anapoeland

Goodbye, Huckleberry

2010-11-18T17:35:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was Huckleberry's first birthday, and yesterday we put him down.

Calling the decision we had to make anything less than excruciating would be an understatement. There was nothing physically wrong with him. He was a young, healthy, active dog. To look at him was painful he was so good looking. Did I mention he was also smart? He was highly train-able, got his CGC at the age of 5 months, and we had just begun our second level of nosework. And we loved him. A lot. So why in the world would we put him down?

The problem is that he had an unstable temperament. While it does not appear in the form of a physical illness, like cancer or parvo, it is just as destructive and eats away at the dog from the inside out.

From the second he came into our home, we knew he was “off” and structured our lives accordingly. The shelter told us he’d been seized as a 5 week-old pup, alone, and before he came to us he had bitten the resident vet in the face. We knew he missed some critical milestones and was already displaying inappropriate behavior, so we scrambled to make up for lost time. Everything was a training opportunity. We had behaviorists and trainers evaluate and re-evaluate him as the months went by. Everyone agreed that he had issues that would plague him his entire life, but he was just a puppy. There was something so endearing about the way he would focus so completely on you. No one was wholly convinced he would fail, so why not give him the chance to succeed?

So we did. For the past 8 months we’ve been working so hard. Combining management, training, socialization and conditioning, we worked on slowly making him into a normal dog. In some areas he made leaps and bounds. In others, not so much. Overall, despite the occasional “red flag” his progress was such that we thought the worst was behind us.

But then, almost two weeks ago, he crossed the line we hoped he’d never cross and injured a stranger in the form of a muzzle punch to the face. The good news is that the injury could have been much, much worse, but the fact that he was willing to take matters into his own hands, given his troubled history, was not a good sign. Coupled with the fact that he was just shy of a year old, gaining confidence by the day, and the fact that dogs who bite once (this was an inhibited one) usually bite again but with much more severity, we knew that he was heading in a bad direction.

Don’t be confused, it is not a breed thing, it’s a dog thing. Across the board, a certain percentage of dogs are born “wired wrong” from the get-go. They come in all shapes and sizes and the severity of the unstable temperament varies as well. A dog’s success or failure depends on a variety of factors, including genetics and the human’s willingness to adapt their life around the problem.

We took a hard look at our situation. I wrote out his entire history in search of patterns. We met with all the behaviorists and trainers (yes, plural of each) who had been watching Huckleberry as he’s grown. The prognosis was not good from any of them. None could cite a single success story from a dog matching his personality profile. In every case the dog eventually did major damage to a human being.

Armed with the knowledge about his trajectory, we weighed our options. Medication was not viable as one of the side effects is lowered inhibitions, and that is a dangerous cocktail with a dog who’s warning signs are masked by good behavior. In his case, we had done so much work and behavior modification that he was able to seem perfect and well composed even when in reality he was way over threshold.

We had already modified our lives around his needs to a large extent but in our situation, keeping him safely away from people at all times was simply not a guarantee. Even if we were to never have anyone over to our house again, we live in the city and cannot walk outside the front gate without encountering people. The liability of keeping a known dangerous dog is high, and walking around in public constantly on alert for possible triggers just creates a situation where the dog feeds off of you, a never-ending cycle for a sensitive dog like him.

Adopting him out to someone else was also not an option. Not only is it irresponsible to pass off your problem, but considering the lengths we’d already gone to, there’s not much more another person could do. Basically, if he were going to succeed in a home environment, it would have been with us.

Dropping him off at the shelter would also have been equally irresponsible. A bad shelter would have adopted him out in a heartbeat, where he would then go on to do damage in his new home. A good shelter would have done a battery of temperament tests, most of which he’d fail so he would be euthanised after spending several stressful days in captivity.

For those who believe there is a farm out there where dogs can run free for the rest of their lives, I have a bridge to sell you. But in the world where Santa exists and so does this farm, socially isolating an unstable dog like that would only heighten their confliction if and when a stranger actually showed up on the farm, making them even more dangerous. And again, it would all come down to another person’s management, and management is never fool-proof.

All the options kept swirling around, none looking very good. Meanwhile, Huckleberry continued to be, well, Huckleberry. It’s really easy to make a decision when you have all the facts written up on a piece of paper or summarized in an email. It’s much harder when you have this dog, this otherwise perfect dog, doing charming things all the time, being so perfect and obedient, playing well with Xdog, and laying on your lap, looking lovingly into your eyes. You remember the good times, like the road trip to Mexico where he discovered “the ball.” Or how when you hold the nail clippers he jumps on the couch, rolls on his back, and happily presents his paws. This coming from the dog who wouldn’t allow any handling when he was young.

It’s kind of like a bad relationship. When you’re caught in the midst of one you deny it to all end. I mean, how could that face you love so much be capable of doing any harm? You get caught up in your version of reality, even when you get a hint of the truth. It’s only when you step outside and look back in that you get a clear picture.

In the end, we knew that we really only had one choice. It is simply not responsible to keep a dog that is more than willing to harm a person as his first line of defense. Had he been able to give us any sort of sign or protracted warning before actually inflicting damage then we could work with that, but his inner state is so well masked.

When people say of dog attacks, “it was out of nowhere! I never saw it coming,” that’s not true. Dogs always give signs. In the moment they may not give many signs, but there are always “red flags” leading up to the event. In this case, we saw the “red flags” Huckleberry’s whole life, but then he proved he was willing to take it to the next level. The writing was on the wall and we had to decide which meant more, our love for the dog or the safety of the public.

He had a great final 24 hours. The whole week leading up to his birthday we had thrown house rules out the window. He was allowed to sleep on the bed, eat food off the counter, and completely destroy all of the supervision-only toys. We closed the store and played with him like mad. Friends stopped by to say goodbye. We ordered the “Huckle-Burrito” which consisted of every type of meat the taqueria had, nothing else (they were extremely confused by that phone order), which he ate with gusto, tortilla first.

On the morning of his birthday, we woke up early, went to Huckleberry’s favorite park, played ball until he almost dropped, and took a cool down stroll up Bernal hill to get a full view of the city. We hopped in the car and headed to the vet’s office, where he spent his final moments licking peanut butter and baby food from our hands while we cradled him on the floor.

Goodbye, buddy. We miss you more than you'll ever know.

The New Guy

2010-04-06T20:38:00.000-07:00

I'm a little superstitious. Not to the level of the baseball player who hasn't washed his red socks in four years, sticks a plastic figure in his underwear, and spits on the plate 3.5 times before he goes to bat, but when it comes to certain things I like to play by the book. The bigger the event, the quieter I get, lest I jinx it. So goes the case with the new guy...

Meet Huckleberry Huckabee Hasselhoff Hadley, but you can just call him "Huckleberry" for short.

Around mid-February this year I started to get a weird feeling. After an intense search last spring, and a handful of hopeful meetings, we'd sort of dropped the dog search. There was so much stuff going on, Xdog's budding adolescence required so much attention, and then with the holidays it just seemed way too much to handle. But then, mid-February, that feeling started creeping in... the feeling that our dog was somewhere out there.

I'd get it driving home, so I'd swing by the shelter to take a look. Nope, not there today, but maybe we should swing by the other place since we'll be biking past anyhow? Nope, not there either.

One day a friend came in to get a collar for her dog. It happened to be a day where I was having that feeling especially intensely. As a volunteer at Oakland Animal Services, she described a dog she thought would fit our needs. A few hours later, we met her at the shelter for a behind-the-scenes tour.

The dog in question was pretty cool, but he wasn't "the one." I brought Josh Radloff along since he'd never been to an animal shelter before. As we went through the rows and rows of kennels, I started to think that maybe my gut feeling was leading me the wrong way.

On the way out we were introduced to the puppy, Lucca, being fostered in the office. As Josh stopped to coo, I offered, "You know, if you guys ever need a puppy foster I'd be down." Recent dog sitting of late had reminded me how much Xdog really needed another dog around, and puppies are adopted quickly making my total commitment a fairly minimal. I promised to check in a few weeks later after the dog-sitting gigs had ended.

