Daisy: Walking on Water by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Table of Contents

Amazing Meeting in the Pre-Dawn Darkness ...................... 1

Sunny Daytime Play and Wandering Explorations ................ 19

Random Meandering Life ....................................... 90

Old Age and Emergency ....................................... 147

A Reflection in the Muddy Rio Grande ........................ 178

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Amazing Meeting in the Pre-Dawn Darkness Winter set in early that year. The night temperatures dropped well below lethargic refrigeration level and already had produced a series of hard freezes. The most depressing part of the transgression was that it was only early November. A brief and incompetent fall had given up the fight and had bowed to the relentless offensive of disciplined winter. As is not uncommon for still distant January in Central Desert New Mexico, the skies clouded over daily. This opaque armor thwarted any attempt that may have been made by the pale, diminished, indirect sun.

Displaying its most spiteful proclivity, the murky firmament cleared every night, and provided no shelter from the frigid night armies of the silent cosmos. Any petty, ground level zephyr became capable of a tedious but sure killing. A miracle believing optimist would have said that this might have portended an early spring. I could have used some convincing.

I was still going about my early morning routine, though the one who had prompted it died six months prior. At the age of twelve and one half, Willy, my feisty, black and tan, full sized Dachshund finally found something capable of beating him; cancer. I had spent more than half his life right next to him and had difficulty thinking of another dog. When considering it, I would always eventually come to the word “replacement,” and

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then quickly decide that there was no replacement for the little guy who would have defended me to the death against anything.

Willy and I always took our main walk early, often before sunrise, as it was best to be on our path before a potential predator crossed it. I am certain that was what he thought of the enormous humans with large dogs who often came our way during “normal” walking hours. His response was to give a short warning and growl. He would then show his many sharp teeth. If the nemesis persisted, he was well prepared to draw first blood in defending us.

On this dark, cold, and fateful New Mexico morning I had already eaten, showered and dressed and was bringing out the trash, intending to have a smoke before coming back for the departed Willy, just like I had been doing for more than a decade. Through the discredited art of magic, I knew that if I followed the well-practiced precise routine, he, in turn, would perform his magical ritual, and be waiting for me when I got back inside.

I opened the back door, took two steps and froze in terror.

A huge black and white dog ran full tilt at me. I thought of Willy, the only dog I ever had. If he ran at someone the next step would be to bite them. Before I could run, the lanky she stopped at my side and licked my bare trash hand. I knelt down to pet her and she licked my face passionately. This was the

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big, expressive brown eyed Dalmatian, who would come to be known as Daisy. Despite the frigidity of the morning, her thick coat was as soft as that of an un-sheared lamb. Her white seemed to glow brighter than anything else in the dim obscurity of the early coming of winter. Though I had no idea at the time, I had taken my first step into the best years of my life.

She was hungry, but seemed oblivious to the cold. I held up one finger as if to say; “Just one minute,” a signal she would quickly come to understand. I dumped the garbage and went back inside to look for dog food. I didn’t have any. I had forgotten that what I had left of Willy’s was donated to a rescue facility months prior.

As I searched, I saw Daisy through the kitchen window. She was looking up at me as if to say; “Minute’s up.” Her upturned head, as well as her lean body, rested on four disproportionately long and restless paws. She weighed about twenty-five pounds at this stage, which was less than the twenty-nine Willy had packed onto his dachshund frame. I made a quick decision. I did have some canned cat food, usually reserved for Drew, Teddy, Lucy and Little Girl. I put the contents of a can on a plate and brought it to her. She finished it in no more than a second and looked at me, as if to say;

“This can’t be all there is.” This process went on three or four times before she threw the whole thing up.

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I thought; “Oh my God. I hope I didn’t make her sick.”

She seemed okay and continued to act as if she was looking for additional servings, or more likely, looking for something different. I again asked her to wait a minute and drove to a nearby convenience store. All the way I kept thinking; “I hope I didn’t poison her,” and drove like a demon, anxious to get back and see her still alive.

When I returned, she was very alive and I was very relieved. She was also very anxious to see me with dog food. She never told me, but I’ve sometimes thought that she was insulted by the first feeding. She may have thought; “Do I look like a cat to you? Good lord. I am deeply offended. ......... But, I’m also deeply hungry.” She ate the contents of four of the tall dog food cans and looked up for number five, her long legs dancing to a tune only she heard. As happy as I was that she seemed hungry and energetic, I thought it best to stop at four.

Besides, I had only purchased six. I worried if she would still like me. That fear quickly subsided. I bent down to give her a big cuddle and she licked my face as my arms circled her chest.

The sun had been making its long awaited entrance over the Sangre de Cristos for the past few minutes and I felt the warmth. In the absence of clouds and wind, a winter day in Corrales, New Mexico can start out at an intolerable twenty

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degrees and reach a comfortable fifty-five. It looked like it was going to be one of those good ones.

She started to jump around me, wanting to play. At age 54, I had no illusions about being able to keep up with her. When Willy died I made a plaque in his honor, saying among other things that; “We grew old together.” One of us ran around and the other ambled. Daisy looked at me, seeming to strongly indicate; “Do something already!” So I looked for something to throw, which would allow her to do the bulk of the exercise. I got an early glimpse of her intelligence as she quickly figured out that game. I threw a heavy rope pull toy I had in the garage. As tradition would suggest, she went, got it, and brought it back to me a few times, however, rather than dropping it at my feet, she required me to pull it away from her. She held so tightly I lifted her off the ground. The third or fourth throw produced a different result. She went and got it, enclosed it in her mouth, but waited at the point of retrieval. She looked at me as if to say; “I’m not doing all the hard work.

Where I come from, this is considered a participatory sport.”

I thought that her approach was eminently fair minded. As smart as Daisy was, she was also very young; and thereby had no conception of the frailties and limitations produced by a long life. I had always found exercise to be somewhere near the height of sweaty boredom. After I had retired from pick-up,

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relic basketball three years prior, the closest thing to running I had done was a quick two step in an occasionally successful effort to beat someone with a cart full of groceries to the checkout line.

As I was already falling in love with this rambunctious female, I figured that I could still withstand a short burst of adrenalin inspired locomotion. I ran at her and reached for the rope. She easily ran around me. I repeated the process, but whenever I got close she would again zigzag away. Though I had entertained no illusions about my ability to catch a five month old Dalmatian, I tried to act as if I had a chance, often falling to the ground in a last second desperate move to tackle her. I did manage to fleetingly get a temporary hold on her back leg once or twice. After a while I just sat on the ground, winded by my geriatric efforts. Daisy curiously looked at me a few seconds, then came over and dropped the rope near me. I put an arm around her and held her close, again feeling her soft coat, and happily being the recipient of scores of Daisy licks.

This dynamic was to become a pattern with us. I guess that she thought; “At least he tried.” When my breath returned I threw the rope and we started all over. At 25 pounds and all legs, she absolutely loved to run. However, Daisy had an even greater desire; and that was to do it with a loving companion.

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When I went back inside the house, desperate for some sort of invigorating breakfast, my wife, Diane, was going through the routines people customarily perform just before leaving for work. As I searched the freezer for some semblance of nourishment, unsuccessfully willing to settle for a frozen “Mama Bessie’s Scrambled Eggs with Sautéed Potatoes” with gourmet taste and no preservatives added, and only six calories; I told her that the wildest thing had just happened.

In a hurried cadence, endemic to those cursed with the bleak prospect of soon having to smile and be sickeningly courteous to overly sensitive co-workers, clients and bosses, she said in a weekday prompted monotone; “I know. I brought her home last night.”

“You should have told me. I went out the door in the dark, and the next thing I knew a dog was running right at me.”

“She’s sweet.”

“I know that now.”

Diane made a short snorting laugh and said; “She was roaming around in Las Lunas and showed up at my office.

Everybody liked her so much that we kept her in my workplace for a month trying to find where she belonged; or barring that, a new owner. We couldn’t do either, and the boss said that we couldn’t keep her there forever. So I brought her here late last night.”

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In later years Diane told me that she knew that I’d fall in love with Daisy and that it was obvious that I was completely incompetent at finding another dog. Willy was my first and I never could get over the thought that he would find me disloyal if I got re-entangled. But now, since I really had no choice in the matter ........ I guessed that it was unavoidable and unequivocally for the best. For fortification, insofar as internet begotten information was the least bit accurate, I found the comforting support, when I researched Dalmatians and found that they were difficult adoptees. The reasons cited suggested that twenty-first century tastes had moved toward a preference for wind-up dogs, who moved only when wound, for a slow, at-the-master’s-side walk, and in lieu of that blessing, remained stationary all other times, urinating and defecating only when well ensconced in an area suitable for such activities; like a cat box.

At Diane’s office, they must have had a name for the little ball of energy and affection, but I don’t remember what it was.

I do remember that Diane suggested naming her “Spot,” which I immediately rejected. Sometime during the first week of her attainment of a forever home, I insisted on naming her Daisy. I had two reasons. First, it seemed to me that we were in a time of people using unusual modern names, like Pastiche or Brittany, as in Spaniel. In this, as in all areas, I wanted to go against

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the flow which was I thought contributed to the 2003 malaise, which I interpreted as requiring devilish and stoical nothingness for survival. I wanted to use something from a kinder and gentler, former time; old fashioned and dreadfully out of style. I wanted to re-kindle a thought abhorrent to a right wing, 1960’s revisionist. Secondly, in the face of possibly philosophically flawed considerations, she was in simplicity, a truly wild flower. On the most personal level I could muster after three decades earlier having attempted to resist the brainwashing of an MBA program, whose dictum was that all information was biased, I simply thought that I had picked a wild Daisy or perhaps that she picked me. Time would prove me undoubtedly correct in my thinking about reason number two, but shortly after I started walking her in the neighborhood, I discovered that there were two other canine Daisies living within 500 feet of us.

At the time I wasn’t certain of how well her thick, soft and gorgeous coat could withstand cold. I probably cared about her too much to leave anything unsure unconsidered. The day was warming up, but it was still morning. I thought that the outdoors was fine for me if I kept in motion, but I still felt chilly when standing still. I didn’t want to compel her to keep moving. Even with her energy level, I reasoned that there must be times when she needed to rest. I also wanted to bring her

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inside just because I liked having her around. I put some more food in one dish and water in another and put them in the TV

room, whose main attraction was two futons. It was from these run-of-the-mill, cost efficient vantage points that Willy and I had spent his last years. I brought Daisy into the former domain of the warrior and shut the door; as we had cats and I wanted to be on the safe side. I saw that Daisy was still ravenous and I left her in the heated room. I went back outside and did whatever routine it was that I did at that time of day in 2003.

I came back in an hour or so to check on Daisy. She was fine and rather than resting, she was busy at work pulling the last of the fluff out of a futon mattress. She looked up at me with an expression that conveyed not one bit of guilt. I imagined her saying; “I know it’s in here somewhere. I almost have it. Give me a few more minutes.”

Daisy was soon returned to the backyard. She didn’t seem to mind or think of it as a punishment. She soon was chasing birds from her property and I was attempting to stuff fluff back in the futons. Daisy had more success with her project than I did with mine.

I went outside intending to have a serious talk with her.

As I walked the fenced perimeter, with her following, I told her that destructive behavior was not acceptable and that under those circumstances she would have to stay outside, at least

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temporarily, until adjustments could be made. She gleaned the seriousness of my conversation and showed that by nipping at my hands; her signal for me to get and throw the rope pull toy.

I thought of another possible place for Daisy the Dogged Destruction Devil. There was a triangular room at the back of the house which was attached to the main adobe structure, but had no access to anything other than the garage. It contained a water storage tank, a water softener and had some heat. On a cold day it would peak at about 50 degrees. But, if I left the door partially open for Daisy’s entrance and exit that number would dive. I didn’t know how much, but in the case of my new puppy, I didn’t have a huge tolerance for error. While I agonized to find a suitable solution, Daisy showed her concern by again nipping at my fingers.

