footpad, posts by tag: walkies - LiveJournal (original) (raw)

Bath Time	[May. 28th, 2012\|10:22 pm]Footpad
[Tags\|baths, dear mischa, mischa, river, walkies] [Current Mood	loving]Dear Mischa,You know that I love you; and, while my love for you is not constrained to the physical properties of your outward form, it most certainly does include them. You are such a beautiful dog, and one of the many reasons to celebrate you is your self-cleaning coat.Yup: that lovely monochrome pelt of yours practically never needs washing. In dry summer weather you get a bit dusty. In winter, you sometimes collect a smidgen of soot from the wood-stove, so that petting hands may afterwards need to be washed of a dark and easily-removed discolouration. Once in a while you get mud on your paws, and in all seasons you get occasional bits of resin in your fur from where you lie under the pine tree in the garden; but these things are easily removed.You smell good, too, but I rhapsodise over your scent frequently enough that there's no need for me to repeat myself here. Let's merely remark that burying my nose in your fur is one of the many sheer delights of your company.Once in a while, though... once in a while, when the heavens dictate, or when I find my hands a bit grubby after ruffling them through your fur many times during a long snuggled-up session of drowsy cuddly love on the carpet, then a decision is made that, at the next opportunity, you must have a bath.Baths are understated affairs. Some day when the weather's hot, while we're out on our usual round, at a certain point where the river runs slow and deep, I get a hold on your harness and lead you into the cool water and start sloshing it over you. You protest, mildly, making an effort to clamber up the bank so you can have a good vigorous shake and then contine the walk, but I won't brook dissent: "na-ah!" I say, and pull you back while I continue kneading and rubbing and massaging you, squidging river-water through your pelt. No soap; as far as I remember we've never soaped you, not once in all the years of our acquaintance. Today I even subjected you to the notable indignity of hoicking up your tail and washing your arsehole, which (while you're a splendidly clean dog in that respect as well) did have a few peripheral hairs stuck together in disconcerting ways.Finally I'm satisfied, and "Los!" I command, and you emerge like a water-streaming sea-monster and give the characteristic skewed lift of your muzzle that means you're about to shake yourself. The shake starts with a twist of your head, then ripples backwards through your body in a violent contra-rotation to end with a lizard-quick flick-flick-flick of your tail. Water explodes off you in a glittering cloud of spray, bright and rainbow-spangled in the sunlight, and off we go down the sunwarmed path, filled with summer brightness, and I marvel at the whiteness of your backside and the newly enhanced floofiness of your lovely buoyant tail. You've got noticeably more energy afterwards too, as your body's cooled by the ample water still remains as a dampness in your undercoat.Much later, after I've towelled you and you've had a further few hours to dry out in full, your fur will have an all-new softness and we'll curl up on the carpet and once more drowse with each other in a blissful loving daze.We found out early in our acquaintance that being washed with a hose makes you borderline hysterical. Yet you're reasonably complacent about being led into the river and washed there, even though it's considerably wetter and probably about as cold. What can I say?—you are a dog of contradictions.I'm pretty sure you evolved not to need washing, and I know for certain that you'd never wilfully choose to be washed. If you were as distressed by the river as much as you are by the hose, we'd probably never wash you at all. But wash you we do, just occasionally, because it cools you off on hot summer days and also makes you even more beautiful than you already are.And this is one of the many reasons why we love you.Love,me.
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[May. 28th, 2012|10:22 pm]Footpad