Fast forward to March 3 and I was back at OAS ready to take on a foster pup. The compassion hold I'd agreed to take was put down prematurely (she was suffering too much) so I was anxious to fill the slot I'd mentally prepared for. As usual, there were several pit bull puppies available for foster. As we walked past Lucca, still being fostered in the office, I mentioned, "You know, I could take him if you wanted."

One by one the "several" choices dwindled down. Those puppies were still in a legal battle and their custody was in limbo. Those two puppies were way too young and possibly quite sick. The choice was finally narrowed down to Lucca and two very young female siblings. I told them I'd take whoever they needed me to take more.

At the suggestion of my friend, I took the nearly 4 month old Lucca to the classroom in order to suss him out a bit while the shelter director decided which dog(s) I should take home. As I watched him in this new environment, I could tell he had issues. They were subtle, but they were there. The way he was more interested in his surroundings than me. The way he froze as I reached for the rawhide in his mouth. The way he was conditioned to solicit attention at the gate, only to move away once the person wanted to interact with him.

Word came back: They wanted me to take Lucca.

Great.

My heart sunk even more as I watched him interact with other dogs. His body language was horrible. Poor Bob the Dog looked for petrified as the little puppy hackled, growled, and jumped on him. Xdog knew how to handle it and just completely ignored him until he was good, then choose to play with him. They totally hit it off, but then he reverted into possessive-mode as his foster mom came into the room, snarling and guarding when any dog came close to her.

But I kept in mind the moment I'd had with him just minutes before: it was just the two of us and the beloved rawhide he so desperately wanted to own. Within seconds, I had him reliably giving it to me based solely on the prospect of his getting it back. We had a moment of being right there, together, and he gave me his all.

After a minor wrestling incident I like to call "Introduction to a crate," we got home and the tables turned. I slipped a lead over his head and affixed the other end to my belt before his feet even hit the floor. One impressive back-flip later and he realized he was stuck with me, like it or not.

Several weeks went by and the hard little puppy I picked up from the shelter started to become a different dog. The unhandle-able wonder got used to having his teeth checked daily and his feet inspected every time he came through the door. The serious beast became a tumbling, goofy clown, learning to roll down hills for laughs and stunt trip himself to earn the appreciation of playmates. He managed to take his incredible ability to focus on his handler and generalize it to strangers, and his extremely poor dog-dog body language loosened up a bit and he made real friends.

There have been setbacks. As with any living being, it's not always a straight path to perfection, but his little compass is pointed that direction so we've decided to give him a chance (and a new name).

Today we officially adopted him, flaws and all.

Welcome to the family, Huckleberry.

One Year Ago...

2010-01-26T10:01:00.000-08:00

Paco died.

It doesn't feel like it's been a year, it feels like it's been 10. So much has happened in that amount of time that it literally feels like a lifetime ago. It's like life was going along with a certain trajectory, and then suddenly went way off course.

By certain measures, I'm in a much better position than I was before. My business was on the brink of failure last year and now we've grown in ways I never imagined. We have a store, a great group of people, international sales, all with no sign of slowing. My dog, relationship, house, and friends are all fantastic, but it still feels strangely empty.

I don't know why I thought I'd be over it by now, but I haven't gone a week this past year without crying and I still can't talk about it with strangers. It doesn't help that my life is constructed around him so completely.

But there has been growth. At least now the positive memories outweigh the sad ones. And now that he's not around to act like an ass and prove me wrong, he's reached a status of near saint-like proportions. I can extol his virtues for hours, tell the story of he chased the car thieves away at 2 am or how he fingered the one hoodlum who later went on to murder a homeless man (it was one of only two people in his life Paco could not settle down around), and now it's impossible for him to ruin the illusion by going into one of his crazy car ride fits (he's scream his fool head off and do handstands the closer we got to home), get amped up and embarrass me during a CGC demo, or be a jerk around another dog... now I understand how legends are made.

People want to know when we'll get another dog. The answer is, "I have no idea." We've done a great deal of dog shopping this year, have traveled long distances to see candidates, fostered one possibility, but nothing feels right. I think everyone has their own rate of recovery and we're just not there yet. I'm sure we'll know it when we see it, but that may only happen once we stop looking.

In the meantime I feel the best thing for me to do its continue building something positive in his memory.

RIP, little guy, I miss you every day.

European Vacation

2010-01-19T11:42:00.000-08:00

For those who don't know, Aaron builds robots. Robots like this one:

The latest project necessitated an in-person delivery to Berlin. Never having been to Europe, I begged. I pleaded. I didn't care that January was the second-coldest month in Germany, I wanted to cross the pond. But what would I do while Aaron assembled the robot all day, was the concern? I'd make it a business trip myself, I argued.

Somehow it worked. Here are the pictures, in no particular order...

Proof of how cold it was in Berlin. Check out the icicles on the car,

the ice on the river,

and the boys in warm clothes.

In Europe a "double bed" means just that.

We did the tourist things, like visiting the Berlin Wall (yes, mom, I'm wearing your old jacket),

and KaDeWe, the largest mall in Germany.

But we also strayed off the beaten path by playing foosball in dive bars,

(as in, anti-establishment dive bars where you do snuff with a Polish guy covered in facial tattoos til 5 in the morning and this is the chandelier)

and hanging out with local friends.

After 5 days in Berlin, Jeff headed home and we made a b-line to Paris.

Notre Dame at night

Cappuccino 'stache

Catching your own dinner at a sushi restaurant

Look, a Paco Collar!

Overall the trip was fantastic. The whole time it was windy, cold, snowy, or rainy but somehow that didn't matter and the whole thing just ended up... perfect.

Oh, and the post-script for those who might accuse me of just partying the whole time: I did manage to get some work done and am proud to announce that Paco Collars is now in two pet stores in Berlin and with one distributor in Paris... woohoo!

Artistic Integrity

2010-01-07T20:23:00.000-08:00

I'm not gonna sugar coat it. I'm pretty pissed right now. Someone is copying our designs... again.

This isn't a unique situation. In fact, it's happened several times and I've even written about it before (and, I might add, both companies/individuals referenced before have had positive outcomes and we actually refer customers to them now). I'd come off sounding like a broken record if this situation wasn't quite so unique and painful.

Basically, this individual made and posted a collar design that is my current dog's collar (The Xdog) layered atop of my deceased dog's collar (Paco's Ruadh collar). If it was an accident, I could forgive it, but it's not. I won't go into the details, but it's clear that it's a calculated move.

As an artist (*shuddering at my least favorite statement ever*), I find it really offensive when other people copy work exactly.

Now, I totally understand the concept of "inspiration" and "derivative." Let's face it, pretty much all of the cool things in this world have been invented. There is only so much room within which you can maneuver unless you are willing to create something totally outside of the realm of what the mind can handle, and when that happens it doesn't always have a great outcome.

Take music, for instance. The guitar is a medium that has been played for hundreds of years, yet even with all that time for innovation, there are only so many notes in existence. Try as you might, you can't change that. You also can't change the fact that "Wild Thing" and "Louie Louie" have the exact same chord progression and nearly identical strumming. To the average listener, however, they sound like totally different songs because, well, they are.

You can have things that are similar at the core and then take off in very different directions, and that's fine. That's the basis of design, of songwriting, etc.

But when you take something that's already made and do it again without making any significant changes, well than that's just copying. It's like the imitation designers you see on "The View" the morning after the Oscars, showcasing the duplication dresses they stayed up all night making, only out of crappier material. There's no improvement, no differentiation, you're just replicating something that's already been done. Where's the art in that? Where is the dialogue, the wit, the innovation?

The fact is there isn't any of that, and that's what bothers me about copy cats. And when you drag Paco (the dog, not the company) into something, then you make it personal.

Hipster Holiday

2009-12-26T23:24:00.000-08:00

With great sadness I admit that I'm probably a fucking hipster. The greatest piece of evidence being at how offended I get should somebody try and brand me one... everyone knows a true hipster will deny it 'til the bitter end.

