Little Fish, Big River, Bigger City

Yesterday, February 6th marked the 11th year since I picked up the world's greatest dog in a truckstop just off Exit 3, Snowville, Utah while en route from Seattle to Colorado Springs. So how on earth do you celebrate something that means so much to you as this? Especially when you pretty much celebrate in some small way every single day? You do what AxL enjoys doing, which is pretty much nothing mixed with eating treats of every kind. I thought about getting him a new leash and collar but he's already got one in most every color and style hanging on the back of our front door. Nope, no good. So it was short walks, long spells of sitting at Alta Park enjoying the view and of course, letting him sniff every bush, plant, fire hydrant, telephone pole and shrub fo as long as he wanted to.

That's the wonderful thing about a dog/human friendship. It doesn't make sense to each separate party involved, but it works. I don't understand what could be so interesting about smelling the pee of a 1,000 other dogs for 10 minutes, nor do I understand what joy there could be in sprinkling the spot once I'm done smelling. AxL, I'm sure doesn't understand keys or coffee or the gym but in the grand symbiotic scheme of things it all just becomes "nap time" for him. The one thing I've always tried to figure out about AxL is what is going through his head. I'd give anything to hear his thoughts for an hour or two. I wonder what he's dreaming about when he's snoring and his little legs are kicking away while his eyes flinch under closed lids. I wonder what his brain grumbles whenever he simply turns up his nose and walks away after I lay down my best effort of canine culinations consisting of salmon, teriyaki chicken or beef and pasta marinara mixed with his kibble and vitamins.

I do know that he's in heaven in his new yard as he simply can't seem to get enough of "going outside" and just sleeping away in the grass. He's so content that I actually have to lift him up and shuffle him along whenever it's time to go somewhere. I've considered purchasing a large Radio Flyer wagon and adding some shock absorbers before placing a large hunk of sodded real estate in it from his favorite place in the yard. I figure that would be the ultimate "AxL Mobile" in that he could stay in the one spot he loves to stay in while being wheeled past all the places in the neighborhood that he loves to sniff and sniff and sniff. I could outfit the front of the trailer with an automated treat delivery system that drops out small chunks of chicken or salmon based on how many times the wheels have turned during a jaunt.

I'm also considering acupuncture for him as a friend's dog had great results with it all and my best attempts at Shih-Tzu massage on his low back and sore hind legs don't seem to be doing the trick of bringing back the youthful spring he possessed in his peak squirrel chasing days. Yea, believe it or not, AxL used to be fast...really fast. When we lived in Breckenridge for a year, he could actually catch ground squirrels. He spent one summer knocking off an entire family one by one while I spent my days creating popsicle stick crosses and picking wildflowers for the "squirrel cemetary" consisting of 5 mounds of earth over five formerly chipper chipmunk-sized beasts who met their demise in AxL's fangs.

Don't get the wrong idea...AxL is no killer dog. In fact, once there was a large cat walking down the sidewalk so we played our favorite game. It's called "GET THE CAT!!!" and it goes like this: I would yell out the triggering phrase and he would shoot off with unbridled gusto after the freaked out feline. However, on this one particular occaission, the feline decided to turn, arch it's back up, bristle it's long goofy persian fur and hiss with every decibel available in its dometicated little voicebox. I watched with amusement as AxL hit the brakes within inches of the four-legged, one-tailed fluff pillow of noise. Then AxL simply looked off and up into the trees while he nonchalantly moseyed in another direction as if to say, "huh...would you look at that? I do believe that the cherry blossoms are quite lovely this time of year. What? Cat? Hmm...no, I'm not aware of any cat. Sorry. Just out for a walk here and under the blooms and getting a spot of fresh air. Yes, nice day isn't it, old chap? Well, must carry on you know, food bowl waiting and all. Ta, ta."

The cat of course didn't buy into his act and so even as AxL meandered without a hint of motivation down the street, the fuzzed out cotton ball on steroids continued to glare and hiss and yowl and spat in our general direction. In that singular moment, I realized that my dog knew how to act and that I should strongly consider getting him an agent before hitting Hollywood. However, that would never work for AxL because it would involve repeating something more than twice. He's smart that way. He knows several tricks but if you insist on making him perform any of them more than twice before giving him a treat he'll simply turn his head away and ignore you with a New Yorker "forget you, pal" attitude. That's what I love about this dog. His honesty and his ability to only do what he really wants to do. If he doesn't want to move, he won't move. If he doesn't feel like coming when you call him, he won't. If he wants to sleep more, he just won't get up. If he hates his food, he won't touch it unlike most dogs who will eat anything and everything that will fit into their mouths including dirt, rocks, shoes, houseplants, pillows, stuffed toys, etc.