[Tags**|baths, dear mischa, mischa, river, walkies] [Current Mood**

loving]Dear Mischa,You know that I love you; and, while my love for you is not constrained to the physical properties of your outward form, it most certainly does include them. You are such a beautiful dog, and one of the many reasons to celebrate you is your self-cleaning coat.Yup: that lovely monochrome pelt of yours practically never needs washing. In dry summer weather you get a bit dusty. In winter, you sometimes collect a smidgen of soot from the wood-stove, so that petting hands may afterwards need to be washed of a dark and easily-removed discolouration. Once in a while you get mud on your paws, and in all seasons you get occasional bits of resin in your fur from where you lie under the pine tree in the garden; but these things are easily removed.You smell good, too, but I rhapsodise over your scent frequently enough that there's no need for me to repeat myself here. Let's merely remark that burying my nose in your fur is one of the many sheer delights of your company.Once in a while, though... once in a while, when the heavens dictate, or when I find my hands a bit grubby after ruffling them through your fur many times during a long snuggled-up session of drowsy cuddly love on the carpet, then a decision is made that, at the next opportunity, you must have a bath.Baths are understated affairs. Some day when the weather's hot, while we're out on our usual round, at a certain point where the river runs slow and deep, I get a hold on your harness and lead you into the cool water and start sloshing it over you. You protest, mildly, making an effort to clamber up the bank so you can have a good vigorous shake and then contine the walk, but I won't brook dissent: "na-ah!" I say, and pull you back while I continue kneading and rubbing and massaging you, squidging river-water through your pelt. No soap; as far as I remember we've never soaped you, not once in all the years of our acquaintance. Today I even subjected you to the notable indignity of hoicking up your tail and washing your arsehole, which (while you're a splendidly clean dog in that respect as well) did have a few peripheral hairs stuck together in disconcerting ways.Finally I'm satisfied, and "Los!" I command, and you emerge like a water-streaming sea-monster and give the characteristic skewed lift of your muzzle that means you're about to shake yourself. The shake starts with a twist of your head, then ripples backwards through your body in a violent contra-rotation to end with a lizard-quick flick-flick-flick of your tail. Water explodes off you in a glittering cloud of spray, bright and rainbow-spangled in the sunlight, and off we go down the sunwarmed path, filled with summer brightness, and I marvel at the whiteness of your backside and the newly enhanced floofiness of your lovely buoyant tail. You've got noticeably more energy afterwards too, as your body's cooled by the ample water still remains as a dampness in your undercoat.Much later, after I've towelled you and you've had a further few hours to dry out in full, your fur will have an all-new softness and we'll curl up on the carpet and once more drowse with each other in a blissful loving daze.We found out early in our acquaintance that being washed with a hose makes you borderline hysterical. Yet you're reasonably complacent about being led into the river and washed there, even though it's considerably wetter and probably about as cold. What can I say?—you are a dog of contradictions.I'm pretty sure you evolved not to need washing, and I know for certain that you'd never wilfully choose to be washed. If you were as distressed by the river as much as you are by the hose, we'd probably never wash you at all. But wash you we do, just occasionally, because it cools you off on hot summer days and also makes you even more beautiful than you already are.And this is one of the many reasons why we love you.Love,me.

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Various Dogs	[Apr. 2nd, 2012\|08:25 pm]Footpad
[Tags\|chorizo, england, walkies] [Current Location	Witley Scrotum]I'm in the UK, mostly just to visit family, but I stopped off via elfasi and megadog on the way down to the Southwest.Elfasi was of course his usual congenial self, and his dog Chorizo was delightfully pleased to see me (more people! oh joy! oh joy!). During the night the dog must have come over at least a dozen times to trample on me, nose at me, lick my face, or just lie down against me and wriggle; but curiously enough I didn't mind at all, and woke feeling as well-rested as though I'd slept much longer than I actually had.During the day the five of us (three humans, two dogs) went on a long meandering wander by car and foot across the fresh and sunny southern-English countryside. We visited a dog-breeder, which was a poignant pleasure: the dogs were all healthy and bouncy and beautifully confident and happy, but I thought it'd been two days since their cages were cleaned out, and there was a lot of sour kennel-smell around. In any case we got thoroughly German-shepherd-puppied. And when we'd been bounced at and charmed and licked and loved, we took our own dogs up onto the bright clear chalk downs for a run, and then proceeded to Château Dog, where there was barbecued meat and cool English beer and good conversation and warm sun on the lawn and eventually I fell over and fell fast asleep for the best part of sixteen hours.Now it's the following evening, and we've had another satisfying nap to round off a desultory day of peering into ponds, digging onion beds, and going for a short walk (short because Dog has twisted his ankle, leading to interesting bruise patterns, a picturesque limp and a mild codeine dependency). I can smell the wafting scents of Dog's anarchic-but-satisfying cuisine from the kitchen; tomorrow I'll be in Cornwall getting mauled by small members of my family, and in general life is good.
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Various Dogs