Now, with that out of the way, I can tell you about my holiday without you pointing out how just about every fun thing I mention is a hipster staple (though my attitude towards it all is not one of irony but, rather, neo-sincerity, so there).

The plan was for Aaron's parents to come down but his dad got sick at the last minute (like, hospital sick) so they couldn't make it. He's doing better now so we've rescheduled everything until late January and we simply considered this Christmas "practice." In fact, we plan on keeping our tree up until then, which is fine by me since it smells nice and is pretty to look at. Being our first, we didn't have a box of decorations lying around so we simply went to Fantastico (aka. "the best party store in the world") and got a ton of birds and a string of large bulb lights. Here's our topper:

Y0u can also see the tree in the background of this next picture, which also prominently features [drum roll please]... my new bike!

Yep, Santa was good to me this year. I haven't owned a bike since my cruiser was stolen a few years back. Not a naturally graceful or athletic person, I always thought I needed fat tires or extra wheels in order to be a bike rider, but my test run on this guy proved me wrong. I can't wait for the weather to get a little better so we can bike all over this town.

My other favorite gift was the loop rug kit given to me by my grandma. She's an avid crafter and has accumulated all sorts of crafting crap over the years. Every Christmas she brings down a car load of goods and lets us grandkids fight it out. This year I scored big time and got the faux zebra skin loop carpet which I've been constructing feverishly since we got back from my family Christmas. I'm about 6 hours and two hind legs in. The goal is to get it done some time during the year 2010.

While I've been obsessing over the rug, Aaron has found the time to explore a hobby he's been dreaming about for months: pickling vegetables. The goal is to make baby carrots as good as the ones at Tartine.

Bad food pictures always remind me of bad porn... you be the judge:

He's also got a batch of sauerkraut going which might be done around the time we head to Berlin in about two weeks. Since Germany is the land of the pickled foods, I figure it's the perfect time to begin our education.

This was probably the best Christmas I've had for a while. Nothing super spectacular happened, we didn't really go anywhere, it was just a nice, relaxing holiday. And, in the true spirit of giving, I did give one gift I wanted so badly to keep for myself (but figured my mother was as equally worthy):

Stranger than fiction

2009-11-17T09:42:00.000-08:00

So the other day I got a Google Alert for "Ana Poe" (yes, I'm a nerd and keep track of these things... let's move on). Usually these alerts bring me back to either this blog or the Paco Collars page, so I hardly ever click on them. But this one was different, so I clicked.

Lo and behold, it seems as if someone cast "me" as a flute-wielding-ghost-Granny in a musical battle of the ages. Read for yourself (you have to read a bit until Ana Poe makes an appearance).

I'm sure it's just a coincidence... right?

Sadtown Sacto

2009-11-09T20:36:00.000-08:00

Sacramento has always held a special place in my heart. In high school (and beyond) my friends used to play shows there so we'd make the trek every so often and hang out with the local kids. The punk rock scene in Sacramento was a unique one. Since there's a shortage of things to do there, the result is that everyone seems more creative as you need to make up your own fun. When you get bored you simply pump up the radio and drive through the alleys real fast, jump into the giant piles of leaves, have a drawing contest, a shotgunning contest, write stupid songs, etc.

But last night I saw a sad Sacramento.

A couple weeks ago Keith Campos was killed in a horrific manner. His friends banded together and held a benefit concert in his name with the proceeds going to BAD RAP. Carolyn and I went up to Sacramento to represent the group.

It's weird when you meet someone you've known via the internet in person for the first time. It's weirder still when you "meet them" via their wake. The faces are familiar, the names, the stories, but there's just one big absence around which everyone swirls.

In a way, it was the best show I've ever been to. A lot of the time at shows people like to stand around and look cool, but, at this show, no one bothered to pretend. Old rivalries were put aside and everyone joined together to celebrate his life. I don't think there was a single dry eye in the room (er, basement) as Keith's old band performed, one man short, and gave props to him. Keith was a strong presence who drew people together, inspired many, and was a passionate advocate for pit bulls. His friends told stories about he touched their lives and urged them to keep smiling, even when things suck.

It's easy to get caught up in the day-to-day of life, but occasionally something so profound occurs that makes you stand back and reevaluate everything. This morning I awoke to a weird feeling halfway between loss and inspiration.

And I was also reminded to conserve water, for punk rock reasons.

New Light on Old Posts

2009-10-28T20:45:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I found myself poring through the blog I kept when Paco went through bilateral tplo surgery.

I rarely look at the blog except for when someone has canine surgery questions, and the posts I forward are pretty routine ("Here's how you can make a sling yourself at home...") so I never go back and actually ready anything. But the question posed yesterday forced me to actually search through what I'd written for one small sentence, and I came across this:

"So one of the more unpleasant side effects of the surgery is that Paco now has 'cankles'. His hocks and ankles are so swollen with fluid that there's almost no distinction where one part ends and the other begins. I kinda want to get him some control pantyhose.

"Just look at the shame.

"The only way to relieve the problem is to massage them by by hand frequently in an effort to redistribute the liquid. It feels a little strange to rub the squishy, hairless parts of my dog, but it also feels cool, like petting a Sphynx or Xoloixcuintle [sic].

"Massaging him this morning I remembered that, ironically, when Paco was a puppy, I used to tell people he was an Ixcuintle [sic]. It wasn't a far stretch, since he was missing a great deal of hair due to mange (mostly on his head in an awesome imitation of male pattern baldness). I started the lie one day after a five year old girl recoiled in fear after I informed her she was petting a 'pit bull'. I mean, how can you be scared of a 5 lb puppy, regardless of what it is? But she was.

"From that day forward, for several months, we lived the lie. At the time I figured it was either my puppy's socialization or the truth, since it isn't easy for folks to give pit bulls a break (or even a chance, most of the time).

"Eventually, though, I realized there was no shame in Paco being what he was. He couldn't help it more than I can help being Mexican-Irish. We turned a corner, decided to turn our handicap into our strength, and we haven't looked back (or lied) since."

It's funny how words can bring you back to the time, place, and head space you were at when you wrote it, which in turn catapults you even further back as you were meditating and writing about events even years before that. And then to see yourself clearly in those two previous inceptions, armed with the knowledge you have now... what would they think of the present you? And would they be shocked to know you actually now have an itzcuintle?

In a random turn of events, I had an argument a few months back with a random woman on the BART platform who swore up and down that Xochitl was a pit bull. I just laughed.

Best Birthday Ever

2009-10-26T10:07:00.000-07:00

Normally I have an every-other-year-birthday thing going, meaning that one year I'll have an awesome day, everything will go right, I'll make a party and all of my friends will come, and then the next year everything goes wrong and I end up crying. It's been consistent since I turned 20 so I don't mess with it, just accept it and plan accordingly. This year was an off year, so I opted to skip town.

After a full day of research, we decided our destination would be Aaron's parents' house in Enumclaw, Washington. The whole reason we got Xochitl was so that she could be "the travel dog" (ie, small enough to ride in the cabin on a plane) and the dream was to take her up to the farm at some point and let her run free in the fields but she had yet to experience a flight (minus her homecoming trip).

In retrospect a million things could have gone wrong, but the entire travel experience just went perfectly. Nobody gave Xdog a second glance even though she was technically over the wight limit and the carrier didn't meet specs, no flights were delayed even though weather on both ends was sketchy, and we even landed early coming back.

Living in the Bay Area I tend to forget we have seasons, other than that people generally change the color of the clothes they wear, but up north it's most definitely fall. The trees were striking shades of gold, green, and red, and the air was crisp and moist (and occasionally rainy... but remarkably only so when we already wanted to stay in).

We made a trip into Seattle, saw old friends and met new ones, explored places neither of us had been, as well as Aaron taking me places from his youth. We got enough rest and plenty of exercise. Basically, it was pretty much the most perfect vacation ever.

Without further ado, the pictures...

My birthday present from Aaron's parents, a pink bb gun and targets to go along with it.

Shavi!

The view from Shavi's window

Xdog experiences her first fall

We took the ferry to Whidby Island, had the most amazing day with new friends, their dogs, the beach, and golf course beers and somehow this is the only picture I have to prove we were ever there. Documentation fail.

