Bo-Bo Knows "Death's a Breath Away"*

As Bo and I left the beach and turned toward home this morning, I was gunning to get home and write a post about how bittersweet a sunny April 30 is (Winthrop kicks pooches from the sand from May 1 to September 30, the jerks). But tramping toward home and working up a good lather, I saw something that short circuited my grousing.

On a porch about a block from the beach, a couple emerged, each holding a handle in a sagging, circular blue tarp supporting a mound wrapped in yellow plastic. Behind the couple, a tall man I recognized pressed his arm against the doorway and leaned. This was a guy who was always walking a few steps in front of an elderly, yellow lab who followed him in loping, slow steps. A dog I'd marveled at before because she could be trusted to lie out in the lawn without a tie, even while Bo was sniffing her over. The yellow plastic went electric. When the owner caught me gaping, I looked down and hurried away; I wish I'd said something, but any comfort I offered would have been swallowed by the healthy dog at the end of my leash.

Bo will be seven years old in June. How many years does that leave him? Five? Seven? Eight? My nephew, Ryan, is 6 years old now. It's quite possible that Bo has less time left than Ryan has lived, but then again, he could go tomorrow. I don't like thinking about it, of course, but I figure that maybe if I let my heart break a little now, the part that Bo has curled up in won't shatter when the time comes.

As I turned the corner, an Alastair Moock song called "Lovely Day" danced through my head:

"And it's a fast paced life;
death's a breath away.
I'm so glad that you could stay
on such a lovely day."

To be fair, this song is not about losing dogs--it's more a gentle giant of a song that'll coax a response hum from the tuning fork of your soul. But I'd been listening to this album (Let It Be) on a loop in my car for days, and so it was there for me in this moment. In its still way, "Lovely Day" is an anthem. And really, there's this: A part of your world could be carried away on a round stretcher tomorrow, so you better enjoy today. Even if it is the last day you can frolic on the beach for six months.


* From "Lovely Day" off of Alastair Moock's album Let It Be. Listen to it here, and be sure to click on "Unwanted Guest." That one's an anthem for anyone who ever struggled with depression...at least to my ears.

Bo-Bo Knows Crazy Bitches

I'm no dog whisperer, but I'd like to think that during my 2.5 years of doggy mommyhood I've learned a thing or two about canine body language.

1. Wagging tail = best day ever
2. Dog face in my face = I got needs, man.
3. Stiff as a statue and drooling = Terror that leaves shitting a brick in the dust.
   

But learning about dog behavior by watching Bo is about as instructive as analyzing literature via Spark Notes--I get the general gist at the expense of deeper meaning.

If Bo had his way, he'd gallop toward every dog that crosses paths with us on our morning walks. I don't know what kind of hippy commune the tracks were running during Bo's racing days, but apparently those kennels were all about all-for-one and one-for-all and peace and love and all that hairy horseshit. Because Bo sees no difference between a dog wagging his tail so hard it blurs and a snarling, nasty punk spoiling for a fight.

Which leaves me to clear the dogs we meet for a little nose-to-butt action. But while I've become skilled at steering clear of dogs giving out the Cujo vibe, spotting crazy bitches is harder than it seems. The craziest bitches present themselves as happy-go-lucky loves. Their tails are going, their ears are up; some even echo Bo's whimpery hello-o-o-o! Everything about the way these dogs carry themselves says normal and healthy until something trips the bitch switch and the love bug turns scorpion. Gnashing teeth, snarling, and just general bad manners. I'm fine with it when the owner is surprised in a whoa-what-just-happened kind of way. But I can't stand it when the owner looks all sheepish and says, "yeah, she gets that way sometimes."

If you own a crazy bitch of a dog--and you know who you are--when the nice lady with the goofy greyhound asks for a green light for a meet-and-greet, do NOT give it to her. Because if your dog can go from hyper tail wagging to snarling faster than you can say pooper-scooper, the only correct answer when you're asked if your dog is friendly, is not always. So to all the owners of crazy bitches in the world: when I ask you if your dog's friendly, say no.

Because let's face it: I'm all the crazy bitch Bo needs.

Bo-Bo Knows the Obamas Can Name a Dog

Bos of the doggy world unite!

When reports started coming in that Daddy Obama was going to make good on his election night doggy promise with a visit to the pound, Bo-Bo crossed his paws in hopes that the nation's first dog would be a greyhound.

And really, who could blame him? It was a lot of fun to picture the lankiest president since Lincoln walking a lean-but-not-so-mean ex racer.

But it wasn't meant to be. The Obamas went with a Portuguese water dog, a breed that made more sense for allergy-suffering Malia. But although we were disappointed that some deserving greyhound didn't get his chance to run laps around the oval office, we were thrilled to hear that the Obamas have named their puppy Bo. And while it's an honor to share the First Dog's name, Bo-Bo would NOT turn his nose up at a an invitation to sniff Bo's presidential butt.

Though I do wonder how long it is before the Obamas start to call their dog Bo-Bo, too. We started out with all intentions of calling our dog Bo (short for his racing name, Bohemian Hoosier), but Mike called him Bo-Bo a few days in and the nickname for the nickname stuck.

So Bo-Bo salutes Bo. And he's serious about that invitation. He'd love to race you once around the Rose Garden (though with the excitement of all those cameras around, Bo-Bo would most likely just stand there with his head down and drool).