[Apr. 2nd, 2012|08:25 pm]Footpad

[Tags**|chorizo, england, walkies] [Current Location**

Witley Scrotum]I'm in the UK, mostly just to visit family, but I stopped off via

elfasi and

megadog on the way down to the Southwest.Elfasi was of course his usual congenial self, and his dog Chorizo was delightfully pleased to see me (more people! oh joy! oh joy!). During the night the dog must have come over at least a dozen times to trample on me, nose at me, lick my face, or just lie down against me and wriggle; but curiously enough I didn't mind at all, and woke feeling as well-rested as though I'd slept much longer than I actually had.During the day the five of us (three humans, two dogs) went on a long meandering wander by car and foot across the fresh and sunny southern-English countryside. We visited a dog-breeder, which was a poignant pleasure: the dogs were all healthy and bouncy and beautifully confident and happy, but I thought it'd been two days since their cages were cleaned out, and there was a lot of sour kennel-smell around. In any case we got thoroughly German-shepherd-puppied. And when we'd been bounced at and charmed and licked and loved, we took our own dogs up onto the bright clear chalk downs for a run, and then proceeded to Château

Dog, where there was barbecued meat and cool English beer and good conversation and warm sun on the lawn and eventually I fell over and fell fast asleep for the best part of sixteen hours.Now it's the following evening, and we've had another satisfying nap to round off a desultory day of peering into ponds, digging onion beds, and going for a short walk (short because Dog has twisted his ankle, leading to interesting bruise patterns, a picturesque limp and a mild codeine dependency). I can smell the wafting scents of Dog's anarchic-but-satisfying cuisine from the kitchen; tomorrow I'll be in Cornwall getting mauled by small members of my family, and in general life is good.

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The heart of the hunter	[Jan. 4th, 2011\|03:26 pm]Footpad
[Tags\|dear mischa, lol dog, love, mischa, walkies] [Current Mood	charmed]Dear Mischa,You know that I love you. I want you to be happy, which mostly just means allowing you free expression of your instincts.Some of the instincts I love most are those that show the wolf who lives deep in your heart. On a night walk a few days ago, you found a deer-trail at the edge of a field. There you paused, silhouetted against the midnight snow with your head and tail held high—and for a moment you were a wolf: beautiful, primal, gentle and wholly atavistic, as you set out into the night with every fibre and every sense quivering with alertness in the timeless rapture of the hunt.Of course, if you were really a wolf, you'd know that deer are not found at the bottom of small holes in the snow. You'd know that if you wanted to catch them and eat them, you're not going to get very far by padding from hoofprint to hoofprint in the deep snow, sticking your nose into each one and sniffing ecstatically.Still, you're a happy dog expressing your instincts, and that makes me happy because I love you. And I'm glad you're with me and akeela, because you'd be hopeless if you ever really had to survive like a wolf.Love,me.
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The heart of the hunter

[Jan. 4th, 2011|03:26 pm]Footpad

[Tags**|dear mischa, lol dog, love, mischa, walkies] [Current Mood**

charmed]Dear Mischa,You know that I love you. I want you to be happy, which mostly just means allowing you free expression of your instincts.Some of the instincts I love most are those that show the wolf who lives deep in your heart. On a night walk a few days ago, you found a deer-trail at the edge of a field. There you paused, silhouetted against the midnight snow with your head and tail held high—and for a moment you were a wolf: beautiful, primal, gentle and wholly atavistic, as you set out into the night with every fibre and every sense quivering with alertness in the timeless rapture of the hunt.Of course, if you were really a wolf, you'd know that deer are not found at the bottom of small holes in the snow. You'd know that if you wanted to catch them and eat them, you're not going to get very far by padding from hoofprint to hoofprint in the deep snow, sticking your nose into each one and sniffing ecstatically.Still, you're a happy dog expressing your instincts, and that makes me happy because I love you. And I'm glad you're with me and

akeela, because you'd be hopeless if you ever really had to survive like a wolf.Love,me.