I deferred to her lack of worry; got the rope and threw it, chased her, and wrestled with her to get it back. We played for a carefree hour. She darted like a young OJ Simpson while I made unsuccessful last minute lunges at her with all the agility of a portly, outclassed, high school offensive lineman.

In the very near future, either I became more adept at catching her or she purposely slowed down to give me a chance. I strongly suspect the latter. In our game, when I caught her, I was then required to pull the rope from her un-cooperative mouth and simultaneously wrestle her to keep her from making a break

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for it. On one such occasion Daisy let out a yelp and dropped the rope. She looked at me as if to say; “That’s not fun. That hurt!” I immediately recalled my Dalmatian research which told me that this breed did not tolerate any kind of physical abuse and was quick to strike back. I gazed into her brown eyes and thought; “Uh oh.” But, rather than attacking, she flouted the American Kennel Club’s wisdom and ran full speed around the perimeter of the back yard; did it again, and came back to resume play. I thought she was great and that under no circumstances would I ever risk injuring her. I threw the rope and each time she allowed me to catch her I held on very softly and pulled weakly. After a few easy breakaways from her halfhearted playmate she again looked right at me, this time with seeming disgust. She exhibited a posture which said; “Oh, come on now. Keep it interesting.” We resumed our rougher play and I would always strive to find the right balance to make the game exciting, yet safe. Sometimes when my arms tired and Daisy still possessed tons of energy, I sort of played a trick on her.

I would hold her between my legs and she would fruitlessly squirm and writhe until she was tired.

We went back in and we both occupied the TV room on a futon which had lumps begging for a dermatologist. Daisy quickly got an MD and started a procedure.

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I said; “Uh oh. ............... Stop it!” She looked at me a second and went back to work. She and I were soon in the backyard. I recalled that the triangular room had an oversized pillow, once the never used property of Willy.

I couldn’t see any real difference between this pillow and the futons. I expected that she would rip it apart. But, for right now it was the best thing I could imagine to buy time to hopefully come up with an inside alternative.

Off and on we ate and played in the backyard the rest of the day. When I had to leave her in the evening, I hoped she would choose to stay and to a lesser degree that she wouldn’t destroy her pillow.

I didn’t sleep well that night, worried that she would be gone in the morning. A little before sunrise I went directly outside with a plate of dog food and she came running out of the triangular room. I was relieved and my blood pressure might have returned to normal. As she ate, I peered into the triangular room and was surprised to see that the pillow was still a pillow.

A bit later I came out to play and Daisy showed her usual eagerness. I would come to know that she was always ready. I threw and she chased the rope and we did some wrestling. I

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thought a bit ahead, knowing that one day we would go walking other places. I wanted to see what she would do when leashed. I attached a chain to her oversized, cumbersome, blue collar and found out quickly. She immediately started running. Not entirely the product of choice I clumsily ran behind her and thought; “Uh oh.”

I stopped her and unhooked the chain. I noticed that when my hands approached her head, she ducked. Over the next few days I saw that this was a consistent pattern. I knelt next to her, put my arms around her, and promised that I would never hit her.

I never did and in six months she believed me.

At this early age, Daisy already had most of her spots and was camera shy. When I tried to photograph her, she’d look at me as if to say; “What terrible thing are you pointing at me?” and move away. Many pictures of her butt got discarded, but I did get a few almost good ones.

She always had her own mind about things and was smart enough to play tricks on me. One time, after our yet to be discovered walks, I went inside to get her food ready. When I came back out she had no collar. I thought; “She must have had the collar on when we got back or else I wouldn’t have gotten her back.” She followed me around as I searched the backyard.

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I found nothing and I told her; “I’m going back inside to get you another,” at which point Daisy ran somewhere and came back to me with the collar in her mouth.

Over the next few days I rearranged one room, and added some old Spanish styled furniture, pictures and tin wall hangings. I removed all that was plushy and put a blanketed mattress on the floor in the center. Daisy, now, not only had a forever home, but she also had her own indoor New Mexican room.

Daisy seemed to be very appreciative. No doubt, up until now, she was searching for her place in the world. Despite having had a few false starts, she still seemed to have faith that this would be it. I was proud, but more so grateful that she would be with me. Initially I thought it possible that she might tear the mattress up, but she never did. Daisy and I had a new, warm, soft and stylish place to spend the nights together. When I brought her in that evening, she first ate and drank. Afterward she got right on the mattress and curled up to me, seeming to instinctively know that she had finally found her rightful place and home.

Diane and I discussed what was going on with Daisy, and it was decided that Daisy needed a trainer, primarily for the

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reason that I might not outlive her and an untrained adult Dalmatian is virtually unadoptable.

We contacted a female trainer who did not believe in corporal punishment. I think she used the word behaviorist. We made an appointment for her to come and see Daisy for an hour.

She was to make somewhere between four and six one hour visits.

Snow was on the ground for some of them, which is fairly unusual for Corrales, a central New Mexican horse town, with warm afternoons and many trails, most of which we would soon know.

On one of the trainer’s visits I saw Daisy take off running full tilt, back and forth, across the back yard. She was unable to stop at the wire fences, so slid into them like a speedster stealing second base, then got up and headed for third. The trainer said; “They’re so beautiful when they run like that.”

I just proudly watched and said; “Yeah,” picturing a lifetime of activity, and at the same time fearful that my age would limit her.

The trainer told me not to take Daisy out walking until she behaved properly on a leash. So, for the moment, Daisy was a backyard girl with her own room. I sensed that she was very happy to have a home, but I suspect that she eagerly anticipated the day we could broaden our horizons.

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After one visit, I was arranging the trainer’s next appointment when she told me; “I really shouldn’t take your money. I can’t do a thing with her.”

I can’t recall my response. I probably stared quizzically.

The trainer said; “It’s not that she doesn’t understand.

It’s that she’s playful and doesn’t take rules seriously. I’ll show you what I mean. ............. This is the easiest way to show it. It’s like this with everything.”

She walked to where she had a stick supported by two cinder blocks. She said; “Jump, Daisy.” Daisy easily cleared the hurdle and was rewarded with a treat. She did it a second time. On the third command performance Daisy walked under the stick. She looked up at the trainer as if to say; “Wasn’t that cute?

Where’s my treat?”

The trainer said; “No, no, no,” and went to the other side of the stick, and again said; “Jump, Daisy.” Daisy walked around the stick and looked up with the same expression she had previously. The trainer indicated that this was a pattern.

I asked if Daisy yet walked properly on a leash and was told; “For a short time.”

I looked forward to getting Daisy out of the back yard.

Though I knew there would be some difficulties, I also knew that she had the sweetest disposition I had ever seen, and felt that should override any other considerations. The trainer told me to

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use a pronged collar and though I was reticent, I planned to acquiesce. She also told me to use a long leash, as Daisy needed her space. That seemed obvious after she said it and I was thankful for the good advice. Initially it would prove difficult to keep the long chain from tangling Daisy’s frequent change of direction legs. I often had to stop and uncoil her. With practice the process became easier than driving a car. We used a double length chain, as the trainer advised me that the ones which reel out like a fishing line precluded the possibility of quick retraction. With Daisy’s energy level and playfulness, it seemed that this would be necessary at times.

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Sunny Daytime Play and Wandering Explorations Sometime during Daisy’s weeks in training I had purchased a new, leather, properly fitting collar for her and discarded the blue one. In addition to the aesthetics involved, it seemed proper to get this happy little girl out of blue. The morning after the trainer’s final visit, I switched Daisy’s collar to the pronged one, attached the double length chain leash and we went out the garage door. I should say that we bolted down the driveway, Daisy in front, unable to contain her exhilaration at being able to see the rest of the world. It had warmed up a bit and the snow had left puddles in roadside depressions. Most houses in the vicinity were fenced in front, but those fences were set back ten feet from the asphalt roadway. This was a source of confusion for adult humans and it seemed likely that a puppy would have a few questions, no matter how smart.

It was immediately obvious to me that Daisy did not care about whatever pain the prongs caused her. She wanted to see and feel whatever she wanted to see and feel, regardless. I couldn’t stand the look of those prongs and after going the distance of our front fence, with difficulty I stopped the excited, squiggly puppy and restored her “normal” collar.

Though there were about fifty houses in the area, we seemed to have the whole place to ourselves. Daisy moved briskly and I

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struggled to keep up, though I attempted to avoid breaking into a trot. About three houses away Daisy saw a congregation of puddles and proceeded to splash through all of them. I tried to remain on two feet in the random mud. Before we went around the Camino De Lucia circle several times and went back home she plopped through every possible puddle in the area a few times. I did manage to remain vertical; strongly suggestive of a clear cut success for both of us. Her black spots were now mixed with tinier brown ones, as were my pants. She was happy and so was I.

I just thought that it was strange that we had seen no people or cars. This would not have occurred to me in New Jersey, where suburban dwellers disappear in the morning and return at night; a necessity dictated by the rigors of work. But, I had been advised that I was now in the land of manana, where work took a back seat to weather conditions, problems with children and wine. I had a lot more to learn.

Since we had survived the perils of suburban or exurban living unscathed, our wrappers merely dirty and muddy, this trip was to become a twice daily routine. The paltry winter sun would soon take credit for making the puddles disappear, though mere absorption was probably of more significance. The puddles were replaced by petty, slimy, slick and annoying mud, which failed in its attempt to limit us, and served only to bring us to

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greater adventure, as they necessitated and therefore instructed us in agility.

But, before we were to continue our exploration of the shallow depths of triviality, we had to get to the Vet. Daisy appeared to be as healthy as one can be and more loving and playful than anyone I’d previously met. However, it was prudent to obtain professional confirmation of the health portion of that triage. Of practical significance, the law required that I had to get her rabies shots and a license attesting to that fact.

Daisy had never been in the car with me. There was no reason to have been. Since her arrival at the desolate mud hole some call Camino De Lucia, in tandem, we had, somewhat of necessity, been sequestered to the confines of our own back yard and very recently, the neighborhood. Her happiness at having a steady, regular home seemed to grow daily. I suppose each additional day of having a regular home inferred that the same situation would be more likely to recur the next. She had not taken a math course and was therefore not subjected to the vagaries of randomness, though she seemed to have an instinct for probability. She showed her increasing stability by routinely policing the borders of the backyard fence and chasing

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any bird, rabbit, or squirrel with the audacity to trespass on her long sought after place in the world.

Willy had always liked the car. I used to say; “Car ride,”

and he would eagerly go to the door, anxious to glimpse his realm at a speed which was not possible on paws. When I had planned to bring her to the vet appointment, I said; “Car ride,”

to Daisy, and she, too, jumped up, anxious to go, though I would soon discover that the precise meaning of the words were not in her vocabulary.

As always we went out through the garage, but this time I stopped her at the car. She turned her head around and gave me a concerned look as if she thought that I had stumbled. Her concern for me turned to personal panic when I opened one of the car’s back doors. She desperately tried to pull me down the driveway, wanting no part of the car. I reeled her in and with some difficulty, got her into the back seat.

While we were on the road I kept watching her in the rear view mirror. She was trembling. I felt guilty and fearful that she would have a heart attack. The five mile trip seemed to take an hour. Fortunately, we got there and back without either of us having a stroke. I thought that I might have had an insight into her fear. It was possible that up until now every time she was in a car she was left at a different place.

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The visitation itself, was a cheerful event for Daisy as she got to make new friends. The examination was complicated by Daisy’s frequent rolls onto her back, insisting on belly rubs.

Mine was complicated only by the nervousness I felt, when after telling the Vet of how I met Daisy, the vet told me that she would then look for a chip that might note her owner. I thought;

“Oh, no,” and that; “Daisy was right.” The vet slowly ran some instrument over the entirety of Daisy’s body, including some places unsuitable for a chip. I thought; “Do you have to be so thorough? You know damn well know that this is torturing me.”

And I’m sure the woman did, as it is easy to detect the behavior of someone madly in love. She painstakingly found nothing and said that Daisy was in good health. Based on Daisy’s size, she estimated her age to be six months.