My birthday hike

And finally, the crocheted tequila bottle cover. Amazing.

The Words Escape Me

2009-10-12T18:55:00.001-07:00

I'm not quite sure what my problem of late has been but, for some reason, I'm having a hard time expressing myself. Actually, that's not what I'm trying to say. It's more like I'm having a hard time understanding why I feel the way I feel, and the inability to understand the cause makes it impossible to share with others.

For instance, the other day at the end of yoga class the teacher finished by saying, "Namaste." Tradition dictates the whole class will softly repeat it back to the teacher, but the woman next to me instead said,"God bless you." I instantly got mega-offended and my savasana meditation was blown. I laid there in the dark classroom, silently seething.

Afterward I tried to explain to someone how annoying this was but I couldn't. I mean, "Namaste" pretty much means "God bless you" but just not in English, so what was the big deal? What was it about hearing that particular saying in that particular setting that made me so mad? Am I that anti-Christian? If I classified myself an athiest it would make sense to boycott the whole "Namaste" tradition altogether, but since I don't identify that way and I regularly participate by saying the one thing, why not the other? Why is it okay to participate in hollow forms of other religions, like the Ganesh-esque tattoo I sport on my right arm? How would I react to the if I saw some Indian guy walking around with a tattoo of a Jesus fish sporting googly eyes? (Actually, I'd probably crack up)

Anyhow, the point is that I never figured out the answer, and that in itself left me more upset than the original incident.

This weekend we went up to Eureka to my grandfather's wake. As we drove up I realized I hadn't seen that side of the family since I was about 13, and that was nearly 20 years ago. The whole thing read like a high school reunion (rather, what I imagine a high school reunion would be like... I've never had the slightest inkling to attend one until I'm a mega-billionaire who has invented an untraceable gamma-ray-type weapon that will extinguish all those who have wronged me). Basically, no one had changed yet everything had changed.

What struck me most was my one cousin. We'd been relatively the same age growing up so had always been clumped together. As we stood chatting around the keg I realized how different our lives now were.

The whole drive home I couldn't shake it. As an exhausted Aaron napped I had plenty of head space to take in the whole thing, but I couldn't place it. I remembered looking around the house at photographs and piecing together the landmarks that make up a person's life. It wasn't pity I felt, but more like a kind of sadness or guilt. I searched for the source of the emotion and I tried to put my finger on what it was, but I couldn't. It's like I was blank, and the more I thought about it the more it escaped me.

Dressing Impaired

2009-09-22T10:14:00.000-07:00

Back when I was a freshman in college, there was this boy I had a crush on. I'd never met him, only seen him from afar, but really liked the looks of his dreadlocks (you can stop laughing now).

One day I actually made it to my 9 am Friday class and was surprised to learn that he also had a class that let out the same time. I figured this out when I passed him on my way to the second class. Quickly, I made a plan.

The next Friday my goal was to seduce him from afar. I put on my favorite hat, my favorite shirt, my favorite shorts (including wallet chain), favorite socks, and my low-top converse. I was so proud of myself.

Halfway through my first class I looked down and actually took stock of my outfit: it was hideous. My "favorites" didn't match at all. In fact, my apricot bowling shirt totally clashed with my orange Halloween socks, and the big, baggy shorts and the green converse just made the whole thing look like a clown's outfit. I ran back to the dorms in shame, hoping he wouldn't see me.

Even though I and my wardrobe have grown since then, there are still some days, like today, where I look in the mirror and ask myself, "Wtf are you thinking?"

Vegas, I'm Over You.

2009-09-20T16:45:00.000-07:00

Seriously.

This past week I spent almost 6 days in Las Vegas. After Day 2, I was over the town. Don't get me wrong, I had a good time. I traveled with good people, Paco Collars did some good business, and we made lots of important connections. But the things that make Las Vegas so charming in a 24 hour window suddenly became huge inconveniences when spread out over several days.

For instance, it's impossible to get a healthy meal in Vegas. Dare you to try. If you're remotely sick then you'll never overcome it being stuck in recirculated air that's constantly filled with cigarette smoke. You have no choice than to be stuck in air-conditioned, smoke-filled hell as the temperature outside it 107 degrees (oh wait, it was a cool spell when we got there so it only hovered around 98-100 the whole time). You stay up way too late due to unnatural lighting and you wake up way too early from the heat. It's hard to stick to a budget since everything costs an arm and a leg (and the cheap deals will probably get you in doctor's bills down the road). The 10+ hour car ride either way does not help the pain.

The way I see it, I've done Vegas right. I've eaten my share of buffets, gambled the night away, been to a strip club, gotten my blood alcohol level probably up into the double digits, nearly gotten married, seen mud wrestling and bikini bull riding, consumed mushrooms and then played nickel slots all night, celebrated the turning of the New Year... twice...

I've pretty much done it all so, you know what? I'm done. I'm done with Vegas and I don't really see a need to go back (until next year... shudder!)

But to prove we actually had fun, here are the pics:

Winner, winner, winner!

(the ticket proving I was up to $14.80 after gambling only $10... and after I lent $5 to Dang)

epic entrance

slammed I am

reluctant cuddler

um...

daybreak after a night of gambling

Work talk

2009-09-08T20:09:00.000-07:00

A long time ago I promised I wouldn't talk about work. Well, I lied...

I am so freaking busy right now it's stupid. We're gearing up to go to SuperZoo which will be our largest sales endeavor to date. In the world of large companies, mass production, and slick displays we're the underdog with our homegrown DIY mentality. Despite the fact I was pulling work days that lasted until midnight last week, it was just today that the enormity of the task in front of us hit home.

About 11:30 am the work phone rings. It's a woman who remembers us from the Costa Mesa show and she wants to know if we'll be on the SuperZoo TV segment to be played on local television (with little Xdog, of course). Of course I agree, despite the fact this means I'll have to look presentable at 4:30 Wednesday morning (we'll be on with Tillman, the skateboarding bulldog).

We finally get around to reading the rules for the thing (we like to fly by the seat of our pants) and find out that we have to ship our entire booth down in advance and have it set up by the union. Not wanting to piss off the Las Vegas mafia but also well aware we're capable of carrying all of it in ourselves, Paul makes some calls and finds out we're exempt so long as we use the main entrance and not the loading dock. Crisis averted.

We spent the entire day cutting and training two new production-pinch-hitters so that we'll simply have enough product to show at the event. I'm scheduled to work insane hours until we leave, my day off being Saturday. And my day off I'll be spending in Aaron's shop making us new signage. All the while e-mails are pouring in at an astounding rate since we're having a sale to fund the gas money to get down there.

Don't get me wrong, I love this, I thrive on it. Minus the "OMG, I don't have one single decent pair of shoes to wear" freak-out I had yesterday this has been a relatively stress-free process, and the folks going are exactly who I'd want to hang out with in Vegas (bwahahaha!).

All the cards are lined up just right...

Late Summer is the new June

2009-08-31T20:00:00.000-07:00

I don't know what it is, but everyone is getting married right now. Or breaking up. I've heard of so many weddings and breakups in the past couple of weeks. The ongoing theme is definitely "change."

We only had one wedding to deal with, but it was a big one. Aaron's best friend/business partner got married this past weekend to his longtime girlfriend, Parul. The event was a 3 day long celebration one year in the making that spanned the entire Bay Area and included a candy table, photo booth, rickshaw, umbrellas, an hour long ceremony in 100 degree heat, saris, an art gallery, wine country, shuttle buses, and lots, and lots of drinking.

The entire Edsinger clan came into town to celebrate, which means I'm still recovering today.

The highlights:

During the ceremony

The rickshaw

View from the driver's seat

And finally, this picture that cracks me up every time.

Punk rawk

2009-08-25T01:36:00.000-07:00

Last night I saw Greenday.

If you haven't already stopped reading, I urge you to continue.

I was first introduced to punk rock the summer before my senior year of high school. A straight-A student and active 4-Her, at the time I was pretty much the furthest thing from punk rock. But the fact I had a driver's license, a car, and the trust of my parents meant my new friends had reason enough to enroll me into the clique and drive them to Gilman to see the Gr-ups.