However, it should be noted that there is one exception to the food rule: other dogs. Now you wouldn't think AxL is competitive based on his zen-like nature but I'm here to tell you that if another dog even sniffs AxL's food bowl he will gently go over and stare the other dog down. When the dog lifts its head as if to say "huh? whaa?" then AxL will simply nudge his face into the bowl with polite determination. Here's the best part. I know he hates his kibble most of the time if not all the time. But he's got a dilemma. The other dog is eating HIS food...so he's now forced to chew and swallow and gulp and choke it down with a pained expression in his eyes that "this crap really sucks but I've seen worse stuff on Fear Factor and there's no way in hell that I'm letting el dorko here get any of my food." AxL then proceeds to force every last crumb down as if he were a spy eating bits of paper containing a sceret mission that must be destroyed. Ah, so very James Bond of him and all, isn't it? Quite.

Speaking of James Bond reminds me of my favorite AxL observation: the women. Never have I seen a male of any species exhibit so many ploys to gain the attention of attractive women. He's relentless and shameless and he's taken flirting with women from an obsucre tactic used by drunk frat boys and turned into a pure art form. He has a repertoire with tailored moves for every situation and female personality that exists. He plays coy, he plays shy, he plays neglected. He acts cute and puts on his happy face for the giddy ones and he droops and saddens his eyes and posture to play the hapless lost soul for the sympathetic ones. Personally, I'm jealous but being the ever-faithful student that I am, I study his every move with fascination when he's at work. I feel fortunate to the degree that an understudy must feel when watching Baryshnikov. AxL is a master attractor. If ever a book should be written for dudes who strike out picking up chicks, it should be penned by AxL - Dog Debonair Extraordinaire.

Which brings me to my final point: AxL is my hero. Here is a dog who changed an entire person's life, started a multi-dollar dog treat company and has charmed and warmed the hearts of thousands of peoople despite the fact that he was on his last legs, starving, ragged, smelly and knocking on death's door just eleven years ago as he struggled through each day in the frozen, unforgiving landscape where I found him. Or should I say, he found me? I always thought I wanted to be "Joe Businessman" or "Joe Stock Market" wearing expensive suits and power ties. I soon discovered that this lifestyle doesn't jibe with having a dog, walking through wet grass, filling your BMW with mud, covering your suits with relentlessly determined bits of fur that I will surely be finding for the next 40 years among my belongings. Even during my recent bike trek, an AxL hair somehow turned up on my pullover in New Mexico 45 days and over 5,000 miles of logged travel since I left AxL in Seattle. A single hair stuck with me from Sea-Tac International to John F. Kennedy Airport, through Central Park and three days in New York City. It clung with me through the crazy taxi ride back to JFK and all the way to Ft. Lauderdale and it rode along in a convertible from there to Key West. The hair steadfastly traveled through mile after mile of riding, through Miami rain and even some hurricane force winds in Texas. It climbed the twisting Continental Divide with ease three times while I struggled to push each pedal to gain every painfully slow inch. Then, near the end with just hundreds of miles to go, the hair just decided to pop out of nowhere and make itself known by sitting right in the middle of my fleece shirt I had put on for warmth one cold morning. The hair warmed my heart even more than the high-tech shirt fibers warmed my body. It reminded me that we can travel far, far away but love comes right along with you no matter where you go. It's timeless and knows no boundaries.

Yea, call me crazy but something so simple as the unconditional love of a stray dog can change you from being a self-absorbed businessman jerk-off into a relaxed and patient soul without a second thought about image or status. You see, for the last eleven years I've been slowly letting go of being the person I thought I wanted others to see me as. So, it's only fitting that for AxL's birthday I came up with the greatest gift I could think of for him (besides Frosty Paws). Yep, call me a dreamer but I'm going to strive each day toward being the person my dog thinks I am.

Yesterday was "Sarge Day." I crossed off a multitude of the "moving to a new city" items from the "To Do List" pertaining to my Evergreen colored 1992 Nissan Pathfinder. I discovered from the papers in my glove box that my car really issn't "army green" which prompted me to name my car Sarge. Nope. It's "Evergreen." Perhaps I should've named it "Spruce" or "Ponderosa" but Sarge just seemed so aptly fitting for this tough little Pathfinder I purchased from my friend Joel Grow in the summer of 2000.

I'd been procrastinating on taking care of the painful DMV stuff but once I got underway, it wasn't that bad. After racking up $60 in parking tickets during first 72 hours of moving here, I decided I had better get my financially responsible side in gear ASAP and get a parking permit or "PP." But before I could do that, I also had to get a Vehicle Registration Certificate or "VRC" and to do that, I had to get "SMOGGED" at a gas station. So, I decided to just write it all off as "Sarge Day" and take care of it all: a needed oil change or "OC," a car wash ("CW") and a California Drivers License or "CDL" class B with motorcycle endorsement. Just to procrastinate a bit longer, I stopped by my PO box for the first time to collect forwarded mail that has been piling up the last few weeks.