Daisy seemed less fearful on the drive back. But she showed that she was not going to volunteer for another car ride by lying motionless on the back seat with her brown eyes, the size of quarters. On the way home I got a bright idea; find a vet who makes house calls. When I parked in the garage, Daisy bolted from the opened car door and went directly to the back yard.

While her desire to resume play suggested that she had already forgotten about the whole thing, time would show that she had a good memory and a well thought out plan. When we were to go on our daily walks, there was a little routine we always

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followed. I’d bring her out on her leash, and then release her to take care of any emergency. She would then follow me into the triangular room where I kept another long chain which I would attach to the leash chain, giving her more freedom, but retaining the ability to pull her back from any danger. I would re-attach it when she was ready and we’d go out through the garage.

I could never figure out how she did this. It has been suggested that she has the ability to read my mind. There were to be times when I intended to take her somewhere in the car with me. I was always careful to follow the same departure routine I did when we went walking, but intended to grab her near the car door and get her in it. One hundred percent of the time she sensed my devious intentions and went to the corner of the back yard furthest from the triangular room and would stay there. Just as Willy used to leap into action at the sound of;

“Car rides!” Daisy retreated when she telepathically heard “Car rides,” and she was never wrong.

When I went inside I found a Vet willing to be ambulatory.

His office was closer to our home, and we would find that he was a better Vet, very competently treating Daisy a few times in her later years.

Another routine surfaced around this time. Since the room we shared had no outside door, Daisy had to hold it. I would get

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her into the back yard to take care of the necessaries in the wee hours of the morning, feed her, and then later come back to her room to initiate our morning walk. By this time she was usually sound asleep with a full belly. She would rouse and stretch out when she saw me. I would clear the sleep from her eyes and kiss her head. She would roll onto her back, demanding extensive belly rubs. After she had her fill she would get up and we’d be on our way.

At 8AM the next day we ran down the gravel driveway, in my case not entirely by choice. The sun was up, the temperature was on the positive side of freezing and Daisy was literally raring to go.

I’m really not sure exactly when this started. I think we strolled Camino De Lucia for a week or so before we discovered that it was inhabited. We bounded through the dormant grass and active puddles, while Daisy learned a new “command.” She often tried to investigate unfenced properties and I would say; “Not too far.” She seemed to immediately understand, though I had to say this many times, as she tried every possible entrance.

But, after approximately one week, as empty as it was previously, it was full one day. Three older women stood near the end of our driveway. They laughed as they watched Daisy pull me. I didn’t mind in the least as I thought that this must have

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looked comical and it was fun. As would become a pattern, I also saw this as an opportunity to tell everyone what a wonderful puppy Daisy was. Daisy went right to them and I tried to hold her back when she got close, not wanting her to jump on someone.

She had an instinct to put “paws up.” I discovered that it is difficult to stop a charging Dalmatian on a gravel driveway.

It all worked out. Daisy got loads of pets. I got to proudly tell them all I knew about her, and no one got knocked down or was in need of stitches.

We departed and tried to repeat our former walks, but human congestion dotted the landscape. All were curious about her, most offering pets and some adding treats to the package. Daisy loved the attention and tried to climb a few friends. I loved her and loved watching her so excited at seeing the people. Her tail was like a helicopter and always would be. On numerous occasions during the early years, people told me how happy Daisy appeared, as if it was a complement to me. I was very proud of that, but replied; “She’s naturally that way. I’m just trying not to screw it up,” which was the truth, as I saw it.

The number of people in AM attendance gradually diminished to four or five regulars, most of them also with dogs; none as pretty, interesting or as friendly as Daisy. With no resistance attempted by me, Daisy regularly charged over to all, except when their human companion waved us off. In that case I would

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struggle to hold her back and I don’t know if Daisy understood this. She may have concluded that I wanted her all to myself and that had more than an iota of truth. She was a very smart dog.

Approximately one year later I got a new insight into the original barrage of curious people. A woman I hadn’t previously met was by her car in her driveway. She said; “I can’t believe that dog.”

I don’t recall my response. I know I would have thought;

“She’s too good to be true.”

The woman went on to tell me that she formerly owned a Dalmatian which died shortly before I got Daisy. He or she used to hop the fence daily and it would get into fights with other dogs and even bit a few people. I concluded that some of the early callers were concerned that there might be another menace in the neighborhood. Not a chance with my sweet baby.

When we weren’t walking or sleeping, we’d romp in the back yard. The method of play further evolved. For a while Daisy had known that I couldn’t catch her. So, she’d slow down a bit to give me a chance. In exchange, if I could latch onto her, I would have to wrestle the rope away from her before I could throw it again. But, a new game presented itself.

On our early walks I often found lost tennis balls, which I pocketed. I used them to initiate another game with Daisy,

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wherein I threw the ball against the plain stucco wall at the back of the garage and generally catch it, when it came back to me on three or four hops. Daisy would attempt to intercept it.

Usually it took her four or five tries. When she did get it she would run away with it, and I would chase her until she let me catch her and then pry the ball from her mouth. I would then restart the game. For some reason which eludes me, doing this seemed to tire me less than the rope game, while Daisy would still slowly reach her previous level of fatigue.

By this time Daisy had memorized every square inch of her domain. She was so protective of her home that if the wind had carried in a candy wrapper, she would immediately go to it. She would look at me as if to stay; “What is that doing here?” I’d pocket it for future disposal and she would continue her search for intruders.

Sometime in her early years, I had a tiny degree of concern that Daisy was unable to bark. One day the thought struck me that I could not recall the last time that she did. However, I was to soon see that she barked very well whenever someone was near our backyard fence as well as the windows in our room. I liked her desire to protect us, but wish that she would have come to tolerate the hummingbirds which fed on the flowering yucca plants near our windows.

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On a sunny December afternoon I went through the back door, slamming it behind me. Daisy was contentedly napping in the partial shade of the naked Chaste Bush, fifteen feet from the house, after having walked and eaten. In a very short time our routine was to have changed to her coming in to eat after our walk. I’d leave her outside while I got her food and straightened up her room, during which time she would recline under the sometimes clothed Chaste Bush. They have a short blooming season. I’d then bring Daisy in, eat, and then we would nap in the sun streaming through the two windows of our room.

But on this earlier day I noticed that she seemed to have no doubts that she was in her forever home and appeared even happier than at the outset. I’m not sure if that was possible, but I liked to think so. Her head popped up at the sound of wood thumping against wood. Sleeping beauty, more commonly known as Daisy, was jarred awake by the sound and excitedly ran to me, putting her paws up on my thighs and licking my face. She lowered to ground level and thought she sensed something unusual. It was my pants which had been sitting in the lower drawer, undisturbed for years. The mustiness was intriguing and she moved around me sniffing at them seeming intent to investigate every square inch. I was amused and said; “Wait until you get a whiff of this sweatshirt.” I ran to the tennis ball in the triangular room and threw it across the yard. Daisy

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hesitated a fraction of a second, not sure what she wanted to do. My strange scent was intriguing, but she took off after the bouncing ball. She tried to take it out of the air, but that proved too difficult. She did succeed in knocking the ball further away from her with each try resulting in an irregular darting and slashing type of maneuver practiced by linebackers, as she followed the ball. The ball finally came to a stop on what is euphemistically referred to as grass and Daisy got it firmly in her mouth. Now she had to decide what to do with it.

She tried to recall the differing options open to her when playing previously, but the closest thing to a pattern she could recall was that the response was whatever felt right at the moment. Yesterday I had spent a fair amount of time chasing her, but had not yet done that today. I was standing still watching her. Daisy decided to be co-operative and bring the ball back to me. At the same time she could further study what it was that I had in or on my “new” pants. She trotted over, dropped the ball at my feet and commenced sniffing.

I saw our neighbor, Gerald, standing at the bordering eastern fence, grinning into the mid-day sun and watching the activity. From previous experience I was certain that he was ready to articulate his judgment implying questions of the situation in a fashion amusing only to him. I pretended not to see him and picked up the ball and threw it toward the western

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boundary. Daisy was still more interested in my pants, so I ran after the ball and she followed. I got to it first and sat on the ground with it in my hands because I wanted an excuse not to be on the other side of the property where Gerald was now pretending to show avid interest in the standpipe five feet from the fence which was attached to an outdoor watering system that had not yet been turned on. I glanced in his direction hoping that he had left as I still believed in the possibility of miracles. Daisy didn’t understand my reluctance to move and tried to pull the ball from my hand intending to run with it. I was afraid of that as it would bring us near Gerald, a retired computer technician who knew nothing of anything devoid of programmable plastic parts. If engaged in conversation Gerald always performed a tedious soliloquy about all the intricacies of how his state-of-the-art watering system operated, though it rarely did, which speech he had previously well-rehearsed, chuckling in what he considered the amusing parts, waiting for a return chuckle before continuing his pedantry. If one attempted to re-direct the flow of the chat to any other subject, rather than saying what he knew about it, which was nothing, Gerald would always respond with a question designed to suggest that at his high level of sophistication and education whatever was ventured was incredibly and stupidly opinionated and not worthy of any commentary his feigned broad view encompassed. When I

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told him of what I had learned about local coyote behavior Gerald responded with his customary; “Isn’t that just one way of looking at it?” He said that to everything mentioned except his expertise regarding his programmable, non-operating watering system.

Daisy settled down somewhat seemingly content to sniff at the “strange” pants on me while she considered her next move. I thought it best to continue to introduce Daisy around and Gerry was about as around as one can get. I thought that we might as well get things over with when Daisy stopped showing such an avid interest in my “new” old pants. In the quiet calm Daisy heard a sound come from the east that broke the windless silence and ran in its direction. Gerald was squatting by the standpipe, clearly visible in the “overlooked” designer, red baseball cap, which covered his bald head, but allowed the curly, gray Friar Tuck fringe to stick out, unknowingly imitating Bozo without the coloring.

Daisy already had good ideas of where her new boundaries were, but she had a problem with her uncontrollable need to use the very American concept of “eminent domain.” Gerry was close enough to it to warrant an investigation so she started the dialogue with a threatening bark. “Grrgrrrgrrrop,” she yelled as she approached the noisy man with his hands lovingly on the stem

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of his standpipe. Gerry wasn’t surprised at the sudden company; he knew it would get there sooner or later.

I was slowly walking and less than half way there. I was in no rush to get there for a few reasons; first, I liked watching and hearing Daisy display what humans would like to had they no manners; and second, I knew I would get there sooner or later.

Gerry feigned fear and put his hands up in front of his chest and popped his eyes and mouth widely open. He kept the pose for only a second as he was uncontrollably compelled to laugh at the mercifully short performance.

I was now close enough that I could see his face well and with Gerry laughing and desperate for company I felt required to make an obligatory short smile without parting my lips. Daisy toned down a bit when she saw that I wasn’t agitated, but still was far from thrilled about the intrusion and growled resonantly between the sporadic short barks.

I said; “Feel pretty safe with a fence separating you, don’t you, Gerry? Oh yeah, ‘Happy Easter’ and all that.”

Gerry wasn’t sure if I had a momentary lapse or if he’d been dissed and somewhat threatened. If he knew elementary history he would have known that it was the latter case, but his plastic preoccupation precluded the time necessary to learn the matter and resulted in his passion for the most common buzzwords distributed by the coiffed, smiley lady on the 6PM big station

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“News with Kathy,” in some circles referred to as “News to Kathy.” He offered a grin weaker than mine and said; “Is he vicious?” He bent down to get a better look at Daisy’s hindquarter’s and merrily added; “Or should I have said she?

Yuk. Yuk. Yuk,” another line funny to one-third of the audience delivered by the flexible plastic man. His wife, Barbie, was currently in the hospital recovering from complications associated with her latest plastically surgeoned head fix, so Gerry was in desperate need to berate someone, a surrogate now necessary. One has to say “head” as “face” would no longer apply to every situation as scalp forays have been in evidence for a while demonstrated by her covered bald spot which always manages to protrude from her pink baseball hat.