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At the dogwash. At the dogwash, yeah.	[Jun. 29th, 2010\|12:41 am]Footpad
[Tags\|mischa, walkies] [Current Music	Aerosmith, _Livin' On The Edge_]In three years with Mischa, we've never once washed him. Mischa doesn't believe in being washed; in fact he gravely mistrusts the whole idea of humans and water. He won't come within ten yards of the garden sprinkler, and if you dare to pick up anything as ghastly as a hosepipe then he'll disappear as quickly as you can say "tail between hindlegs". The family who raised him must have done a lot of things right, or he couldn't be as wonderful a dog as he is, but I'm not sure I want to know what bathtime was like in their household.Fortunately malamutes are generally pretty much self-cleaning dogs, especially when they're relatively short-furred like Mischa. Anybody who's ever buried their nose in his pelt knows that he smells delicious—clean, sweet, definitely animal but in a wholly agreeable way, with none of the sour taint that some dogs possess. Even so, his fur accumulates a certain amount of dust and earth, so that after an intensive petting session you'll find your fingers dark with smut, which washes off very easily with water.Today an idea occurred to me. The weather was pretty hot, and we were walking down by the river, so Mischa was continually jumping into the shallow places to paddle and splosh around as he loves to when he's warm. So I paused by one of the places where the river runs relatively deep and slow. "Mischa!"And, tranquil as you please, he allowed me to lead him into water that came up to his chin, and I gave him a good all-over scrub while he stood in the water panting, until he apparently decided that the chill was getting to him and he moved to climb out. So I let him (no sense in making the exercise unpleasant).Mischa, you are a deeply strange dog. Water pistol? OMG NO MY HUMANS ARE TRYING TO DROWN ME. Total immersion? ... hey, this is nice and cool!Unfortunately I had to leave for Switzerland before he was fully dried out, but I bet that by now he's as clean and cuddly and sweet and soft as a Steiff teddy-bear. I wish I were there.
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At the dogwash. At the dogwash, yeah.

[Jun. 29th, 2010|12:41 am]Footpad

[Tags**|mischa, walkies] [Current Music**

Aerosmith, _Livin' On The Edge_]In three years with Mischa, we've never once washed him. Mischa doesn't believe in being washed; in fact he gravely mistrusts the whole idea of humans and water. He won't come within ten yards of the garden sprinkler, and if you dare to pick up anything as ghastly as a hosepipe then he'll disappear as quickly as you can say "tail between hindlegs". The family who raised him must have done a lot of things right, or he couldn't be as wonderful a dog as he is, but I'm not sure I want to know what bathtime was like in their household.Fortunately malamutes are generally pretty much self-cleaning dogs, especially when they're relatively short-furred like Mischa. Anybody who's ever buried their nose in his pelt knows that he smells delicious—clean, sweet, definitely animal but in a wholly agreeable way, with none of the sour taint that some dogs possess. Even so, his fur accumulates a certain amount of dust and earth, so that after an intensive petting session you'll find your fingers dark with smut, which washes off very easily with water.Today an idea occurred to me. The weather was pretty hot, and we were walking down by the river, so Mischa was continually jumping into the shallow places to paddle and splosh around as he loves to when he's warm. So I paused by one of the places where the river runs relatively deep and slow. "Mischa!"And, tranquil as you please, he allowed me to lead him into water that came up to his chin, and I gave him a good all-over scrub while he stood in the water panting, until he apparently decided that the chill was getting to him and he moved to climb out. So I let him (no sense in making the exercise unpleasant).Mischa, you are a deeply strange dog. Water pistol? OMG NO MY HUMANS ARE TRYING TO DROWN ME. Total immersion? ... hey, this is nice and cool!Unfortunately I had to leave for Switzerland before he was fully dried out, but I bet that by now he's as clean and cuddly and sweet and soft as a Steiff teddy-bear. I wish I were there.