So naive was I that I tried to wear Birkenstocks to my first show. Fortunately someone lent me a pair of closed-toed shoes so I wouldn't lose any digits in the mosh pit, and I was hooked to the scene.

That summer, Greenday dumped local heroes Lookout Records and signed to Warner Brothers. My clique was crushed. This made them the ultimate sell-outs in our world (you know, because we were so hard-core and all), but it didn't stop any of us from going to see them that next January at the Phoenix theater in Petaluma.

The show was just a few days after their first video hit MTV and I remember being amazed at the size of the crowd that invaded our tiny little venue. "Wow, this is the biggest show I've ever been to," I remember thinking.

Fast forward many years to when I was working for the dog day care and Buddy Pritchard was one of our bigger clients. Buddy was a Shar-Pei, frequent boarder, pick-up/drop-off customer, one of my favorite dogs, and happened to belong to Mike from Greenday. I'd see Mike occasionally and things were always cool. I'd started playing in bands myself, and some of my bandmates were former peers of his so I'd run into him occasionally while dropping off his dog, at parties, etc. I'd play "too cool for school" but, in retrospect, I think I was pretty star-struck. When he asked me to make Buddy a cool, punk rock harness I was ecstatic.

Buddy had been riddled with health problems his whole life. As Greenday got bigger, Buddy got sicker. For long chunks of time he'd pretty much live with us at the day care while they were on tour, and that stress added to a naturally poor immune system did not bode well. He'd turn his nose at the gourmet meals I'd painstakingly crafted for him. "But it's so delicious," I'd coo as I took a very real and very large bite of his salmon/currant/barley dish, hoping the act would inspire jealousy-induced hunger.

Sometimes it would work, and sometimes it wouldn't, but over time Buddy's health diminished. We'd seen the cycle many times over and Buddy always seemed to bounce back, but this time it was different. He'd lost so much weight, his eyes became dull, he lost his spunk... basically, he gave up. A decision had to be made.

Watching Buddy go was incredibly hard. I'd never seen a dog get put down before, and it struck me in a really intense way. Mike handed me Buddy's harness and instructed me to give it to a dog in need.

But when I got home I couldn't bring myself to donate the harness. I still needed to process whatever was going on inside of me, which was a weird grief. Buddy wasn't my dog, but I had taken care of him for so long it felt like he was. I sat down and made two bracelets out of his harness, one for Mike and one for Diane, Mike's assistant and other primary caretaker. (side note: this was the inspiration for this policy).

Again, fast-forward many, many years.

Diane e-mailed last week and wondered if I'd be interested in going to see Greenday in Sacramento. I didn't even know they were on tour, had no strong desire to go, but I never refuse a gift. A few phone calls later I had a posse together.

Franz Ferdinand finished their set by 8:30 and we drew a collective sigh of relief. "This is great. We should be home by midnight," I mused. Stephanie and I sat in the seats while John and his daughter moved toward the stage.

An usher addressed the people behind us. "Last night in San Jose they played until 11:45," she bragged.

"Wow, you really get your money's worth!" the guy in the Sturgess denim jean shirt shouted back.

We thought they were kidding, but they weren't.

As the 3-hour set labored on I was struck by many things. I did the math and realized the last time I had seen this band I was nearly half my current age (with the magic number being 17). A lot had changed during that time. In the punk rock world, as with just about any other clique, one of the easy ways to the top is bring everyone else down. Held to a strict standard, nearly everyone fails as not being "punk rock" enough, and most of the rhetoric I'd heard about Greenday over the years echoed this mindset.

But the punk rock standard isn't the end-all. Most of the critiques I've heard over the years were uttered by quitters. In front of me were these guys who had broken through the glass ceiling and gone on to become this incredibly entertaining stage act that had the ability to rivet an entire stadium at once. I even found myself singing along at one point. I was pretty impressed.

After the show Stephanie and I took advantage of the "Aftershow" passes included with our comped tickets. As we sat in the Sky Lounge with a handful of other fans, we watched a family playing the arcade version of "Rock Band." As I watched the little brother and sister duo playing along to Greenday, I realized this band was far from punk rock. They were mega-insane-uber-superstars, and that was pretty cool in itself.

On the drive home I found out the one-man-band I saw perform on John's bus the previous week was actually Neutral Milk Hotel. Now that's punk rock.

Fake-ation

2009-08-12T09:29:00.000-07:00

A few months back, a series of events that included bad planning, missed phone calls, and sheer forgetfulness found us at our friends’ house unattended. No bother, we made ourselves comfortable riding dirt bikes (well, dirt bike), hitting golf balls, enjoying the view, and playing with goats on their secluded acre spread in the El Cerrito hills. We fantasized about living there.

Later I called Brian. “Dude, if you guys ever want to do a house swap, we’d be down.”

Fast-forward a few weeks and Brian calls. “Hey, uh, were you serious about wanting to stay at our place?” Turns out Brian and Nadia would be gone for extended period of time and needed someone to goat-sit.

We mulled it over. The timing couldn’t be worse. Aaron was in the middle of a deadline and staying there would turn his 5-minute commute into a 40+ one, depending on traffic. I had a hectic week lined up as well, but we decided timing be damned, we were going on a mandatory “Fake-ation.”

Saturday morning rolled around, we handed our house keys off to Eric and Yuni (since they’d expressed interest in “Fake-ationing” at our place sometime), and headed east. The first commute wasn’t so bad, flew there in only 30 minutes, and soon Brian and Nadia were giving us the lowdown as they scrambled to pack and leave town. As they drove off we sort of looked at each other and wondered what the heck we’d gotten ourselves into.

The first day was weird. See, when you go on regular vacation, there’s that whole period where you adjust to your surroundings and familiarize yourself with your new, temporary “home”. If something is missing, you forgot to pack an essential, or your new environment doesn’t offer the same amenities as home, well, you write it off. “Oh well, guess we can’t so anything about it now,” is the mantra.

But in this case all the comforts of home were in teasingly perfect view. “Argh, I wish we had the ______ ... it’s just right there,” and as we’d point over the majestic mountain crest toward the perfectly silhouetted Bay Bridge as it made its way through Treasure Island and onward to San Francisco (and did I mention this place has an even better view of the Golden Gate and Marin?). No internet, spotty cell reception, and minor hangovers did not help us feel any better about the situation.

Sunday morning found us back in the city as there were errands to run and Aaron had to work (deadlines know no weekends). We stopped by the house for a few essentials. Seeing somebody else’s belongings in our environment somehow felt wrong, but it was just the wake-up call we needed. There was no turning back. We’d committed to a week so we’d better start looking on the bright side.

That afternoon, as I returned to the hill with Stephanie in tow, it somehow felt different. We sunbathed, Xochitl played with the animals, I read a novel and, all of a sudden, it felt like vacation. Real vacation.

I could go on and on about how it’s all in your mindset but, frankly, a scenery change helps a great deal. Oh, and being cut off from the internet. This is actually being composed in Word (!) and will be cut and pasted when I return to civilization tomorrow.

And now for the pics...
(taken on the one grey and foggy morning we’ve had)

Bello, the polydactal manx, and Little Girl, the Nubian

Xdog runs from Buddy

One with the herd

(Buddy has to stay tethered since he has a history of wandering. Little Girl, being a good herd-mate, always stays wherever Buddy is)

Oops Texts

2009-08-04T17:16:00.000-07:00

So every first Friday in Oakland they hold Art Murmur downtown. Tons of galleries open their doors, they close off the streets, and you're allowed to meander in and out, carrying booze, schmoozing with friends as you go. It's gritty, it's sceney, and it's very, very "Oakland."

The Paco Collars store is located in Berkeley, but it's essentially a straight bicycle shot (or a couple BART stops) to the downtown action. Always looking for an excuse to serve booze in the store, I got inspired last week to create a pre-Art Murmur event. Today I sent out the mass text that read:

"Turn your art walk into an art workout by coming to Paco Collars this Friday 5-7 for pre-Art Murmur wine, cheese, and dog lovin'. 2905 Shattuck ... be there!"

