Up With the Chickens

As the Texas Summer is hot on our heels, Tall Husband and I are up with the proverbial chickens each morning.  Our mission?  Walking our two dogs, Skipper and Scooter, who refuse to poop in the garden.  So, equipped with ice water, dog bowl, Martha Stewart doggie-poop bags, hand wipes, and so on...we head out of the Bunny Bungalow.  I would like to tell you that we choose the route but the truth is, the dogs have us leash trained.  If you have never walked a dog, you haven't experienced the whole social milieu that surrounds the dog world.

First of all, the pooping part is only an incidental act for our Scooter and Skipper.  The real purpose of the walk is high adventure.  The two little characters frantically sniff their way through the neighborhood, on the lookout for squirrels, possums, cats...and failing that, the pee of other dogs. Upon finding a fresh spot, they take turns hiking a leg and leaving a contribution, but only if they know and like the dog who left that wet spot on the trail.  When we reach the gate of a favorite canine pal, they each hike a leg and leave what Tall Husband calls a message..."Sorry we missed you; catch you later, Me."  When they do encounter a pal, there is, immediately, butt sniffing.  One must get that out of the way first. This ritual is followed by high fives, executed with fancy foot work and excited vocalization, as they slap their front paws together;   Meanwhile, we owners exchange cute dog stories and our dogs' names, but not usually our own names.  Consequently, we know all the neighborhood dogs by name but know each other by Henry's Mommy, Iggie's Daddy, or Foxy's Pop.

Gotta go, 'cause Scooter is insisting that it's time for the afternoon adventure...in this heat?!  And Gryf has her Mom at our front gate.

French, antique school slate on which I have drawn a whimsical rooster to amuse myself between dog walks.