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Snorepantgrin	[May. 2nd, 2010\|03:59 pm]Footpad
[Tags\|dear mischa, mischa, sleep, walkies] [Current Mood	happy]Dear Mischa,You know that I love you. Your foibles and sillinesses never cease to charm me, especially the things you try to do when you're panting.I understand that when we come in from a medium-length walk, five miles or so, you're pretty hot and thirsty. You want to drink and you want to pant. So you go to your water-bowl and you try to do both at the same time. So far you've managed to avoid drowning yourself. Panting while eating is a bit more tricky, but rarely happens because we don't feed you when you're hot.Today was a new one, and cuter than either: we got in from our walk, you went straight out to the garden, flopped down in your hole under the pine tree, and started trying to pant and sleep at the same time. And, impressively, you seem to have managed it, and with such a beautiful grin:I look down out of my window now, and there you are, no longer panting but just sleeping away as if you don't have a care in the world. Fact is, you probably don't, and that is a lovely thing.Love,me.
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Snorepantgrin

[May. 2nd, 2010|03:59 pm]Footpad

[Tags**|dear mischa, mischa, sleep, walkies] [Current Mood**

happy]Dear Mischa,You know that I love you. Your foibles and sillinesses never cease to charm me, especially the things you try to do when you're panting.I understand that when we come in from a medium-length walk, five miles or so, you're pretty hot and thirsty. You want to drink and you want to pant. So you go to your water-bowl and you try to do both at the same time. So far you've managed to avoid drowning yourself. Panting while eating is a bit more tricky, but rarely happens because we don't feed you when you're hot.Today was a new one, and cuter than either: we got in from our walk, you went straight out to the garden, flopped down in your hole under the pine tree, and started trying to pant and sleep at the same time. And, impressively, you seem to have managed it, and with such a beautiful grin:

Mischa sleeping in the garden with a big grin

I look down out of my window now, and there you are, no longer panting but just sleeping away as if you don't have a care in the world. Fact is, you probably don't, and that is a lovely thing.Love,me.

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Why I'm getting unfit	[Jul. 27th, 2008\|01:30 pm]Footpad
[Tags\|mischa, walkies] [Current Mood	happy]"Running" with Mischa has become a misnomer. Now that we're a well-established pack, I can at last let him off the leash when we're nowhere near road traffic, farm animals, cats, leashed dogs, large expanses of mud, bicycles, gardens, nervous pedestrians, open buildings, Anatolian Shepherds, or other risk areas. (I invite the gentle reader to decide in which cases Mischa himself is the hazard.)Although Mischa and I run at about the same speed, a lot of the time Mischa isn't running. He's sniffing things, or peeing on them, or conversing with other dogs, or frozen motionless in furious stare-battles with the local farm cats—all those critical tasks which make up the busy schedule of an active Northern dog. So I maintain his average velocity, a sort of tranquil amble, while he oscillates back and forth at higher speeds, and I keep track of him by the jingle of his various legally-required dog tags and the slightly Dopplered pant-pant-pant-pant-pant-pant-pant-pant each time he overtakes me.
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Why I'm getting unfit

[Jul. 27th, 2008|01:30 pm]Footpad

[Tags**|mischa, walkies] [Current Mood**

happy]"Running" with Mischa has become a misnomer. Now that we're a well-established pack, I can at last let him off the leash when we're nowhere near road traffic, farm animals, cats, leashed dogs, large expanses of mud, bicycles, gardens, nervous pedestrians, open buildings, Anatolian Shepherds, or other risk areas. (I invite the gentle reader to decide in which cases Mischa himself is the hazard.)Although Mischa and I run at about the same speed, a lot of the time Mischa isn't running. He's sniffing things, or peeing on them, or conversing with other dogs, or frozen motionless in furious stare-battles with the local farm cats—all those critical tasks which make up the busy schedule of an active Northern dog. So I maintain his average velocity, a sort of tranquil amble, while he oscillates back and forth at higher speeds, and I keep track of him by the jingle of his various legally-required dog tags and the slightly Dopplered pant-pant-pant-pant-pant-pant-pant-pant each time he overtakes me.

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Platsch!	[Jul. 15th, 2008\|11:43 am]Footpad
[Tags\|dear mischa, mischa, walkies] [Current Mood	perky]Dear Mischa,You know that I love you. I appreciate that these warm summer days must be trying for someone with your hardy Northern constitution and lush pelt. I can't imagine that many things feel better than unexpectedly flinging yourself down in a large cool mud puddle while we're out walking. Unfortunately you have to realise that covering yourself in mud means you will be washed when we get back home. No matter how much you hate it. No matter how much you wriggle, no matter how much you cower: _you will be washed._Given the inevitability of this torture, I hope you'll forgive me if I take a certain sadistic pleasure in it.Love,me.
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Platsch!