A few minutes passed and I got a text from my friend, English Jon. It read:

"Why do you have to be so impossible? Aaaarg!! -jON-"

This response worried me. Jon did have a point. The store is not exactly close to downtown Oakland. He's an artist and Art Murmur is only once a month, so it was safe to assume he had other commitments. Also, he and I have had a rocky friendship to say the least, and I was afraid I'd asked him to go a little too far out of his way this time.

I sent an apologetic text asking if maybe he had too many art commitments, to which the response was:

"Oops, supposed to go to [the girlfriend]. Sorry Ana Poe!"

At first I was relieved, then I laughed, and then I worried about their relationship.

Wax on, wax off

2009-07-29T21:51:00.001-07:00

Sorry for the absence. I've had a mad case of writer's block ever since Aaron begged me not to blog about my first-ever bikini wax experience, which was pretty much the comedic highlight of my week. I understand, since the parental units read this and all (hi, mom!) but it made me think about the things in life worth writing about.

Rather, it made me realize that sometimes your week's list of accomplishments is so insane sounding that's it's hard to pick just one thing. The end result is that you never write about anything, yet any one would have made a great story. For instance, this week I...

... played croquet
... got in a fight with a meter maid
... saw my waistline again (yay yoga!)
... sang karaoke
... witnessed Paco Collars' biggest bank balance ever
... got drunk with people that make dog mannequins
... rode in a limo
... found our new dog, then got rejected
... sold my car
... got a bikini wax.

Any one of those events is story-worthy, but only one makes for a good picture:

Freud would be stoked

2009-07-17T20:15:00.000-07:00

The other night I had this dream. In it, I was with a bunch of friends and we came upon this large, stone arch. Everyone was getting amped about climbing it, including me. Everyone was taking turns scaling to the top and down the other side. When it came my turn I started out with so much enthusiasm, my friends were cheering me on. I made it most of the way but, but just a hair's breath from the top I turned chicken. My sense of vertigo kicked in hard, and I clung to the arch for dear life.

Someone was behind me, "Go on, I've got you, I won't let you fall," they said, and I could see their hands right there.

I looked ahead, the crest was just a few feet away, but my body was absolutely frozen. I could not move.

"I can't, I can't, I can't do it. Just let me down."

I woke up and was amazed at the textbook components of my dream. To me the whole dream was just so obvious... was I afraid of success?

It was 5 am, but between the dream and a small creative idea kicking around in the back of my head, I had to get up. I checked the business e-mail and saw an e-mail from our Japanese buyer. It was on order. A wholesale order for the new line we designed for them. It was the biggest wholesale order we've ever gotten... by a lot.

Guess I better not be *that* afraid of success.

Extra Caffeine, Please

2009-07-13T11:20:00.000-07:00

Today is a two-cups-of-coffee morning. It's nearly noon and I'm sitting here in my pajamas waiting for that second cup to brew. Don't worry, I haven't gone that feral, it's just that I had to take Aaron to the airport at an ungodly hour (read, had to wake up at 4, after staying up 'til 2, and then couldn't get back to sleep until 6) so I'm moving a bit slow.

Aaron's down south at a robotics conference where he was invited to give a talk and show off the new robot. This will be their first industry demonstration of the robot and the first talk he's given in two years. I can't say who is more nervous, me or him, but I also know he'll pull it off in style.

This weekend was a pretty good one. The front house had a BBQ featuring "Luther Burgers" (a cheeseburger served between a grilled Krispy Kreme donut) that degenerated into a hap-hazard karaoke party (which was basically just people in their underwear singing along to an ipod). Saturday we ran all over town clothes shopping, had dinner at Blue Plate, and then drank a bottle of whiskey with Eric and Yuni around the fire.

Yesterday morning we woke up with Eric and Yuni on our couch, then met up with their friend Chris for brunch. Aaron had to get some work done, so he prepped his talk while I went on a huge dog walk with Tanja. It was pretty entertaining to walk through the city, rolling deep with 4 Shepherds and little Xdog.

By the end of it I was tuckered out, but in a major act of bad planning on our part we'd agreed to meet folks for the 10:30 showing of Bruno. In an even worse display of planning, at 9:50 as we sat down for dinner, we discovered the movie actually started at 10:15 with the theater located clear across town. We broke major land-speed records, made it just in time, and laughed our asses off.

Ever since, I've been obsessed with reading the reviews of Bruno on Twitter. It seems teenage boys across the country are booing and walking out on the film, urging each other not to see it because "it's gay." Intellectuals are insulted by the potty humor and the shy are shamed by the number of cock scenes. It seems either you loved it or you hated it, there are no in betweens.

Personally, I cringed as much as I laughed, but kind of really loved the movie for so many reasons (for the record, I'm totally fine with potty humor). I mostly loved it because it will hit a nerve with everyone... you will be offended at some point. A random twitterer said it best: "Bruno: a litmus test for society's tolerance to weirdness"

Go see it.

Old habits die hard

2009-07-09T20:49:00.000-07:00

At first I didn't want to jinx anything, but it's been a couple of days so I can now officially report that I'm back to Bikram. And it feels great.

I started Bikram many years back for the same reason so many people decide to try it: the intro month was ridiculously cheap. I'd never attempted any form of exercise in my life, was in my late 20s, and had smoked for a decent portion of my adulthood. The first class nearly killed me and triggered a migraine that lasted 24 hours, but I wanted to get my money's worth so I went back for a second class. After one week, my heart condition had disappeared and I was sold.

At the time I had a full time job, so it was easy to slip into a membership package once my introductory month was up. My practice was diligent, the only week I missed being the one where my mentor, Sarah, passed away.

When I left my salaried job to pursue Paco Collars full time, I had to make a decision, so I decided to spend my unemployment checks on yoga. When that ran out, I started volunteering at the studio in exchange for classes. My practice was as an integral a part of me as my name, and I went to any length to continue it.

But then... well, life happened. After 4 years, I started to burn out. Working behind the scenes in the studio I witnessed all sorts of atrocities as it changed ownership, and the new regime sucked big time. I watched my friends go and new faces fill their places. People I'd introduced to the practice got on the fast track to become teachers, and suddenly I felt like my special little place wasn't so special anymore. I began to slack, and then disaster struck.

Two days after Christmas 2007, the electrical system on our house melted, which left me and Paco Collars homeless for a month while the landlords rewired the property. I stayed with Aaron in San Francisco (which was a great leap of faith in our then two-month old relationship) while Paco Collars operated out of a garage in a West Oakland cooperative household.

After that things just got even more jumbled. We rehabbed a toxic West Oakland warehouse into a decent studio and moved Paco Collars again. Paco blew both of his ACLs and had to go through surgery. I moved back into my house, found a new place to live with Dango, and then in a random turn of events, moved in with Aaron a month later when the cottage behind his house suddenly came up for rent. While all this moving was going on, I was fighting the battle to save Paco Collars as it was on the brink of failure (the year we'd spent trying to become a cooperative had resulted in leaving the company in serious debt and disarray).

At first I tried to maintain my practice, I even took the intro month at the Bikram studio closest to Aaron's house, but it just got lost in the shuffle. As I worked continuously both at work and at home, I promised myself I'd resume my practice once things settled down. But they didn't settle down.

Paco Collars began to heal and sales shot through the roof. Then the economy collapsed and we tried to stay afloat. Then the Christmas rush hit. Then we went on vacation to Mexico. Then there was a new puppy to consider. Then Paco died. Then we got a storefront.

In addition to the logistical reasons keeping me from practicing, I also had to consider my fears. I was totally out of shape, had put on a bit of relationship weight, and could barely touch my toes. Not to mention the social aspect of explaining to everyone where I'd been for so long just seemed overwhelming. This mindset was not exactly the best motivator.

But then last week something happened. Tim and I were poring over the soon-to-be-schedule since Paul was due to return from his month-long trip. I was complaining about my knee hurting, and saying I needed to go to yoga to fix it. I realized that, between the three of us, we have the store/company covered and there's no reason I can't leave for 3 hours every couple of days to take care of myself. So we made it official.