Hoping it would expedite things I chose to play the unwanted game straight and chirped; “Daisy is a she and she can be stubborn and protective,” as I inserted one hand into Daisy’s collar, holding her close. Daisy thought what seemed logical to her and concluded that the toothy man on the other side of the fence was a friend or that it was all right with me for him to be there, completely wrong on one count and middling on the other.

“When are you going to have her trained?”

“When she attacks someone she shouldn’t.”

“Isn’t that a bit .......... cavalier?”

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“Not really. We can get away with one. Legally it takes two attacks before there’s any real trouble.”

Gerry didn’t appear shocked; at least he had years of practice covering that up as he never, never wanted to jeopardize the “man of the world” image only he thought he conveyed. At the same time he must have realized that his proximity to Daisy’s and my house and his penchant for fence sitting made him the most likely candidate for attack number one.

Gerry’s silence made me conclude that the conversation was over and I let go of Daisy’s collar and threw the ball westward.

I ran after it with Daisy. Gerry called out; “It might be safer to have a few training sessions.”

I didn’t break stride when I saw the opportunity to end the encounter with a bit of a role reversal and said; “How many dogs did you say that you have had?”

Daisy easily got to the ball first, picked it up in her mouth, faked right and then went left, eluding me. She ran back to the eastern limits as I looked to thankfully see that Gerry was either gone or hiding under a rock. Daisy and I played for hours. Who was supposed to chase the ball and who was supposed to get it back was not clear at times, but, left to our own volition each would complement the other’s willful behavior resulting in both of us doing exactly what we wanted.

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It seemed as if Daisy could run forever, or at least that was how it felt to me after a few hours. The sun was casting long thin shadows, the temperature decline reminding me of the time of day. I wanted to sit as much as I could, but at the same time wanted Daisy to exercise her puppy energy while she had it.

Nothing lasts forever. I threw the ball ten feet from her and when Daisy got it I was right there and cradled my arms around her neck. I held tight and after enjoying the embrace Daisy tried to get free. The struggle didn’t last very long as Daisy succeeded with the third try, spoiling my plans of tiring her out by holding her in my arms. They just weren’t strong enough.

I got up and chased her a bit, but couldn’t get near. In fatigue I sat on the grass. Daisy still wanted to be chased more, but soon got the idea that that was not going to be. She trod to me and I again put my arms around her, but this time when she started squirming I wrapped my legs around her belly. Daisy was unable to escape my playful captivity though she pushed and pulled with all her might, craning her head around attempting to access any possible leverage available. She used all her energy in a few minutes and then lay tired and still. I loosened my leg grip when I felt her body go limp and motionless. We lay there a few minutes without a thought in our heads. The sun was no longer visible, but somehow managed to faintly illuminate the

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area and made the few low hanging clouds pink-washed fragments perceptible over the now less dominant gray.

I petted her neck and got up. I said; “We’ve got to eat,”

held up one finger and went in the house. I found the dog dish and food on the kitchen counter and proceeded to dole out an appropriate portion. I brought it to Daisy. Initially she ate voraciously, but as she saw I going back to the house she looked up and her face showed surprise, as when one first hears of a death. I came back to her and scratched her head at which point she re-discovered the dish. I said; “I wish you could understand. I, too have to eat.” Daisy didn’t understand a word but was re-assured by my concerned tone and distracted by her appetite.

I re-entered the house and took an inviting portion of the meatloaf to the unoccupied kitchen counter. Standing there, I wolfed it down; anxious to finish and get back to Daisy, who was looking up at me through the kitchen window, the same way I eyed her. Some subsequent time I brilliantly deduced that I could bring Daisy to her room first and eat in a more civil fashion, but it always seemed that some mysteries take me inordinate time to decode.

I finished my meat loaf, drank two glasses of ice tea and went back out. Daisy seemed somewhat puzzled as she followed me on a tour of the fenced borders. My thinking at the time was to

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give her one last opportunity to use the great outdoors as a privy before we settled into a mattress sleep. Daisy lifted her leg next to a chamisa. When she put it down I said; “Ready?”

which Daisy always understood as; “Time to go in?” and we did. I got under the blankets and my hot-blooded girl got on top of them and leaned up against me.

One early morning I had to break from my usual routine as Daisy let me know that she had to get outside now. I rushed her out, but had to go back in as I had not yet dressed in clothes suitable in suburbia, exurbia or whatever people classify Corrales, NM. I was ready in five minutes.

I went out the back door and Daisy was chasing a bird. When she heard the door slam she looked, saw me and ran over at top speed. She squatted and we licked each other’s faces and then I put the leash on her collar.

Because of my delay, Daisy was expecting another rope toy playing session, so she was surprised when I led her toward the triangular room. She momentarily balked, the thought crossing her mind that this might be some new tactic to get her in there, close the door and force her to use the hated doggy entrance/exit.

I said; “Come on. We’re going to see the wonders of Camino De Lucia and I don’t mean the landscaping.” I chuckled at my

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own sarcastic witticism and Daisy was somewhat less appreciative, adopting a reserved posture beyond her years. She couldn’t quite detect what I said, but must have concluded that it was intended to be some kind of good natured humor. Since it seemed to lack any purpose she followed me to the room. Her expression seemed to indicate that Daisy was chastising herself for not being able to merely trust me. I opened the door to the garage. Its door already raised, Daisy was ecstatic when she saw the great outdoors and ran as fast as I could move down the hundred foot driveway, straining at the leash. I tried to stop her at the street so we could watch out for cars. I had no problem as when Daisy got there she willingly stopped undecided whether to go left or right. She didn’t yet know that her direction didn’t matter as Camino De Lucia was shaped as a circle where she was and she’d wind up covering the entire territory no matter which way she started out. That was unless she took the straight road off shooting from the circle, which was also named Camino De Lucia. A huge street by Corrales standards Camino De Lucia had other parts which were laid out differently. One other section was a warped “L” with two culs-de-sac leading to a real dead end after creating a false impression of an earlier one. This wannabe “L” actually insisted on being referred to by a different name; Manzano Road, probably to emphasize the view of the Manzano Mountains which it didn’t

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have, though the rest of the area did. Magnanimously people called it Camino De Lucia, despite the occasional pompous protestation. An aerial view of the entire street was that of a lollipop with an incomplete useless handle on a stick with a spare.

Daisy sniffed the air, got a whiff of the low, muddy river and ran left toward it, pulling me. I was laughing and almost keeping up. Coincidentally, one of the residents of a two story, traditional, square white stucco house on the inner side of the circle also entered the street. Daisy slowed down appreciably.

It was Demetrius Shamsky, a retired engineer who previously worked no-bid government contracting jobs very sporadically, specializing in easily refutable land studies loved by builders.

He was grinning without having had the benefit of seeing his Friar Tuck by way of Bozo hairstyle partially hidden by the baseball cap he perennially wore, even indoors, though he didn’t know a cut fast ball from first base. He said; “Morning. Is that a new dog?”

“Morning, Dim,” I echoed back utilizing the shortened name Demetrius disliked, but everyone used. I tried to think of an interesting response to his opening and drew a blank, so I said;

“I think she’s about six months old and she’s new to me. Wanna say hello?”

“I don’t know. Is she all right?”

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Daisy came to a full stop. She was trying to figure out what was going on, having that in common with Dim.

I said; “Yeah,” and moved toward our neighbor. Daisy took that as an indication that I was comfortable with Dim and in excitement at the possibility of making a new friend she wagged her tail and ran at him. Dim ducked something no one else saw and put his hands in front of his face resembling Floyd Patterson attempting to survive a Sonny Liston onslaught. Peek-A-Boo.

Daisy kept going and put her front paws up on the mail order, loose fitting, tan slacks Dim purchased for “country”

expeditions. Dim yelled; “Get her off me. Get her off me.”

I pulled the leash and held it short five feet away from the neighborly country boy. Daisy tried to get back to her new buddy and didn’t understand why I denied her access. Dim walked away, utilizing both hands to brush away the invisible offensive evidence on the shining pants, poorly mimicking the sun’s unfettered display. He looked back and chastised; “Keep that dog away from me. You ought to train her better than that,”

apparently unaware of the adequacy of his own training in engineering.

I grimaced and was silent, seeing the humor in the situation, but was not enough of a wordsmith to adequately share

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my feelings without opening up the possibility of a “rude”

characterization.

Daisy was befuddled. She thought that Dim wanted to meet her and that I was going to allow it. In a matter of seconds the situation reversed. She got her first glimpse of human nonsense and wished that she was not compelled to dwell on the problems of a Dim-ly lit world. In the future she would try to focus only on her new family.

I again walked and Daisy quickly ran ahead of me seeing one of her favorite things. Puddles! Shaded depressed areas in the dirt at the side of the asphalt road still held some water probably from the downpours of the prior week. There was now more mud than sea, but Daisy didn’t care as she could easily splash and slide through either substance, not knowing or caring where mud ended and water began or where water ended and mud began. However she was soon to discover that I did have a line of distinction. I smiled and ran with her. We both covered our lower bodies in kicked up mud. I had a harder time in the mud than she did, being limited by a two legged handicap, but was her equal in the less slippery water.

Daisy suddenly felt her head pulled back and turned to see that I had fallen and was sitting in the mud. She was worried thinking that she may have been responsible for hurting me. She

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went to me and licked my face frantically as if to say; “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Are you hurt?”

Daisy was surprised to see me laugh and lick her back. I put my arms on her back and stood up after a few false starts absolutely covered in mud like her. I said; “Let’s go,” and started to move again, so she continued through the water-mud.

Daisy soon felt a gentler tug on the leash and turned to see that I was still standing, but I was back up on the asphalt brushing myself off. I mumbled; “Another neighbor.” I liked playing in the puddles, but didn’t like to be watched doing it at age 54. This is virtually impossible for a puppy to understand, but also unnecessary for Daisy. If I could convey my reluctance to perform for an audience it wouldn’t make any sense to her anyway. All she needed to know she already did. Daisy concluded; “Sometimes he likes to play with me in the mud, despite having more difficulty handling it and sometimes he doesn’t. I’ll respect his wishes.”

“Dog taking you for a walk?” came the boisterous, smirking, well-anticipated, time-worn remark from Maximillian Propanis walking with his wife Minnie. He outdid himself when he chuckled and added; “Or should I have said taking you for a wallow?”

Broad near laughter was on the faces of the couple who boasted that they were on occasion capable of completing the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle; no doubt unchecked for accuracy.

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I had to smile at the second quip, considering it a remarkable improvement over the first. Daisy was nonplussed and remained stone faced as I brought her to a halt.

I replied; “Wallows are cool? Wouldn’t you say?”

Max looked to Minnie for help as she pretended not to notice finding fascination in the chamisas she had only previously seen about a million times.

When prompted a second time by a direct question of what she thought about the controversial subject, Minnie felt the need to adjust something on the bun holding the bulk of her pulled back brown hair and Max replied; “I’m thinking about the contradictions apparent in those chamisas, perhaps a bit of a double bind. They are defined as evergreen plants which is at best a half truth. While they always maintain some foliage, what there is of it at this time of year is akin to the stretched dry skin of a corpse reclining in a funeral home. In bloom, the densely packed, five foot by five foot mature shrubs display sulfur to gold flowers, appealing to all tastes, but then turn to an uninvigorated straw color, for some reason choosing to remain on their stems.”

Minnie said; “The unstoppable attraction of body and soul.”

Max’s eyes widened and he fidgeted with the top button of his well-used-no-longer-office-quality white shirt. He scanned the scene and saw me and Daisy staring. He put his right hand on

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his wife’s shoulder and exclaimed in a voice that almost displayed sincerity; “That’s pure poetry Minnie. How do you come up with these things?”

Minnie feigned over-complimented ordinariness and self-effacingly radiated; “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose anyone can do it,” as she basked in the glory of her impromptu brilliance.

Max turned his attention to me and asked; “Don’t you think that was right to the point?”