[Jul. 15th, 2008|11:43 am]Footpad

[Tags**|dear mischa, mischa, walkies] [Current Mood**

perky]Dear Mischa,You know that I love you. I appreciate that these warm summer days must be trying for someone with your hardy Northern constitution and lush pelt. I can't imagine that many things feel better than unexpectedly flinging yourself down in a large cool mud puddle while we're out walking. Unfortunately you have to realise that covering yourself in mud means you will be washed when we get back home. No matter how much you hate it. No matter how much you wriggle, no matter how much you cower: _you will be washed._Given the inevitability of this torture, I hope you'll forgive me if I take a certain sadistic pleasure in it.Love,me.

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The Light Bringer	[Mar. 28th, 2008\|01:33 am]Footpad
[Tags\|darkness, rants, walkies] [Current Mood	sleepy]One of my most visceral pet hates: lights that work on a motion detector.I grew up in the country. Nowadays there are a lot of sodium streetlights in the sprawling town some miles away, but when I was a child it was dark at night. Under the broad-leafed trees that roofed the paths and lanes nearby, it was darker still. Walking home at night, the last few hundred yards of dirt road would be absolutely dark—a stifling, Stygian, panther blackness. I used to enjoy wandering in the dark, finding my way by touch and instinct and the feel of the track under my feet.I love darkness. Night is the womb of becoming: it lulls, invigorates, refreshes, renews. I love its soft enfolding, its gentleness and its restfulness. I love feeling my other senses unfold as darkness curtails my vision. I love its discretion. While the world sleeps, I like to pass silently by—awake, unnoticed and unknown.Which is why I so passionately hate those damn' motion-sensing lights that people mount on their houses, which ignite without warning, stabbing shards of light into the soft heart of my precious darkness. They destroy the integrity of the night and shatter its exquisite peace.Still, they're not as bad as when people move to the middle of a gorgeous piece of open, dark countryside, then burn a 200-watt lamp outside their door all night every night. If they're so afraid of the dark, why don't they stay under the city streetlights where they belong?
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The Light Bringer

[Mar. 28th, 2008|01:33 am]Footpad

[Tags**|darkness, rants, walkies] [Current Mood**

sleepy]One of my most visceral pet hates: lights that work on a motion detector.I grew up in the country. Nowadays there are a lot of sodium streetlights in the sprawling town some miles away, but when I was a child it was dark at night. Under the broad-leafed trees that roofed the paths and lanes nearby, it was darker still. Walking home at night, the last few hundred yards of dirt road would be absolutely dark—a stifling, Stygian, panther blackness. I used to enjoy wandering in the dark, finding my way by touch and instinct and the feel of the track under my feet.I love darkness. Night is the womb of becoming: it lulls, invigorates, refreshes, renews. I love its soft enfolding, its gentleness and its restfulness. I love feeling my other senses unfold as darkness curtails my vision. I love its discretion. While the world sleeps, I like to pass silently by—awake, unnoticed and unknown.Which is why I so passionately hate those damn' motion-sensing lights that people mount on their houses, which ignite without warning, stabbing shards of light into the soft heart of my precious darkness. They destroy the integrity of the night and shatter its exquisite peace.Still, they're not as bad as when people move to the middle of a gorgeous piece of open, dark countryside, then burn a 200-watt lamp outside their door all night every night. If they're so afraid of the dark, why don't they stay under the city streetlights where they belong?