Now I'm back. The first class wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be, and I already made my peace with the owner. There are even fewer familiar faces, which is actually a good thing. Now that I'm anonymous again, it feels like it did when I first started. It's just me and the yoga, which is the way it should be.

Cops + pit bulls =

2009-06-29T18:59:00.000-07:00

Pride!

As more photos come rolling in I will link so you can see BADRAP's contingent in full swing. I, of course, forgot to bring a camera... d'oh!

The video

Pyramid Lake – Part 2

2009-06-25T22:06:00.000-07:00

We awoke the next morning unscathed, despite our having to cut the previous night’s campfire short from fear of approaching lightning strikes (Aaron tends to view the retreat as cowardly, but I like to think we acted like any rational person would who is sitting atop the highest point in the desert and the lightning strikes the water nearby… I voted to hide).

Once again alone in our landscape, we set to making coffee and a hearty breakfast. Even Xochitl ate well. It may have only been a Cornish game hen, but to her it was a feast beyond compare.

After we ate, it was time.

Aaron pried open the pine box that held Paco’s ashes. I’ve never actually seen anyone’s ashes before, and was surprised at how much they looked like the scenery. You could have broken off a chunk of rock or poured sand in my hands and I wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference.

I searched through the ashes for proof of Paco, most specifically the titanium pieces that replaced his knees, but everything was the same consistency. Aaron pointed out that they probably sift the large chunks out. I shuddered.

We went down to water’s edge. I climbed atop the dead tree that I associate so much with Paco, and poured half of his ashes in the lake. And then we made Xdog pose in front of the tree in relatively the same position Paco had taken many years before.

The rest of the morning we sat under the shade of a tree and looked out over the lake. We talked about loved ones, the ones we’ve lost, and the ones we will lose someday. I think it's rare to remember to pay homage to the people in our lives who are still around, but we did.

For several hours we continued the meditation begun the day before, though we did break away long enough to take advantage of the lake and drift out atop inflatable pool toys.

Around lunchtime, we had a powwow around the cooler.

"I think we should make a big lunch, go back down to the lake, and then leave when it starts to get dark tonight," Aaron proposed.

"I think we should eat lunch, pack up, and leave," I countered.

"Don't you want to stay any longer?"

"You know, I could always stay at this place longer. I'd love to stay here forever, but I kind of feel like I've accomplished what I've come here to do and it's time to leave now."

He agreed, and, as if on cue, 6 people arrived on our secluded coastline with fishing poles, a jeep drove up, and dark clouds appeared over the mountains, giving us 20 minutes to pack up before the rain began.

I knew, and the desert knew, that it had given us 24 perfect hours to celebrate Paco, and now it was time to move on.

Pyramid Lake -- Part 1

2009-06-22T22:08:00.000-07:00

Thursday night we left the Bay Area and headed east toward Pyramid Lake.

We hit Reno at about 1 am and immediately began gambling. Being a total wuss, my normal game of choice is nickel slots or low stakes video poker, but Aaron wanted to try out "real gambling" for once. We found a patient dealer who was already schooling another newbie, so we hopped in. Aaron was "the face," making the bets, asking the questions, absorbing the odds, and I was "the brain," adding the cards, orchestrating the plays, and ordering drinks. Together we made one fine player, walked away with $15 extra bucks in our collective pocket(which was promptly spent on a grilled cheese sandwich).

By 3 am it it was time to turn in, so we shoved Xochitl in a messenger bag and headed up to the room. Now, I don't condone breaking the rules and sneaking dogs into places they're not allowed... ah, who am I kidding. The reason we got a small dog was to be able to take her anywhere. We didn't actually ask if it was okay for us to have a dog in the room because we didn't want to hear "no." Full well knowing she won't shed, is potty pad trained, and we'd only be in the room for a few hours while sleeping we figured it was worth the risk. Besides, if they caught us then we'd just get kicked out, and there are worse things in life than being blacklisted by Circus Circus Reno.

Besides, she loves hotel rooms.

The next morning we grabbed coffee at a cafe (where they served us beignet's covered in baking soda instead of powdered sugar... blach!), hit the grocery store, and headed to the lake.

We arrived in the early afternoon. The sky was overcast with thick clouds but the thermostat still read 83 degrees. As we pulled off the dirt road and toward the lake's edge, I was happy to see no other camper's in "my spot". We unpacked and quickly got down to the task at hand: being lazy.

Xochitl picked up desert life like a fish to water. It was as if the landscape awakened the dormant tendencies that lay beneath the surface. She whipped out an entirely new skill set in order to cope with this new place. In a word, she went feral.

The fear was that she would see the small critters and take off, never to be seen again. But the opposite happened. In this new land, everything was foreign so she clung to her pack a little tighter. Foraging along the coastline, she would find treasures, like old bones, tennis balls, and dried fish segments, and bring them back to home base. Once there, she was comfortable enough to settle down and enjoy her booty. If she ever wandered out of sight, we would quickly hustle ourselves to a hiding spot and watch her panic trying to find us. Sneaky move for sure, but the end result was that she stopped wandering off.

As the day went on, thunderclouds began to form, swirling and darkening the skies. We watched as lightning and thunder began. It was a beautiful sight made even more magical when coupled with the fact that somehow we manged to avoid any precipitation.

Here is my attempt to capture part of it, though I missed a spectacular lightning strike as I panned out over the lake and the wind totally obscures the thunder. You get a sense of the landscape at least. Oh, and we're cooking pork chops.

There's something about the desert that facilitates reflection and meditation. Sitting at lake's edge that day, I was struck by not only the timelessness of the landscape, but also about how much my life had changed. Watching little Xochitl run around, I thought about Paco. I thought about every trip we'd ever taken there, where I was in my life at that point, and who we were with. As much as I looked back, I also thought of Aaron, Xochitl, and the future. For hours I sat there and contemplated the cycle of life and the way the world works. Sure, I barely touched the book I'd brought, but I also gained so much more.

For instance, I came to terms with Paco's death in a way I never had before. It sounds cliche, but I truly felt the ending of one chapter with the simultaneous opening of another. Without the background noise of the city and the clutter of life to distract me, I experienced that sentiment in a deep way. But it wasn't sad. It actually felt liberating.

At one point I looked down and saw Xochitl nudging a caterpillar with her nose. My instinct was to reach out and shoo her away because it might be poisonous, but I stopped myself. See, when Paco died I went through a period of thinking I was a bad owner. I know that's not the case, but all it takes is one bad comment from a message board to make you completely beat yourself up all over again, thinking you could have taken extra steps, removed the risk even more, perhaps even bubble wrapped the world.

But a series of freak events lately involving the death of other people's pets has made me put things in perspective. The thing is, risk is a part of life. You can, and should either avoid or lessen obvious forms of risk (ie. wear a helmet when you ride, leash your dog in the city, don't drink the milk if it's chunky), but you can never eliminate it completely. And there is such a thing as going too far in avoiding risk, which can actually put a damper on life. It's all about making safe choices and accepting the small percentage of life you can't control.

As I reached forward to shoo Xdog from the caterpillar, I stopped, waiting for the worst to happen. I watched as she touched it once again with her nose, then turned and left it alone. I kind of laughed at myself for ever being so paranoid, and swore I'd learn to buck up.

Pyramid Paco

2009-06-18T18:03:00.000-07:00

In about an hour we'll be leaving for Pyramid Lake. Our to-bring list begins, "tent, Paco, Xochitl." It's not a typo. This is the trip up to scatter Paco's ashes.

It's been the plan since day one to scatter half his ashes up there. I first went there the weekend after 9/11 when Paco was 4 months old. On that trip he learned to swim and I fell in love with the landscape. Ever since, we've done a yearly pilgrimage. It's our favorite place on earth.

It's funny because this weekend kind of snuck up on me. We'd planned to do this a few weeks ago, but life got in the way so we canceled. The Pyramid Lake trip was to also be a BSA riding trip, but the bike is still out of commission. With no quick BSA fix in sight we decided to postpone the trip until much later in the summer and just do a quick, fun nature getaway this weekend.