Without missing a beat and without inflection I said; “Oh, yeah. I especially liked the part about the corpse. Reminded me of ‘The Fall of the House of Usher.’ Ever see that?”

The couple donned their smile masks, saying nothing, but implying; “Of course, hasn’t everyone?”

I imitated Roderick, put my hands over my ears, writhed my body in torment and in the best mock Vincent Price voice I could conjure said; “The noise. The noise! It gets louder every day.

I can’t stand it.” I laughed genuinely and saw six eyes looking my way, none of which displayed the slightest hint of mirth. I cleared my throat and with rapidity said; “Never mind. Want to pet my dog Daisy?”

Minnie replied; “Of course we would were she not dirty.”

Max added; “Maybe next time when he’s had a bath. He’s pretty and might be a great dog.”

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The couple walked away and undetected I mumbled; “She.”

Daisy and I went in the other direction and I said; “They’re really nice people. So far one vote for potential menace and one abstention leaning toward not yet clean enough.”

Daisy was temporarily out of puddles and the next item that piqued her interest was a trail through a lightly wooded brushy area. The partially bent weeds either meant that something very light, like rabbits, used it or that human activity was infrequent. The river fragrance was the strongest she had yet encountered and she wanted to further investigate. I wanted to get the neighbor introductions over with as quickly as possible, so I preferred to stay on the asphalt road and attempt to favorably impress the next people out for a stroll. Daisy went her own way until she felt her collar tighten. She stopped, surprised and aggravated and looked back at me, firmly motionless on the asphalt.

Daisy thought; “Oh, come on, now. I know you can get through this easily and there are some wonderful scents this way. I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.” She looked at me with a combination of probing and insistence in her wide brown eyes. She was answered with a back turn, my eyes on the oncoming couple, Jack and Jenny. She tugged gently. She didn’t understand and saw the pink towel hanging from a nearby clothesline. She turned toward the irresistible scent and provided her own not so

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gentle tug. I was obliged to turn in her direction and took three steps to maintain my balance. Daisy was amused until she was brought to another abrupt halt. She lowered her head gaining leverage and attempted to continue her chosen way. She managed a few difficult steps and thought that there has to be a better approach. At this pace she would be worn out before she got there. She sat and thought, but refused to go an inch in my unreasonable direction.

From fifty feet Jack called out; “I once had a dog like that. One good crack in the head fixed him fine.”

Jenny gave Jack a playful shoulder slap and said; “Don’t listen to him. That’s his weird sense of humor.” Jack’s huge chest rippled under his gray UNM sweatshirt as he laughed louder than the commentary seemed to warrant. Perhaps he was amused to have been so lightly struck as the high school football coach was a former player switching between offensive lineman and fullback. For his own personal development he preferred the line as he thought he had a shot at the pros, but his college team needed a running back desperately and the team consideration outweighed his personal goals. He would say that he preferred the line as he was just too slow a runner to attract the pro scouts, often wistfully which he would almost immediately convert to an “I don’t care” attitude.

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Daisy’s attention was drawn to the noises and she took a few slow steps toward the group.

Jack did an approximation of his line squat and called out;

“Git over here you bad dog.”

Daisy charged and put her front paws on Jack’s thighs and licked his round red face. Jack turned his head, smiling and pretended to be disgusted by the quick tongue. He stood up and Daisy also elevated again putting her paws on Jack’s thighs, somewhat disappointed that there was no play scrap. As everyone watched the two Jack asked; “How long you have this dog?”

I pulled Daisy back toward me and replied; “Just about two weeks.”

Tiny Jenny, less than half Jack, went to Daisy and rubbed her head saying; “Don’t let old Jack fool you. Our last dog was a little terror and Jack didn’t do anything but yell; ‘Stop barking,’ as the pug barked and ran all over the place.”

Jack feigned a “Don’t give away all my secrets” look, eyes directed at the clear blue.

Daisy felt very at ease with both of them and forgot about her aspiration to get to the river. The three humans remained in the same general area, in front of an oddly shaped one level house. Its current cockeyed “U” appearance with a distended way off center entranceway and a sloping roof to the left and a flat one to the right made one wonder who the bogus architect might

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have been. Aesthetics aside the sloping roof blocked the mountain view which otherwise might have been enjoyed from all rooms in the right wing. Was this an intentional or accidental denial? It defied property value. Two ignored eyes peered from a closed left window; the attached or unattached brain annoyed at the group’s positioning near his property line.

All houses on Camino De Lucia are subject to a ten foot

“utility” easement. Most houses are fenced at that point, but some aren’t. Local protocol varies widely. Most don’t mind if a person or dog walks this area and some do. Some landscape with rocks to make walking difficult and express no verbal preference. Customarily people walking by themselves or with other humans stay on the asphalt and safely avoid all possible controversy. Travelers of the canine persuasion go to the ten foot limit as they seem to prefer dirt and grass, but not rocks.

They have difficulty in discerning their limits in front of unfenced houses for a variety of reasons too boring to detail and the possibility that they might absurdly think that open actually means open. Daisy already had limited instruction in this area and will later learn the necessary and contradictory nuances to this radical thought.

To simplify matters, what it unquestionably means in reality is that as soon as a dog steps onto the easement they will be viewed by the interior occupants, whose main concern in

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the moment is that the said dog doesn’t adopt a squatting position while on hallowed ground. I think that Daisy already had this figured out with the exception of being confused with the oft invisible line of demarcation. One might think that the occupants might be watching something more interesting on TV, the internet or reading a book. That one has not lived in America’s suburbs, where the height of entertainment is the glee induced when a dog squats on the easement of someone they don’t like, presumably making the simultaneous statement that he or she won’t need to squat on theirs.

Because of the complex drama an average dog can’t possibly understand it. It squats, not in defiance of, but perhaps in essential disregard for community standards. This was what perplexed the arguably attached eyes in Weird U. They were compelled to watch the long rendition while they knew that their neighbors were amused at their plight. Eyes pressured brain for a plan. Brain was more interested in going back to the computer to watch the dog squatting websites.

Jack was trying to keep his weight down, so after a short period of dog petting, happy talk and smiles he and Jenny continued on. Daisy again showed how easily distracted she could sometimes be when greeted with affection as she no longer thought of her fascination with the river scent she had idolized just a few minutes prior and she too walked on, wagging her tail

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wildly, anxious to meet the next group of friendly people. Or so she thought as I moved my feet quickly to keep pace. Eyes and brain were at odds; not only because the programming was visually repugnant to eyes yet mentally amusing to brain, but because brain’s preoccupation with vulgarity precluded him from formulating a plan regarding the possible boundary line invaders.

More puddles! Daisy silently screamed and she ran to them, me running to keep up after seeing the source of the excitement.

They were in front of another non-standard house; this one a one story adobe with a sloping blue tin roof. Its peculiarity was the exterior display of uncovered adobe shunned by virtually everyone as an open invitation to early collapse from the rain and snow’s ability to deteriorate the dirt based cement which held everything together. However, this hacienda had a unique idea. Desiring to maximize the beauty of natural adobe it was left exposed in areas under an overhanging umbrella and was covered by tan stucco in areas open to the mercy of the clouds.

While visually stimulating the idea had a serious drawback recognized in early Greek architecture; to maximize exterior beauty it was necessary to also maximize interior darkness as windows under overhangs get no sunlight. Skylights have been used to attempt to attain the best of both worlds, but work best on flat roofs and are rarely used on slopes for a number of

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rather obvious reasons one can glean from their local Mr. Fixit if so desired. The point, if any, is that barring the foresight of a flat roof with skylights one has the choice of an externally stunning house with inner darkness or an ordinary house with inner light and warmth. Complicating things one practical step is that despite their unique look fancied by the uninitiated, flat roofs are avoided by Southwestern natives who know them to be a perennial leaking problem. Daisy’s proven pure predilections provided perplexing problems. She preferred the sun when it was cold and the shade when it was hot. If she had chosen to be an architect she probably would have recommended many retractable features. She considered vocalizing her observations, but chose not to, as she didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings and she didn’t have to live there.

Daisy’s favorite feature was the mud puddles which succeeded in attaining the best of both worlds by choosing to reside in the easement next to a weathered post and rail fence outside the house. She splashed through them slowly recalling her partner’s good natured difficulty previous times and also in recognition of her own desire to spend more time in the mud-water. She slowed down more as she watched my surprised smile as I was expecting another track meet and was prepared for it still retaining much of the mud from my fall. Daisy liked the feel of the squishy matter and slowed to a point where any further

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deceleration would have resulted in a stop. My feet finished moving and she merely swayed.

George and Adrienne Lovelace exited their lavender streaked front door wishing to get a closer look at the contented couple.

The door closing behind them drew Daisy’s attention. Seeing them, Daisy meandered to dry land and grumbled. I was surprised at how quickly she understood suburban norms. I did the same.

In a low charming voice Adrienne slowly said; “Oh no. Don’t stop on our account. We’re admirers.” George vigorously nodded his head in agreement.

I dejectedly shrugged and said; “Too late now. The mood is broken.”

Had she the power of speech Daisy would have produced an echo in a mildly belligerent tone.

George, a middle-aged, tall, thin and craggily handsome man adjusted the lapels of his denim jacket and led the way to Daisy. He stopped a bit short at the fence opening and asked;

“Is she friendly?”

Wanting to make Daisy welcome in the neighborhood or at least not be a subject of constant scrutiny; at the same time desiring to be truthful I said; “Definitely, but go a little slow right now. You may have caught her in an unguarded moment.”

Addie didn’t pay any attention to the spoken words. The only thing in her head was Janis Joplin singing “Ball and

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Chain.” She strode past George. From Daisy’s ground level point of view all she saw was long confident legs incarcerated in the tightest pink, stone washed, denim jeans she had yet seen. Of course she had never previously seen pink denim jeans of any sort; loose, unwashed or stoned, but that’s getting too technical.

Everyone and she knew what was getting Daisy’s attention.

Addie leaned over, her curled blonde hair falling onto her lightly made up face and caressed her under the chin forcing her vantage point upward to Addie’s rocking blue eyes. In a silly adult version of a childish voice, which any child would be embarrassed to duplicate she said; “Is she the prettiest girl?”

three times, either for emphasis or the provocatively catchy beat and since Daisy didn’t respond, then answered her own questions with a closing; “Yes she is.”

Everyone laughed, excepting Daisy and that was merely because she didn’t think it was a joke. Addie’s rhythm reached her happy chord, but all she could do was to let her tongue hang out and pant. Not to be outdone George put one arm around Daisy’s neck which was greeted with a rapid series of licks, leaving George’s face drizzling. George persevered and continued cuddling her and scratching Daisy’s head with the zeal and enthusiasm of a complicit and seasoned paramour. With the couple focused entirely near her head Daisy thought that the rest of

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her black spotted, white body deserved more attention and she squirmed free, presenting them with a side view. She soon had four hands all over her belly producing an ecstatic tiny yelp.

George and Addie moved back and admired the beautiful puppy. They were oblivious to the fact that they stood in the mud, undeterred from satisfying their optical senses. With the slightest hint of a Georgia drawl Addie said to me; “Now don’t you let anybody, and I mean enn-nee-body, tell you that this dog needs any kind of robotic educating. You know what I’m saying, girl,” presumably directing the last word toward Daisy.

I wasn’t sure, though tended toward “Yes, with a clarification required,” but in the beaming happiness of the moment nodded my head and said; “You bet.” George and Addie caught each other’s eyes and used them to simultaneously motion toward their house and walked that way. George said; “Have a great day,” as if he meant it.

I responded with an unintended overly perfunctory; “You too.”

Addie said; “Can’t miss. It’s Easter. Happy Easter!” She laughed at something only a southern belle understands as she opened the lavender streaked front door letting a grinning George in behind her. I was thrown as I thought that the holiday was a few months off.

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Daisy and I looked toward each other as if each said; “Tell me what I’m missing.” We shrugged, me overtly. We smiled, Daisy utilizing her prettiest tongue out, panting version and we walked on. I whispered; “I like them, but I can’t tell you why.

