the house.  Finally I found him upstairs under the bed, out of reach and clearly not coming out for treats, baby talk, belly rubs or anything at all so long as I was involved in the equation.  I’ll make this very long and very painful story short:  I eventually managed to get close enough to hook a leash on him, and we went for a walk.  A 25 minute visit had, again, turned into an hour.  Which is ironic, because apparently, no one wanted it to go on at all.  They sure were cute though.

The next visit was much easier.  A long haired Dachshund named Chloe who loved to cuddle, and a “Sheepoo” named Dylan whose jealousy for my attention made me feel absolutely Royal. We had a great time until Chloe tried to poop and found she couldn’t finish the job, so to speak, which required my bagged hand to reach in and help things along, to everyone’s embarrassment, including all the many passers by. Then Dylan took her turn and had the opposite problem. Which makes it impossible to pick up, and since it was in the middle of the sidewalk, makes me the enemy of all civilization in the eyes of everyone who saw us.

The final walk of this day (yes I know this is long and dragging, but it’s an accurate account for that) was another pair of black and white Boston Terrier siblings (what are the odds) named Frankie and Beansie. In contrast to Emma and Ollie, these two were not afraid of me one iota.  In fact one chewed on my hand while the other repeatedly hopped up and bit my nose. In a friendly sort of way.  Anyway, the walk was fine, the dogs were great, no problems whatsoever.

Maybe the heat is getting to people.  People like me. Maybe it’s even getting to dogs.  Occasionally I try to remember what it was like in the winter, when there was this stuff called snow and ice everywhere, and the air hurt you but in a different way that’s kind of hard to recall.  I vaguely remember longing for summer, dreaming of it, trying to remember its smells, imagining what it was like when you could go outside any time of day, when girls wore dresses, and the sun was not just another star in a frigid sky, but a huge floating space heater that made your eyes hide and your skin leak.  Now that summer is here, I’m pleased to find it was everything I hoped for and more. I certainly don’t long for the winter, but I would appreciate a little of its calm, its crystal in clarity.  In other words, I wish everyone could just chill out for a minute.  Take a collective deep breath.  Then, let’s name our streets, name our dogs, and calmly, collectively, kickSouthport Boulevardin the shins.  Or do what you want, it doesn’t matter to me:  I’m heading back to my regular dogs.