The Post Office was a wonderful experience complete with a fight between two elderly people. A smallish old man with bright blue eyes and a slight full-body tremble about himself mistakenly provoked a formidable opponent. His challenger was a short black woman with gray hair and a feminist chip on her shoulder. Even the man's impish grin and his gaily cocked maroon hat from some obscure shipyard couldn't break through her tough attitude. The line for service was long. I felt as if I were standing in line for Britney Spears concert tickets, or at least what I imagine that kind of line would be like. The man had arrived right behind me but he mistakenly stepped two feet over to grab an envelope from a counter. The old woman with the attitude darted in with the speed of a striking cobra and fangs to match. As the man came back she coiled and hissed at him that "uh-uh!!!!!!!!! you are NOT CUTTING IN FAH-RONT OF ME!"

"But I was already in line..." he feebly grinned, "I just grabbed an envelope."

"Weh-hellll then, you GOT OUTTA line and JUST BECAW-UZ YOU ARE AAYY MAh-HHAN, YOU ARE NAHWTT CUTTING IN FRONT OF ME, MISTER!" she spat as her head swirled in a small cobra-like dancing manner. The man just turned up the volume on his silent, innocent smile. The woman coiled again with her hands on her hips. "Hehhhh!!!!" she challenged him with a James Brown lyric. He was stunned. The venom was starting to affect his blood as he trembled a bit more, from her poisonous tongue lashing. Everyone within twenty feet turned to watch with the "interested dis-interest" that only people standing in the world's slowest post office line can exhibit.

Clearly, not thinking clearly, the man tried to reclaim his spot again. She struck him with another James Brown lyric of "HAAeeeyyach!!!" The man stopped cold, his smile frozen in place. His eyes were still shining bright and blue but nothing else displayed any sort of strength against this adversary. I went from shock to admiration at how strange the world can be that this woman could believe in something so strongly, something which really didn't matter at all in the grand scheme of life. I held my laughter, I held my tongue. I thought about how I could affect the situation in a way worth writing about. Now that I'm back to "normal life" I'm looking for anything interesting to write about since I'm not being dusted by semi trucks doing 90 mph while riding my bike endlessly day after day. The woman continued her tirade but now she directed it at the postal workers closing their windows for their lunch break.

That's the thing about post offices and banks, all but one of their workers heads to lunch during the lunch hours which is precisely the time when the most customers arrive to do business. It just doesn't make sense unless you look at from the standpoint that humans don't really ever quite do the logical thing when it comes to food. As each postal worker set their "window closed" placards out one by one, the woman jeered them in turn with more James Brown sounds: "HeccCCHH!" "SHyeeaaaaH!" "fffFFFeeeehhhHH!"

After about 40 minutes, I made it to the front and took a chance. I turned to the woman and asked if she was in a hurry. Her face lit up with untold relief as if I were the rescue crew arriving to pluck her out of a collapsed mine shaft.

"OH YES! I'M DOUBLE PARKED OUTSIDE IN THE BUS ZONE!" she blurted as if that earned her sympathy points. I marveled at this little fact. Think about it. The very woman who had just trounced all over a hapless 80 year old man on his last legs for trying to cut in line had ironically double parked her car in a bus zone. I wanted to slap her with a James Brown lyric of my own yet despite her crazy double standard, I let her go in front of me. I had some odd urge to do a good deed for the day. Her attitude changed completely. She thanked me over and over and over while her radiated with an enormous gratitude. She was so dizzily happy she didn't even bother collecting change from the few stamps she had purchased. She just waved and smiled and thanked me yet again, two more times, as she danced away from the counter and out the door, her trench coat flying in the tailwind created by the hurricane departure. Satisfied that I may have changed her day while giving the rest of the people line something to think about, I collected my mail from the clerk along with the key to box 15190 and I set out for Marin.

Aaaah, the trip to Marin is something magical on a perfect Bay Area day. I can't say enough how much I love living here. The sun sparkled on the deep blue waters as I drove across the ginormous cabled harp that is the Golden Gate. I kind of wish they would paint it real gold instead of "primer orange. Now THAT would be spectacular. Nonetheless it's an insane structure with an awesome view. I passed through "Waldo Tunnel" and drove along the hillside over Sausalito and her marina then into the valley below to find the DMV. Once I located it, I picked up the forms to fill out along with the study books for the written exams for both car and motorcycle. I then asked around until someone offered me directions to the nearest SMOG performing gas station in San Rafael. A few exits and a couple of wrong turns later I was passing my SMOG test with flying colors while I read up on the cool rules of driving in California.