Sure, they made friends with you, but so do others think so.” I smirked and quickly after did a pirouette to see if anyone was watching or in earshot. Not detecting any spies I added;

“Sometimes it hard to tell if the others are sincere.” Had Daisy been able to understand that and possess the ability to talk she would have said; “Not for me, precisely because I don’t get confused with words,” quite a Catch-22, as if she really could understand a volume of words and talk she wouldn’t be able to say what she sort of just did.

Some fun house mirrors project images that are not really there. Some switch the sides with the center. Some invert bottom and top. Some ignore what is really there and show something else. Some make you fat. Others make you skinny. Some do combinations and mixtures of the real or distortions. The one in our eyes doesn’t do anything at all.

We came to a fork in the Camino De Lucia road. Left would have put us on a long straight road with few bushes and trees taking us further from home. Right was curved and therefore not entirely visible with lots of trees and bushes, but would lead us right back home. Daisy came to a complete stop and I stood

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still beside her. Daisy sat and looked up at me for guidance. I fully understood her or thought that I did and said; “I don’t care either.”

Daisy probably thought; “Darn it. Why does he leave the tough ones for me?” She took long looks in each direction hoping something would come out of somewhere or that I would show a preference. She sighed heavily when the delay produced no movement. She wanted not to go home yet, but the road toward home was much more attractive. She continued to sit but was becoming fidgety and her audacious stomach growled at her and she felt like eating. I took a step right and Daisy eagerly got up ready to follow, her biggest decision of the day settled for her. Then I took a step to the left. Daisy stopped moving and was confused. Again I stepped right. I stepped left. I was dancing to a tune Daisy couldn’t hear. I gave her a hint with a few words. As I moved my feet to the tune of a silent drummer I leaned over and touched her nose saying; “Pardon me, Alphonse.”

I danced away, put my hand across her belly and said; “No, pardon me Gaston,” and made a small bow. Daisy stared motionlessly. If she had any thought it was not apparent to me.

I grimaced and sat on the asphalt next to my confused puppy who was physically on her haunches and mentally on some broad edge.

In a few seconds that seemed like hours to Daisy, I jumped up and excitedly said; “I got it!”

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Daisy was composed and required some convincing.

I began my one step right, one step left dance and said;

“I’ve got to get more modern. You’re too young to know about any Alphonses or Gastons. Besides you’re an American dog not expected to know anything of France.”

Daisy thought; “You’d be surprised.”

I said; “Okay, American interpretive dance,” as I put my hands behind my neck and rolled my belly, hoping more than ever that we were not in plain sight. I moved right to her and again touched her nose saying; “Pardon me, Jonathan.”

Daisy was captivated but chose to retain her low vantage point.

I giggled as I moved left and put my left hand on my midsection and sloppily said; “No, pardon me, ......” I drew a blank and stopped moving. Daisy showed her eagerness by rising from the ground. I put one hand on my forehead to show that I was thinking. Daisy sat back down and made a disinterested face.

She peered down the long straight road wishing to see some interesting trait in the lifeless monotony; a hedgerow, a thick grove of evergreens, wild shrubbery, wild flowers, anything but the boring nothingness.

I was disappointed at her reaction to my silly entertainment improvisation. I thought that Daisy should have made a good attempt to fake interest as this wasn’t the least

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bit easy for me to do. Deep down I was a very shy person. I stopped moving and stood with my hands at my sides. I said; “Oh, the heck with it. It’s the repertoire of some contradictory contemporary genius Diane told me about. Frau Kroger. No.

Crammit. No. Cramzit. No. Pedantzen. No. I give up.” I saw Daisy turn her head sideways as if she was on the verge of some sort of idea, but not yet comfortable with it. I shrugged and shook my head from side to side and in exasperation said; “Oh, I don’t know. Something like Francis.”

Daisy again rose and vigorously pulled an astounded me all the way home; down the driveway, through the triangular room and into the back yard. I removed the leash from her collar and out of breath and perspiring from the jaunt said; “You will never make any sense to me.” Daisy panted and her tongue hung out, always her most flattering way of being photographed, which is no rare occurrence in “curious” Corrales, New Mexico. I evoked the same countenance, but would have hidden from any detected paparazzo.

I held up one finger and keeping an eye on her entered the house. Daisy lay in the grass enjoying the feel of the directly overhead mid-day sun. A large multi-colored butterfly haphazardly flew near her, but she was too tired to chase its crazy and elusive flight pattern, preferring to watch it dive and ascend. At times it relaxed on the ground, but curiously was

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compelled to exercise its wings as if it hadn’t had its fill of that when elevated. Daisy wasn’t sure, but she suspected that it was not yet time to go in the house. She usually made note of repeating patterns and though she was far from certain about drawing conclusions from a few random events her previous house incursions periodically happened after our walk. She grumbled and tried to bury herself in the soft grass, but was unable to sleep with her hunger pangs. In five minutes I had Daisy’s food, water and room ready. I brought her in and we dozed together after she had gorged her food.

Michael and Jeanette lived a few doors away; a couple I liked who have many interests, including music, art and dogs.

Whenever we passed by, if anyone was outside, I’d bring Daisy over. If it was Jeanette, Daisy would roll on her back and become the recipient of furious belly rubs. We always appreciated that as most people were content to pat her head a few times and smile.

After we knew them a few months Jeanette purchased a female German shepherd mix from a kid carrying it in a brown paper bag at the mall and named her Francesca. Initially Francesca, like my Willy, didn’t like anyone except Daddy and occasionally Mommy. On numerous occasions she had charged into the street to

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bark at and intimidate passers-by. But, she liked one dog; Daisy. How could she not?

Jeanette got an idea. Though she and Michael wanted Francesca to be somewhat civil, they also wanted her to be protective, especially when walking at their remote, mountain, second home. Daisy and I were invited over to “socialize”

Francesca.

This became a daily 5PM routine Daisy loved. She and Francesca would play like demons, growling at each other in the process. An onlooker might have easily concluded that they were witnessing a serious dog fight. But, they were just playing full tilt. Daisy and Francesca would take turns running after each other, collide and roll over entangled, get up and do it again, and again, and again. It was fun to watch the excited play and how it evolved. Daisy was the heavier of the two and as their games matured, she would try to create situations where she could use her weight to her advantage and Francesca looked for games where speed and agility were paramount.

Eventually Francesca did get socialized, almost too much, and both she and Daisy had a lot of fun in the process. Ideal.

I’ll always remember the two or three times Daisy thought that the rough play might have tipped over into a serious altercation. Each time, she came to where I was and stood behind

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me, not wanting immediate continuation. This was to be one of her hallmarks; to play as hard as she could, but not to fight.

In later years I detected that she had become famous as people at and around the Bosque whom I had never met called Daisy by name before petting her. She was deemed “perfect” by a Dalmatian breeder, who approached us when Daisy was ten, wanting to know where she came from and how I trained her. I wasn’t able to be of much help as Daisy was a “rescue dog,” but suggested that we rely more on co-operation than training. While it was nice to hear a professional seconding opinion that she was perfect, I already knew that from ten years of experience. But more importantly, I loved her with no reservations. I regularly told her; “I love you, Daisy. You’re my magic puppy.”

When I first moved to Corrales I heard about the wonders of the Bosque. I found out few people go there and most don’t know where to enter. I plead guilty, but I did ask a number of times.

It was initially only mere curiosity as I knew Willy wouldn’t have been interested in it. He always liked going places that had at least some concrete pathways. Once he had learned that someplace was entirely dirt, he would refuse to walk there.

But, Daisy liked dirt and puddles, and we both had our fill of walking around the development. The roadways cover about two

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miles. But, what is this to a chock-full of energy, almost year old Dalmatian puppy, with a strong sense of playfulness? Some form of incarceration, most likely.

Luckily we met a couple who lived at the end of the development who knew the way. I can’t recall their names and they moved away years ago. They would regularly greet us and offer Daisy some of the Golden Delicious apples which grew on their unfenced property. Perhaps this was where Daisy got her taste for the Evian temptation. We had a few apple trees in our backyard. Though not of the Golden Delicious variety, Daisy ate all of the fruit, fortunately not in one sitting.

Somehow we got to talking about the Bosque situation and they informed us that if we passed through the adjacent elm forest, cross busy Corrales Road, go down Academy Road, and make a right on the first ditch path we would be headed right for it.

It sounded difficult to one miserable at directions, but I thought that as a team, Daisy and I could do anything. I will admit that a second and third thought crossed my mind. We could backtrack if it looked dangerous and that no one had ever been lost in the largely suburban Village of Corrales. I don’t think that it is possible to get more than a thousand feet from the nearest house.

We said goodbye and Daisy and I entered the thick elm forest. There was a bit of a seldom used path which meandered

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through it that she followed, stopping here and there to sniff whatever got her interest. She wagged her tail, excited to break into new land. It didn’t last very long as this forest was no more than ten acres, probably the land remaining when the builder stopped building at the outset of the last real estate slump. In addition to the locally disparaged elms, the land held a few apple trees. Despite receiving no water other than that which Mother Nature frugally doled out in the desert, they did very well.

Daisy and I would become regulars in this forest. While I optimistically took other signs to signify the return of the warm weather, the apple trees were a better harbinger. When their tiny white flowers announced apple blossom time, it was a surety that the cold mornings were over. Their petals fell on us as we brushed by, cheering us on, as we made our way to a new season.

We came to busy Corrales Road and I held her leash short and tight as Daisy had no fear of cars. She thought that they were just bringing more people and dogs who wanted to get out and play with her.

When we got a lull in traffic, I said; “Okay,” and we ran across the street. We were now on the property of the Seventh Day Adventist Tax Free Enterprises Corporation, who prefer being referred to as the Seventh Day Adventist Church. The property

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lines the southern side of Academy Road, starting with the church itself, a school which was under construction at the time Daisy and I first walked through there, the old school and a large dirt parking lot at the rear, home to a book store, an exercise/massage emporium, health food retailer, warehouses, wood shop and furniture store. In subsequent years, after the new school was completed, the Reverends in Charge obtained village approval to convert the old school into condominiums for nice religious people of lesser means. It took a variance as there were no sewers in this part of Corrales, and was consequently zoned for one acre lots. After approval, the rights to construct/improve 16 units on the acre the old school occupied were immediately sold to a builder who proceeded to bust and renege on the contract. I am advised that the matter is still in the courts; poetic justice of some sort.

In the early years we would regularly see Elaine, a woman of about forty, walking alone. Like me, she too was a refugee from the New York area. Daisy instinctively liked her and would attempt to run to her, which I would allow, though at somewhat of a slower pace. Elaine liked Daisy and once told me; “It feels so good to have someone want to see you so badly.” She started bringing peanut butter cookies to treat Daisy, and Elaine once mistakenly said that Daisy comes to her as she does because she

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liked the cookies. Daisy would have been excited to see her in any case, as she was prior to the cookie distribution.

Daisy and I avoided the work being done on the now lumpy field which would soon sprout a new school and followed Academy Road. At the end of it we came to the parking lot straight ahead and two parallel ditch paths surrounding a full ditch to our right. She instinctively went toward the water and I saw a metal signpost which said; “PROPERTY OF THE MRGCD. NO TRESPASSING.” It actually said something else concocted by a verbose sign maker, which I can’t recall, but it meant “No trespassing.”

I said; “Uh oh,” and Daisy turned back to me with appropriate concern. She always knew this sound meant; “I better wait.”

I saw a woman approach, escorting a dog. I asked her about the sign, and she said; “Oh, they don’t really mean it. They just want to keep cars off the road.”

I wasn’t sure that she was right, but in the future I would come to know that Corrales leads the nation in official appearing notices that they don’t really mean.

I asked; “Is this the way to the Bosque?”

She said; “Yes. Just keep going straight. Cross Corrales Road. Go straight a bit more and you’re there.”

