Countdown to the Year of the Hound

Morning, the eve before New Year’s Eve, a sonorous Ohmmmmm of a distant foghorn floats through the crisp air. It’s 4:00 a.m. I’m wide-awake, still buzzing from the chocolate-coated caramels that one of Jesus’ disciples left me in my mailbox. On average I’ve been gobbling down four gooey hunks a day. I warn friends, if I suddenly drop dead tell the cops to dust the box for prints. As much as I want to believe in the spirit of giving this is still America. 

Seasonal temps swing and sway between 30’s and 80’s. Gals in winter boots and pop tops stroll Sunset Blvd. If it weren’t for retail mania I’d have no idea it was Christmas. Overall, this year's festive season was low-key, hung with the hound at V’s. His gas service was shut off for repair so Christmas day we grilled hamburgers and took brisk showers. Cord of wood supplied fuel for the fireplace and to complete our modern Dickensian holiday Santa brought me a survival kit. Three days of rations and emergency tools—a must-have for a single gal in Southern Cal. Add a tube of lipstick, black cocktail dress, and a 20-pound bag of dog food and we’re well prepared for anything that hits town in 2012! I’m excited for the New Year. Fresh start, clean slate. Whatever happens, shared laughs or shit storms, as we mount the rails of the future I predict it’ll be an exciting ride.

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January 27, 2012      Alert to the sound of a bleating boat offshore, Daisy stands stock still on the sand at Rosie’s Dog Beach. Local photographer, Lucus Anti, snaps the opportune shot. Model hound is slated to appear in the online gallery at The Pet Post USA . It’s just all a part of a typical day with the Bluetick Princess—paparazzi, play dates, pampering, loving admirers. What a life. I could so be a dog.

After the photo session, Lucas tells me he once had a Coonhound but sadly she died of cancer. “We had her eight years,” he said softly as his eyes followed Daisy’s determined hunt for picnic scraps.

  “Was she a pain in the ass?” I asked.

 “Oh yes,” he confirmed. “She destroyed everything, drove the neighbours crazy, stubborn as hell.”

He has a Boxer now, which presents a whole new set of challenges. We laugh; agree how obvious it is that our dogs are training us! Admittedly, I’m so puppy whipped that Daisy’s care and feeding is priority one. Besides her high-end diet and designer treats, she has a dog walker, dog jogger, two doggie daycare centers she frequents, and her BFF and male role model, V. Add to that a dozen mutts she butt sniffs with on a regular basis and without a doubt the hound gets more action than I do.

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Again, I’m up at 4:00 a.m., relishing the silence. Daisy has, momentarily, decided to relocate to the couch, leaving me room to spread out my magazines and books on the bed. There’s never enough room for both of us on my wee day bed yet I tend to tough it out. Her solid warmth feels homey. And when I toss and turn, her complaining groans make me laugh. Besides, when she’s knocked out the damn dog turns into a boulder. Takes Herculean strength to shove her off.

 Opps, spoke too soon, Daisy has returned.  Apparently the draft by the front door disturbed Her Royal Houndess' sleep. Stretched to full length she now claims three-quarters of the bed. Robbed of personal space, I decide to make coffee and try to write. It’s a goal of mine to pump out more work. Once upon a time a desperate need drove me to ink—papers, poems, jokes, scripts, half-baked ideas percolated and poured freely from my brain. Things change. I don’t so much mind the shift in production—absence from the written word paints the world in other ways. And honestly, there are so many reasons not to write. Daisy for one. Her constant need for stimulation and exercise has me rarely sitting still.  Plus there’s my aesthetic excuse: I need a view, something to gaze at other than a 10-unit low-rise and that Craftsman with the creep in it across the street. “People write in prison” was my pal Jude’s reply to my whine. Although a valid point, I argue that fewer distractions would be an asset. All I know is something has to give; somehow I must fire up the desire to write. Jude inspires me. We constantly volley ideas back and forth, our seamless phone session cover the many miles Daisy and I walk, day in, day out. Cell phone radiating into gray matter, we plot out sitcoms, feature films, sketches and monologues—no shortage of ideas! Problem is ideas are cheap. It’s the putting them into print that breeds possibilities. Perhaps I need to imagine my writerly success in terms of how it will benefit the hound. Forget about my fame and fortune, one blockbuster script could buy a truckload of bones. After all, even for us selfish, frustrated artists, it’s still all about the dog. If only she could act…