For example, you can basically make a U-turn anywhere down here except through a solid concrete dividing wall according to the booklet. Additionally, they don't call it the "left lane" on the highway. It is "the fast lane." How cool is THAT? The DMV calling it like it is! I also learned that if you're 13 to 21 years old and are caught using alchohol, drugs or vandalizing property your driving priveleges are suspended for one year. Never mind that you can't drive with a learners permit until you're 15. So my advice is if you're going to drink and do drugs while vandalizing stuff you should probably do it before you turn 14 so that you can get your one year revocation over with and start driving at age 15.

Additionally, I learned that if you are driving and you kill someone you are required to report this to the police within 24 hours. Uh, okay. So picture this: some bimbo "accidentally" runs over her ex-boyfriend and his family of five in a crosswalk. However, she's got 24 hours to report it. That's enough time for her to get a manicure, have lunch with the girls, catch the Macy's One Day Only Sale, spend the evening watching MTV and then make the report the next morning just 23 hours and 55 minutes later to stay within the limits of the law. Yea, I guess that makes sense if you think about it.

I love how "progressive" California is. The driver's handbook includes a section written just for Silicon Valley called "dealing with technology." It covers how to best use your cell phone while driving. Of special note is the paragraph discussing the point that one shouldnt engage in emotional conversations on a cell phone while driving. Hhmm...I guess that would cover everything from "day trading" to "phone sex to on the fly" to "relationship break-ups at 70 mph." There are also instructions on how to deal with "Road Rage" which instruct one not to make eye contact or obscene gestures to an "angry driver." Hhm..okay then.

My favorite "progressive law" is that if you hit an animal while driving, you must call the nearest humane society and report it to the CHP right away. Now we're talking! The bimbo has 24 hours to report mowing down her "ex" but she's got to call right away if she takes out "Sparky the dog" while racing to the Macy's sale. Three cheers for animal rights!

However, the "All-Time Progressive Award" has to go to the voter registration form. You fill this out when getting your drivers license. It asks for your name address in one area. Then the area below that states: "If you do not have an address, describe where you live below..." Shyea...I wonder how many of these are sitting in the voter registration office with descriptions like "my residence is a plasma powered interplanetary craft which I keep parked at lattitude 38, longitude 126 at a depth of 77 feet below the surface of the San Francisco Bay."

After passing my vehicle inspection despite not being able to open my hood which was somehow stuck, I took the written exams. I was flawless on the car exam but missed four on the motorcycle exam. Ouch. The questions and answers were so oddly posed and juxtaposed. The most notable one I missed was the following: "To best be seen by the vehicle in front of you, you should ride: A) In the left side of the lane; B) In the center of the lane or C) So that you can see the driver's eyes in their rearview mirror." I answered "B" but the right answer was "C." Now I don't know about you, but if I'm doing 65 mph on a motorcycle down the freeway, I'd really rather not be so close to "Joe California High On Weed" that I can see his bloodshot eyes in his rearview.

After collecting my vehicle registration and temporary drivers license I stepped out into the incredible afternoon sun. I still can't get used this on a daily basis after living in Seattle most of my life. I'm so happy and warm that I literally skip to my car like a schoolgirl playing hopscotch at recess. I then make the drive back over the Golden Gate just giddy about the shiny California plates sporting 5AOJ526 on the seat next to me. I hit the parking permit office which had been moved and I called LoLo to get directions to the new address which is not too far away. The line is huge and according to the security guard I could come back at 8 a.m. instead of waiting for an hour and a half. I decide to get a car wash and oil change with the rest of my day and just come back in the a.m. for the parking pass. The car wash rocks. For $14.95 a platoon of underpaid employees wash, vacuum, shine, dry and spritz my car. In under 10 minutes I'm on my way to Jiffy Lube who also zips me through in 15 minutes for just $39.95. Time really IS money.

Sarge is sparkling and happy as he hums along the city streets while sipping from his full tank of fuel which cost $2.05 per gallon due to the impending war. Someday, we'll be electric or solar but for now we'll continue to burn up dinosaur nectar to get around on long hauls with time deadlines requiring a car.

I slept the night away as happy as I've ever been. I hit the gym at 6 and ran two miles on the treadmill in preparation for the Rock 'n Roll Marathon I'm signed up for taking place in San Diego in June. I then zipped back down to the Department of Public Transportation to pay $13.50 for the little green "G" sticker that prevents me from racking up $20 tickets each time I accidentally forget to move my car every two hours.

Life is good. In fact, life is GRAND. I'm naturally blond and I'm officially "California." Perhaps it might be time to start shopping for a used surf board and some lessons on how to catch a wave.