I thanked her and we were on our way. But, we didn’t go absolutely straight. Daisy zigzagged over the flat, sandy

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terrain and crossed to the opposite side whenever we came to an iron bridge. In those days the MRGCD didn’t mow the edges and we were surrounded by tall grass and shrubs. Other than our circuitous path, the walk was rather uneventful. Houses situated on an acre or two and a tree farm lined our sides.

On a subsequent walk down this same ditch path we encountered a group of kids playing, who we never saw again.

Among them was a girl of about twelve years of age. She was particularly fascinated with Daisy’s beauty and spirit. When we departed she told me that when she grew up she was going to get a dog just like Daisy. I didn’t say it, but, I wish her luck as there are no other dogs just like Daisy.

Daisy would eat virtually any small animal cadaver she could get to. Initially this was not a huge problem as if something disagreed with her, most of the time nothing happened; and to a lesser extent she would either throw it up ten minutes later or sometimes get worms. I didn’t willingly allow her to get to the carcasses, but with her super sense of smell she could find them in tall grass before I could see them.

Truthfully, I probably could have gotten the bulk of the smelly treats away from her, which I did in later years when she developed digestive problems, but at this stage, if she got one I did nothing to prevent her from eating it, since it didn’t hurt her and fearing that she would think that I denied her what

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she liked. I did concentrate on looking out for such hazards and if I spotted it before Daisy, I would keep her away from it. I also would have to remember where the dead were as Daisy had the ability to do the same, and would try to get them on the next walk. One time I saw a dead something in the ditch water before Daisy and held her back. It was a bloated black thing at the edge and I remembered its location for about a week. I don’t know what it was. Initially, I thought it was a bat, but on subsequent passes by I saw no wings. Whatever it was, somewhere around the eighth day I forgot about it and Daisy went into the water and pulled it out. She ate the whole thing as I kept changing position in an attempt to get downwind from the fortuitously discovered repast. It smelled worse than being near an open septic tank, but Daisy devoured it and had no subsequent bad effects.

We again crossed Corrales Road, got on another ditch path, and kept going. At the end was a green, tubular metal gate with an opening to its left with logs on the ground designed to let in horses, dogs, people, and anything else that was nimbly on foot, but kept out vehicles. Daisy went under the gate and I, less than nimbly, passed over the logs.

We saw the Rio Grande for the first time on that sunny spring mid-morning. No wind made it on the warm side, especially for Daisy. She had kept cool by getting frequent drinks and dips

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in the filled ditches. She was careful in picking entry points, as at that time she thought that she would have to come back up the same way she went down.

As almost always was to be, we had entered the Bosque through Romero Road and climbed the graduated levee. At the summit we stopped and took in the surroundings. We could see miles in all directions; the trees, the fields, the water, the mountains across the river, four long straight paths and one irregular, curving one which descended to the river.

After enjoying the view, Daisy led me down to the river. I had to stop her halfway there as I spotted a very detailed, made-to-look-like pewter encasement. It was the sheath which held a Native American styled knife one can purchase many places, which a Native American probably never touched. But, I took it as a good omen; a welcome and an indication that we were not in a highly trafficked area. Why else would such a valuable item be sitting there? I pocketed it and Daisy continued toward the river.

I was to find out that at this time I was actually half right. While people and dogs strolled the other four paths, few went into the drop off near the river. I found that strange as it was obviously the most interesting part of the area. My opinion was vigorously seconded by Daisy. At the path’s end Daisy jumped right into the river, took a bit of a wade, came

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out and shook off. She seemed to be curious why I didn’t want to join her in the fun.

Daisy took a southern turn toward Albuquerque, and I tailed behind her on a winding path bordering the river. The rising sun was still over the Sangre De Cristos across the water, and sent down a beam which reflected on the water and seemed to follow us as we hurriedly passed through an area light on vegetation.

After a few hundred feet the path turned inland. In subsequent years the Rio Grande was to change its course, producing another rather easy option, wherein if we turned left and passed through some eight foot Johnson grass, we could continue to follow the shoreline through a sandy, rocky and oft muddy, former river bed, initially un-vegetated, and subsequently displaying infrequent inconsequential bushes. We would usually walk it at the river’s edge, Daisy splashing through the shallow water trying to make inroads into the shore. At the beach’s end was an overly convenient re-entry into the woods, which required a two foot hop to access. Daisy did it easily and pulled me up. I wondered who or what created this portal, but never saw any clue providing tracks in the sand.

Daisy was again presented with a choice. She could bear right and quickly get back to the main path in the center of a wooded area, or bear left and access a rarely used winding path through a thick forest closer to the river which would require a

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lot of ducking on my part. The vast majority of the time she required me to duck. She wasn’t being cruel. Very Daisy-edible squirrels lived in the area. As usual she had no difficulty in traversing the terrain. I had to slow her down at the turns and low tree branches. The canopies effectively filtered the light.

Eventually any semblance of a path entirely ended and Daisy again was faced with choices. She could have turned back. I don’t think she even considered that one. She could turn inland, hop a two foot sharp elevation and find out what was there or stay with the river and attempt to navigate a thorny cluster of bushes.

In the long run I think she was near 50-50, but I recall that the first choice was to leap before she looked. Initially this posed no greater problem than following the tall grass through a field littered with cottonwood logs. However when that ended we encountered a stand of five foot tall green reeds. I could see the woods not far behind them, normally indicative of an easy place to explore. The reeds often tricked us, at times leading to our greatest disputes. They grew thickly and softly at the outset, luring us in, but the veterans clustered in tight groups further on. They wound around each other like a chain link fence with the strength of a soft pretzel. We could slowly push through them and I would get a few insignificant scratches.

Daisy’s thick coat protected her. The problem was that I could

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see over the top and she couldn’t. These petty obstacles grow in long thin groupings often following the path of an inland periodic stream which occurs during particularly heavy rainfall.

In New Mexico I have never met anyone who knew what they were called, if anything, but in New Jersey they are known as driftways. For some reason she never confided, Daisy always wanted to follow the water or surface indentation, which would require us to walk the maximum distance in the annoying pretzel logic, whereas I preferred to take the shortest route out. In most instances this was all of five feet of a tedious trudge.

But, Daisy saw things her own way and I was compelled to insist, sometimes using decibels which carried to the Native American side of the river and rang through the hollows of exurbia. Daisy would eventually follow me as I kicked and dragged through the living pretzels, but it always took a lot of convincing each step of the laborious way.

I hoped no one heard my repeated command at each step as Daisy would initially comply, but when she would see that gratification was not immediate, she would turn back to the driftway. I had to repeat myself regularly, a tedious chore enjoyed only by the low of IQ and salespeople. The magic word was ****. Daisy understood shades of gray. She knew that “No”

meant “No,” as long as there wasn’t something of interest where she was headed. She knew that a louder “No, no, no, no, no”

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meant “No” the vast majority of the time, but she made occasional exceptions, most often when she detected something edible in her chosen direction. But, she knew “**** that” was serious business.

I accidentally discovered the effectiveness of this word.

Usually I followed Daisy through the Bosque whichever way she preferred. It really made no difference which route or non-route we were on. I liked most of them and enjoyed seeing Daisy enjoy herself. However, I would lead her in another direction if her path required me to crawl through something. I felt guilty about limiting her potential and at least one day a week, in a paltry attempt at righteousness, I would follow her wherever it was possible. One such day she tried to go under a cluster of low branching Russian Olives. For the uninitiated the branches grow inch long spikes with the density of a knitting needle. My immediate reaction was to say; “**** that.” It wasn’t in a loud or angry voice. I believe it sounded more tired and matter of fact. Whatever, Daisy immediately turned back, came to my feet, and looked up into my face with wide brown eyes as if to say;

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you felt that strongly about it.” I discovered that whenever I said this magic word, sometimes when we were doing nothing other than walking side by side, she would stop and look at me with an expression that said; “What did I do? Tell me and I won’t do it again.” Daisy would look genuinely

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upset, so I learned to save the magic word for special treacherous occasions. I’m glad she was a New Mexican native. In New Jersey the word is too commonly used for it to have any magic. Being in New Mexico, we were enchanted.

After the big blind leap, subsequent pull and pretzel parting we were back in the woods on a trail. I stooped to hold, kiss her and tell her that I loved her just in case she had her doubts after the **** incident. Daisy didn’t need much convincing and she was more interested in moving on.

We followed the trail through a wooded area where the cottonwoods were well spaced and afforded a clear view of the levee. We were a few hundred feet from the river and it was no longer in sight. After a while we encountered a spot with smaller Russian Olives and tall grass, I would later learn was the habitat of a coyote den. Daisy got off the trail and investigated all the strange scents. The thorny trees were far enough apart to let me follow her with a minimum of inconvenience. I said; “Who was there?” Rather than answering Daisy continued her investigation, probably in an attempt to answer the same question for herself.

A neighbor, who had lived here all her life, advised me that coyotes could be a danger to Daisy. It was important for her to tell me as she cared about the little, spotted girl’s

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safety almost as much as I did. The neighbor told me a number of things, all of which I found to be true. She said that we lived in an area that was close enough to places where coyotes are shot on sight, that they didn’t want to get anywhere near a human, and that if I kept Daisy on a leash that we would be all right. She advised that some people, who harbor chickens and other small animals, keep a dog Daisy’s size as a deterrent to coyotes, and that they were only half right. Coyotes are creatures of opportunity. While in normal times they will avoid an altercation with a dog Daisy’s size and seek easier prey, in times of desperation they will attack desperately. The coyotes know that an injured predator is a dead predator and they expect that if they attack a medium sized dog that one or more of them will be injured before they kill the supposed guard. But, when they’re near dying of starvation, what the hell? This woman also told me of a game the desperate coyotes play to entice a dog into their clutches. One will present itself as a candidate for play. When the playful dog approaches, the rest of the coyotes spring from their hiding places and kill.

I think that we encountered this agenda three or four times over the ensuing years. However, each time Daisy diverted to the rough terrain of the lure I was five feet from her, attached by leash and chain. Since the coyote did not want to see any human,

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it always moved away to try again, with the same result, and ultimately gave up.

The closest we came to a potentially hazardous dispute with a coyote was in the same area. Hidden in the tall grass was a coyote mother with pups, lying under one of the Russian Olives.

As Daisy approached her expected new friend, the coyote mother threateningly growled, and I pulled my overly friendly pup away.

This proved to be the end of the potential conflict and we reluctantly went back toward home, no doubt with Daisy wondering why she was not allowed to say “Hi” to the newborn pups.

There was another tiny coyote which seemed to solitarily live in the environs of the Romero Road entrance to the Bosque.

He would often leave his scent in the vicinity in circling patterns. Daisy would pick them up and follow until she realized that she was coming back to the same spot for the third time.

Being able to see over the tall grass and shrubs I would occasionally spot the little coyote following us, apparently happy that he had again won his game of hide and seek. I don’t know how long he would follow as there were many points at which I had no visibility. It is possible that he kept up the game as long as Daisy and I were there. Who else did he have to play with? As part of her chosen modus operandi, to minimize repetition, Daisy would always return to Romero Road on a different path from the way she had come. But, one day she

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stopped on a virtual dime and turned back. In a second or two we saw the little coyote, with his head to the ground, casually tracking us. When he looked up and saw us heading right for him, his eyes bugged out, and at top speed, he ran off into the brush. So much for the coyote “menace” in Corrales.

We re-entered the modicum of a path through the trees and ever increasing bushes. At this point we were far from any public entrances to the Bosque and the path was more of a rut produced by bicycle wheels. At various points the densely packed bushes lined curves, blinding us as to what might be only a few feet ahead. I worried about the possibility of a speeding biker overtaking us in their fervor. I tried to get in front to take the brunt of any possible impact. It wasn’t particularly brave as I had seen a number of people, including me, hit by bicycles, and walk away almost unscathed. In addition a cycler could have approached from our rear. Daisy would have none of the lead change, skipped back in front, and trod on, more interested in what was out there to be seen than any impediment to her safety.

