| 27 November 2006 Before Dawn It was still full dark as far as I could tell. The dog was standing there by the bed, looking up, I assume, though I could not see him in the gloom. It is a founding principal of Big Pink that we are a pet-friendly building. It would be easier not to have the dogs around, I'm sure, and the grounds would be more pristine and some of the older folks would not get knocked off their walkers. But without the pets, I don't know what some of us would do for company. The dogs provide companionship and company, for the purposely single and the castaways on this Island of Misfit Toys. I don't know what I would do if it was not; the dog comes to visit when it is convenient for his full-time caregiver. If this was not a pet-friendly place I would have to manage it as a station on the Underground Railway, skulking out the stairwells with my canine contraband swaddled in a heavy coat. I know how that works. I have spent a significant portion of many cross-country trips concealing the dog under coats and behind luggage in hotels that are not. The dog learned the power of his bark, too, since if he chose to exercise his canine option, he would get me thrown out into the parking lot. I have always been grateful that he has used his power wisely. This particular morning he made the sounds that were half supplication and half threat to do something to the carpets, and I rolled out of the warmth and comfort of the bed to accommodate him. This was much easier when I lived in the poolside unit, since I had a private door that leads right outside and it was one stumble out of the door to let the dog take the edge off his need. Of course, I slept on the Murphy Bed down there, since there was no room for a real one, and it was low enough that he could jump up and lick me on the face to get me going. I stumbled around, starting the coffee and finding my keys, and the leash, and plastic bags to pick up the results of the dog's mission. I filled a travel cup and staged it on the old desk near the door. I shrugged into an old jacket and began to fill up the pockets. I decided not to take the phone, since anyone who wanted to talk to me at that hour probably would not enjoy the experience. I scooped up enough doggie treats to round out the top of my pocket, just in case he found something to get into, and it was not until we were leashed together and on the other side of the door that I realized that I did not have my glasses. I paused, and then shrugged. The only sign I was likely to have to read was the one that told me the County Animal Control Officer was watching, and it was a hundred dollar fine for not picking up the dog poop. The international logo of the squatting dog was pretty entertaining, but that was about the extent of the written material I had to cover until we got back. I turned the key to lock the place and the dog took off, bounding down the hall to the main corridor, the reel paying out nylon line as he disappeared around the corridor. I think he has about twenty-five feet to play with, and he seems to know when he is going to hit the end of it. He was standing looking back at me as I came around the corner on the way to the elevators. I muttered a curse as I realized I did not have my special hook knife to cut parachute risers. Not that I was going to jump off the building, of course, but they were invaluable things that went on the survival vest in the event that you had to pull the ejection handle and throw away a troublesome jet aircraft. Upon water entry, the parachute canopy often fills with water, and the lines wrap around you with insistant fingers, and the thing that saved your life immediately turns into a deathtrap that drags you down into the depths. The knife hooks around the cord of the risers and provides emergency separation in case all else has failed, and a fresh breeze and tons of seawater are dragging you to your doom. I have resolved never to go near the elevators without the ability to cut the leash cord after a near disaster in the lobby. One evening I was juggling the mail and the leash while talking to the nice Eritrean man who works the evening shift at the concierge desk. The dog entered the elevator to go home. I was saying something important as I realized that the door on car number one was closing behind him, and the leash cord was too thin to register on the safety bar and pop it open. The dog was about to go for a ride without me, and the mail flew up in the air as I leapt for the call button to stop the car from moving. If it went more than a floor away, the line would pay out and stop and the car would keep moving, and that would be the end of that. The Eritrean jumped over the desk and raced across the marble floor to hit the other call button, and we both leaned hard on them, hoping to short out the system. After a moment, the door opened again and the dog walked out, looking at me curiously. There is a reason to have a line cutter with you at all times, and in fact why I need to keep a survival vest near the door, complete with Velcro attachments for eye-glasses, treats, spare plastic bags, back-up leash, whistle and Mace. It is hard to tell how the morning walk is going to go. We always start with wild excitement, but the dog is of an age his joints hurt as much as mine do. Yet the novelty of the walk stands in direct contrast to our aching legs. We moved briskly through the darkness along the front of the building, and I saw the Security guy dozing in his van, getting ready to punch off the clock and go sleep at one of his other jobs. Across the street, near the garden apartments where the workmen live, I saw that someone had moved down the line of work vans, smashing the passenger's side windows, apparently to reach inside and unlock them to see if there was anything inside worth taking. Tools, perhaps. I looked at the glass on the grass, prepared with a treat in case the dog decided to investigate the wreckage. So long as the smells are unique and interesting, he will race from one ripe odor to another. But predictably, at the furthest possible point from Big Pink, he announces his distain for the enterprise by abruptly sitting down, looking up. That is where the treats come in. I could carry him, I suppose, but it seems that would defeat the whole point. I bribe him back, a hundred years per treat, until we are safe again, upstairs at Big Pink. Copyright 2006 Vic Socotra |