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Tihar: Dog Day	[Nov. 8th, 2007\|05:49 pm]Footpad
[Tags\|mischa, news, snippets, walkies]Nepalese national dog day. What a wonderfully enlightened concept!Though not, I guess, as enlightened as consistent care and occasional love. C'mon, Mischa, it's time for your second run. (He's flaked out on his side behind my chair. Awwwww.)
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(no subject)	[Apr. 28th, 2007\|08:40 pm]Footpad
[Tags\|california, food, travel, walkies]"Ladies and gentlemen. Good afternoon, and welcome aboard Alaska Airways flight 359 to Seattle Tacoma. May I invite you to take a good look outside at the gorgeous hot sunny weather. And say goodbye to it, because the weather in Seattle is heavily clouded, forty-three degrees Fahrenheit [7°C]. Typical Seattle weather."And up we went, and I looked out over San Francisco Bay and wistfully bid California farewell.I spent two of my last few days with keikan. He was convalescent and I was still feeling liverish after my mild food-poisoning, so we didn't do much but lounge around and read and go for small walks and cinema trips. (Hot Fuzz, eight out of ten, go see if you have any love of farce or spoof or British comedy.) From there, for a final evening with Lyon and Cinnamon. We cooked a chicken stew, cuddled Nik the ineffably sweet-tempered German shepherd dog, and drank altogether too much wine. My last night in California was spent catching up with jaffa_tamarin, whom I hadn't seen since we met at felder's all those years ago. I also had the unanticipated pleasure of meeting his cute and affable mate krahnos.Jaffa took me out to the fourth and last national park of my trip, the little Alum Rock Park: steep valley sides, thick brushy woodland giving way to chaparral and grass on the higher slopes. Jaffa, being a keen wildlife photographer (see his dailyanimals), spotted all sorts of critters that would otherwise have completely escaped my notice. "Look, a hummingbird." "Where?" I asked, trying to follow the line of his pointing finger. Eventually I found the little scrap of feathers, pretending to be the tip of a dead branch. "Look, a squirrel," sitting in the leaf-litter, staring at us. "Look, a lizard," lying on the path in a state of near-suicidal apathy.The afternoon weather was hot and dry, and by the time we got home I was happy to relax into the coolness of Jaffa's house.He and I and Krahnos went out for supper at a restaurant which was full of policemen, raising money for some charitable cause by acting as waiters to the slightly-incredulous clientele. I had jambalaya, and struggled to eat it all. But now I've got to scoot because tkat is taking me to El Gaucho. wag
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(no subject)

[Apr. 28th, 2007|08:40 pm]Footpad

[**Tags**|california, food, travel, walkies]"Ladies and gentlemen. Good afternoon, and welcome aboard Alaska Airways flight 359 to Seattle Tacoma. May I invite you to take a good look outside at the gorgeous hot sunny weather. And say goodbye to it, because the weather in Seattle is heavily clouded, forty-three degrees Fahrenheit [7°C]. Typical Seattle weather."And up we went, and I looked out over San Francisco Bay and wistfully bid California farewell.I spent two of my last few days with

keikan. He was convalescent and I was still feeling liverish after my mild food-poisoning, so we didn't do much but lounge around and read and go for small walks and cinema trips. (Hot Fuzz, eight out of ten, go see if you have any love of farce or spoof or British comedy.) From there, for a final evening with Lyon and Cinnamon. We cooked a chicken stew, cuddled Nik the ineffably sweet-tempered German shepherd dog, and drank altogether too much wine. My last night in California was spent catching up with

jaffa_tamarin, whom I hadn't seen since we met at

felder's all those years ago. I also had the unanticipated pleasure of meeting his cute and affable mate

krahnos.Jaffa took me out to the fourth and last national park of my trip, the little Alum Rock Park: steep valley sides, thick brushy woodland giving way to chaparral and grass on the higher slopes. Jaffa, being a keen wildlife photographer (see his

dailyanimals), spotted all sorts of critters that would otherwise have completely escaped my notice. "Look, a hummingbird." "Where?" I asked, trying to follow the line of his pointing finger. Eventually I found the little scrap of feathers, pretending to be the tip of a dead branch. "Look, a squirrel," sitting in the leaf-litter, staring at us. "Look, a lizard," lying on the path in a state of near-suicidal apathy.The afternoon weather was hot and dry, and by the time we got home I was happy to relax into the coolness of Jaffa's house.He and I and Krahnos went out for supper at a restaurant which was full of policemen, raising money for some charitable cause by acting as waiters to the slightly-incredulous clientele. I had jambalaya, and struggled to eat it all. But now I've got to scoot because

tkat is taking me to El Gaucho. *wag*

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