Only once did we come close to a catastrophe. It had rained overnight. I considered skipping the morning walk, but as this was the best part of my day, I followed our usual routine. With some degree of slipping and sliding, Daisy and I made it back out to the Thick Bushed Coyote Domain. From a blind, an

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energetic bicycle speedster jumped right in front of us. He jammed on his brake and came to a stop, his bicycle on its side and his torso in the mud, a few feet in front of us. The pregnant pause was broken by him saying; “How are you doing today?”

I responded; “Better than you,” and fortunately for me he slightly laughed. We exchanged a few unrecalled pleasantries and each of us was again on their way.

We escaped the cover of the bedazzling bushes and continued through a lightly wooded forest of cottonwoods. I considered this one of the Corrales Bosque’s prettier areas, fully realizing that my biased judgment might have been predicated on its similarity to the woodland I had walked in New Jersey with Willy, and its relative absence of littering human traffic.

Daisy continued her mute dash, without registering an opinion until we got in sight of the big rock.

This was to become my marker of what constituted a truly long walk. The boulder was almost round and was at least three feet high and long. I don’t recall seeing any other rocks of this size in the Bosque. I wondered if some ancient someone had placed it there to signify something. The topography changed precipitously.

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Daisy must have had the same thoughts as when she got right next to the unmovable stone; she greeted it by lifting one of her hind legs as a salutation. While the land to our right remained a woodland, that to our left turned to a grassy field with an inkling of a path leading back toward the river.

It wasn’t difficult to move at top speed through the debris free, soft grass and as a result we spent much too little time in the warm sun, before encountering a partially shaded woodland. This one contained a mixture of young Russian Olives, elms, willows, none yet weeping and few cottonwoods. Daisy picked up openings through the diversity and we were soon back at the river, where it was obvious that someone had cleared the bordering shrubbery to form a private sitting area. Daisy and I were sufficiently far out and off the beaten path for me to think that not many travelers made this stop. I looked back and thought I saw the scrawny signs of a trail which led straight toward a two story Southwestern styled house on the other side of the levee. I watched Daisy sniff every inch of the clearing, strongly indicating to me that someone or something had recently been there. Further reflection refined the thought to the visitors having been someones, as somethings are not capable of the vegetation destruction present, unless, among its many secrets, Corrales harbored highly localized locusts.

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Daisy desperately needed a drink, but was confounded by the steep, three foot drop off to the water. She took small venturing steps at numerous places, but each time pulled back in the hope of finding one more graduated. I could tell that there was nothing like that in the immediate vicinity and that we would have no chance at finding one until we backed out of this enclave and re-approached the river from a different direction.

This was the first time I told her what proved to be an oft repeated phrase. “You can do anything you want. You just don’t know it.” Either some of my words were not yet in her vocabulary or she didn’t believe me, as she continued to pick around at the edge. I knew it would not be easy for her to get back out, but if she couldn’t, it was warm enough that, if necessary, I could go in after her and help her climb. Of course, after that I would be stuck in the water, but I could utilize her chain leash to provide me the leverage necessary to get out. .......

Probably. ...... Over the ensuing years it became apparent that Daisy could always lift me to higher places than I would have been able to attain alone. When she sensed danger she always sought the high ground. At some point her thirst must have overtaken her prudence and she jumped. She seemed unhurried as she swam, waded and drank. Then she knew that she had to directly face her fear and try to elevate. Her first few attempts were failures and I could see the unease on her face.

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Then she almost made it, falling back as her front paws struggled to get a grip on the shore. However, on her next attempt I saw that she now had a plan. Rather than taking on the huge leap in one step she had broken it down into two. I noticed that the mud on her beautiful coat was now exceeded by the determination written on her face. She used her front paws to gouge out a step halfway up the slightly sloped bank and took a few jumps until she got her hind legs securely in it, took another jump and was back on dry land. She always was a very smart puppy.

Back on shore, Daisy proceeded to shake off, spraying me with river water and mud. She sat on her haunches, desirous of a mid-walk break. I sat next to her, put an arm around her and told her that I loved her and would always be with her among a few other things. We caught our breath as we listened to the water cascade over the rocks and watched the river flow.

Half of the time we took a different route, following the Rio Grande, which necessitated an initial tricky maneuver for me. Thorny bushes grew at the river’s edge and severely limited use of the path; however I could see that they ended quickly.

Daisy had no problem squiggling around, and making use of the few inches of land devoid of the inch long barbs, but I had to bring her to a halt to carefully do the same, at peril of

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stitches or a swim. Daisy instinctively understood and patiently waited for me on the other side. I’d usually choose to err on the land side, which resulted in a few scratches, but nothing serious.

We entered an area with no other signs of human life, and due to an indentation in the shoreline, was not visible from any other point this side of the river. After having spent the past five years in friendly Corrales, this struck me as weird and I looked for the hidden camera. The land was primarily comprised of tall grass interspersed with bent lines of the same grass parallel with the water, indicative of small animal expeditions.

Infrequently, small patches of circular, bare sand stood out like ringworm, perhaps a place where the little ones congregated. Daisy sniffed at everything. I asked her; “Who or what was there?” As, would prove to be customary, she made no decipherable reply, no doubt thinking that the answer was so obvious, that I must have been joking.

Daisy drank from and dunked in the muddy Rio, which was only a foot below the recently emerged shore, inviting her wade-preferred entry. After passing through 500 feet of the quasi-path, with frequent incursions into the un-trampled tall grass, we ran into an obstacle Daisy was not interested in tackling; a discarded manmade pile of concrete and pressed wood building

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material, sprouting sharp and angry, three foot barberries from the decaying crevices.

We turned inland, hopped a small incline and entered an area I called “Baldy Acres.” The flat, sandy land was refreshing in the cold and a sweatbox in summer. There were no shade producing, large trees; but rather well-spaced saplings which begged for water by holding out tiny, brittle limbs. Small clusters of shrubby growth struggled to make contact with relatives, and succeeded only in producing a myriad of crisscrossing sand paths between them. This was the home of a coyote pack and lazy broad winged hawks as the terrain left their targets no place to hide.

Daisy anxiously rushed through the many choices of scents available as proficiently as a deprived housewife in a discount department store the day after Christmas; briefly sniffing at each. She, too, made no purchases, but sampled everything. At the far edge of the killing field was a row of scrubby bushes with passageways between. Daisy picked one to her liking and pulled me along through a small area of tiny broken branches.

We were back on the main path and after a few hundred feet we were at our marker; the immovable boulder. Daisy kept going south, ignoring the soft grassy entryway to the cliffs above the river. We encountered an area different from the others we had thus far seen in that the type of vegetation present, and in

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most cases absent, changed every fifty feet. I had no name for it at the time, but now “Eclecticism Through Half-assed Destruction” comes to mind.

It appeared as if the area was bulldozed sometime within the last ten years. The largest pieces of foliage were ten foot bushes which hudddled in a series of small groups near the levee loving path at distances which precluded visits to or even sight of the others. Nothing obstructed me from seeing in all directions, while Daisy was blinded a minimum of times. In the very near future Daisy would eliminate this sector from her itinerary and spend more time dawdling in the other regions.

But, early on, like most of us, she wanted to see whatever there was to see.

The lack of growth afforded us a constant view of the levee to our right and a huge, scrubby land mass to our left, presumably leading to the invisible river, which Daisy could have chosen to enter at most any point. She kept on, perhaps waiting for something more inviting. She may have grown tired, impatient or both as at one physical point, not particularly any more lush than the rest she turned left with apparent faith that the obscured river was waiting somewhere out there.

We discovered that this particular expanse was the deepest part of the Bosque. The almost barren area’s sand and rock floor made me think the region was recently under the Rio Grande, but

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that something caused the water to depart. While I felt as if I had entered the Twilight Zone, Daisy seemed curious rather than apprehensive. It was near the peak temperature of the day as the sun showed no mercy to the curious long distance travelers. I stopped her to remove my sweatshirt while she waited and warmed in her permanent coat. I saw a few hills of quickly moving carpenter ants and wondered what they were pointlessly trying to construct or destroy with no hard wood in the vicinity.

We went over a little rise, saw the river, and commenced our gradual descent to it. It seemed that the Native American land on the other side was only a stone’s throw away. Daisy pulled me forward, anxious for a drink and dunk. However to get there we first had to pass through a beach strewn with debris.

Nourishment was still about 200 feet from us and the size of the land mass between us and it amazed me as we had already been walking toward it for at least 800 feet. We zigzagged around the remains of broken children’s tricycles and slides, outdated and worn out automobile parts, parts of shattered trees, forgotten empty wallets, obsolete items I could not identify, and dead fish. All of the once-sought-after essential items which were once hidden by the sea now had reappeared, courtesy of the perennially moving and arbitrary current. The fickle sea had dispassionately produced a stoically static, excavated graveyard, fruitlessly praying for Jesus or a physician. Daisy

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did something out of character. For some reason, perhaps out of respect, she chose not to investigate or desecrate any of the damaged earthly remains.

Instead she led me directly to the receded water, which was now far out from its original position. Daisy splashed in it and drank. I again followed the compelling and necessary lead provided by my well-loved, spotted puppy. We walked along the river’s edge, she in the water and me on the sand, with Daisy regularly looking behind herself to give me a disconcerting expression which I interpreted as saying; “What prevents you from joining me?”

I know that I answered her, though I can’t recall the precise words, as they were only falsely practical justifications of my advance degreed, down-to-earth rationalizations of the contemporary and therefore inherently temporary “facts” apparent. These should-be-textbook isolated fiends insistently found a way to invade my mind, much as the real, dismembering explosives which mined the Ho Chi Minh Trail many years prior, planted to the dismay of peace loving horticulturalists, burrrowing an infernal path, when I was still young and optimistic. As Don Quixote, centuries prior, the suckers courageously chose to play against the odds, in hope of the big score, while the wise grind out the nickels and dimes.

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My brave black and white needed no confirmation of her obviously correct perceptions and conclusions. She obviously and rightly concluded that the mental midget to whom fate had attached her was not yet ready to risk an unvarnished soaking.

Magnanimously, Daisy showed no disdain to the dysfunctional product of the American social and educational system. She had known him sufficiently well to conclude that he was a well-meaning, but handicapped plodder, who could rarely maintain her pace. Though he could judiciously argue to the death that he had escaped the self-serving traps of all the politically and financially prompted ideological spins, which sternly and relentlessly restricted the potential of all existence, he was hampered by an educationally induced, yet irrational distrust of the simplicity and humility of the life-giving and replenishing water. If not quite that, she thought I was unable to swim.

I followed her along the river’s edge; she splashing, and me absurdly going out of my way to avoid the perils of less than an inch of H2O. Just as certain breeds of dog are prone to certain diseases, humans have certain weaknesses, currently imagined to be dependent on their DNA. We ignore the potential of what is yet to be discovered, understandably, because our logically trained and ten percent utilized brains cannot fathom the future with anything other than the expectation of a ridicule inducing conjecture. Daisy displayed no post-modern

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self-consciousness, and seemed quite proud to openly strut what she inherently knew; trust. All those privileged to have met her were the better for it.

Daisy led me along the edge until we were confronted with another thick forest of cottonwoods. I strongly suspect that she could have easily passed through, but either in consideration of me or her hunger, she turned back, apparently choosing the density of civilization.

As she would always do, she walked back home on a different route than that which she had left it. The diversities may sound inconsequential in an area which was generally not more than 500

feet in depth, but the variety we found in that small cage was astounding and always kept our interest. Sometimes we would play a game which was more challenging than one uninitiated might imagine. We would attempt to make it back to Romero Road without using any path. Daisy understood the concept without any explanation. It necessitated some fatigued circling and backtracking, but we made it a few times. We probably always would have, except that during the majority of attempts she would see another dog on the safe path, and divert to him or her. For Daisy, saying “Hello” to a potentially new or proven old friend was more important to her than any game.

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We’d eventually get back home, very tired, hot and hungry.

We’d eat and sleep cuddling, dreaming of an infinite supply of tomorrows.

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