Because we are last minute kind of people, we began seriously planning the trip yesterday morning over coffee. Aaron wasn't enthused with the landscape at New Melones, and I couldn't readily find the dog policy for Pinnacles.

"Fuck it," he said, "let's just go to Pyramid Lake."

With the destination settled, it took all of 5 minutes to make a rudimentary to-bring list. I got the tent from Dango yesterday, and started making a pile when I got home last night, a pile that centers around Paco's cedar box sitting atop Xdog's crate.

Tonight we sneak The Roach into a Circus Circus hotel room and tomorrow we head out to the lake. It should be an interesting trip in many ways. Aside from the whole ritual of scattering ashes, I'll be experiencing the trip with a new dog, a new dog who may not come back after she sees all the interesting critters the desert has to offer. Don't worry, we're bringing plenty of containment options.

This is a picture of Paco at the spot where we'll be scattering half of him (the other half will stay with us). I know I've posted this picture before, but it's one of my favorites so bears repeating.

Paco circa 2004

Craft Nerd (emphasis on nerd)

2009-06-11T21:50:00.000-07:00

It's been 13 years since I've picked up a pair of knitting needles and you can add a few more since if we're talking about having actually completed a project. But this week I hit a milestone.

A few weekends ago we hung out with my sister in Los Angeles and walked around her neighborhood. We went into an uber hip craft store, I saw a skein of yarn, thought of the 7 hour drive ahead of us, and got a major urge to knit a sweater for Xochitl.

I tracked down an employee and we started talking craft, at which point, as Aaron pointed out later, I out-crafted her. It's not that I am just that cool, it's that when I was young, I was just that nerdy. I didn't have any friends, hung out mostly with my sister and my goats, and I'd do all sorts of projects. I knew how to knit by the age of 7 or so, and was working a sewing machine at 9. I was not particularly great or gifted at any of these things, I just don't have the super meticulous mindset it takes to iron at every stage or follow a pattern perfectly, but I could totally make something that wouldn't fall apart.

When I picked up spinning (yarn, that is) in high school, I found my niche. Like a fish to water, I spun perfect yarn my first time out. There was something so rewarding about taking a raw material, like wool, silk, or cotton, and taming it. Each medium demanded a different approach, so I adjusted accordingly. There were even differences between the fleeces of the same breed of sheep, and my joy was finding the quirks and working with them.

Though my spinning wheels are long gone, I still find joy in working with materials that you have to persuade rather than force. In college it was wood and metal, now it's leather.

As I stood in that Los Angeles shop, staring at the skein of homespun, I was struck with the desire to feel the yarn in my hands again. The constraints of the car limited my choices of craft, so I asked if they had any knitting needles. They didn't really, nor did they have yarn that was less than $30/skein, but they did give me a free pair of circular needles someone had abandoned there many months back.

We tracked down a Joanne Fabric (which is a feat since all the ones up here are out of business), brought Xdog in the store to pick the perfect color, and left with all the fixins to make a dog sweater.

The process wasn't pretty. It involved a lot of re-learning, cursing, and unraveling. But even as I undid 8 hours worth of work, I was determined to finish the piece since I hadn't actually finished any knitting project since that watermelon hat I made in high school.

It took over two weeks, but I finally made a sweater fit for an 18 lb dog (with a little growing room to spare).

Behold:

It's a good thing she's lying down so you can't see the weird ball-sack-esque pouch between her legs, the result of a miscalculation.

Better Start Again

2009-06-05T09:22:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was Aaron's birthday.

We celebrated by playing hookey from work. The original plan was to go on a BSA ride, but the weather had predicted thunderstorms so we scrapped our plans. However, as we ran our errands around the city, we noticed the sky clearing up and bits of blue peeking through. We ate lunch and did a quick time inventory: Aaron's pie and whiskey birthday party was due to start at our house at 8, we had already finished the prep work, and it was only 3 pm. We donned our riding gear and hit the road.

I'm not a risk taker, but I love riding the motorcycle. Rather, I like riding on the back of the motorcycle while Aaron is driving. I'm not confident with my ability to operate any two-wheeled vehicle, despite my having taken a motorcycle riding class a few years back. Aaron, on the other hand, has both decades of experience under his belt and a healthy respect for mortality, the result being I can simply sit back and enjoy the ride, knowing I'm in capable hands.

We fought our way through pre-rush hour traffic, headed north over the Golden Gate bridge, and off through the mountains towards Bolinas.

I know it sounds cliche, but experiencing the road on a motorcycle is such an exhilarating experience. With nothing between you and the outdoors, you have a connection to the landscape you wouldn't have otherwise. The wind whipping through your hair, the scent of the greenery... even the rat's nest that is the result of the aforementioned wind/hair/whipping combo is all worth it as you just feel so alive!

You notice the small things:

Wild peas climbing a broken fence.

A doe grazing on a cliffside.

A hawk coasting on invisible wind currents, seemingly motionless in midair.

And then... we broke down.

But not that bad. It turned out that the chain simply popped off. A quick fix, no tools involved, and we were off again. We rolled into Bolinas, hit the grocery store, and walked toward the beach. As we passed back by the parked motorcycle, a man stopped us.

"Ah, I wondered who owned my bike," he joked. He then went on to tell the story of how he used to own a vintage bike shop that housed scores of vintage BSAs, Nortons, Triumphs, etc, but how it all burned to the ground during the Stinson fire. He lost everything but was able to recover one 66 Norton, which, to this day, was his baby.

At this point I should back up and mention that we can't go anywhere without someone commenting on the bike. It's old, you even could say "vintage," and the result is that people go nuts over it. Even if you know nothing about bikes, the rumble is so loud and distinct you can't help but look for the source as it goes rumbling by.

Last weekend we pulled up to a biker bar in Port Costa and were surrounded immediately.

"Is that a '69?"

"What size engine? Oh, 441?"

"You know what BSA stands for, right? Better Start Again! Hahahaha!"

Even when we're in the middle of something, we always stop and listen to the stories. People like to share, and the BSA provides that platform. In turn they hear how the bike belonged to Aaron's dad and how he just spent the last year getting it to actually run.

As we hit the beach in Bolinas Aaron remarked, "It's funny. I've met so many people who work on old English bikes."

"Maybe that's because they keep breaking down," I shot back. We laughed.

The beach was beautiful and the weather perfect. While the sky was mostly blue, thick clouds hung in the air and mist enveloped the mountaintops. The threat of rain and the fact that it was a Thursday afternoon kept the general public away, so we had the beach pretty much to ourselves.

Eventually we looked at the time and freaked out. We had to get back and get ready for the party at our house.

On the ride back the chain fell off again. Like a well oiled machine we hopped off, each took a job and the chain was back on without us even having to stop the engine. A ways down the road it popped off again. And then again. And then again.

The last time I took a look and noticed the master link had broken. Half of it was missing and the remaining part had bent out of shape, causing the chain to continuously fail. As Aaron rolled the bike to a safe turnout the chain fell off for good. We were officially stranded.

The bad news is that we were 5 miles from civilization in either direction. The good news was that we broke down in a spot where we actually got cell phone reception. The bad news is that for AAA to tow us I would need a special package, since the regular membership excludes motorcycles and RVs. The good news is that Aaron had the foresight to leave his pickup truck key behind, Dave was home, and willing to come rescue us. The bad news was that it would take him an hour to get there, it was getting colder, and the clouds were now threatening rain for real.

We decided to hitchhike. Once we made the decision, we realized that we were the world's worst hitchhikers. The first car was too fancy. The second had a baby. That guy looked creepy. Those girls look obnoxious. Okay, we'll take whatever car comes next.... wait, not the Landrover, it looks too yuppie.

Finally a bright turquoise 1957 Bel-Air drove up the rode and we started waving our hands wildly. They didn't stop, but the car right behind them did, and they gave us a ride into town (they explained their friends in the old car were unable to stop as they wouldn't be able to get it going again... a concept we understood completely).

They dropped us off in town 5 miles later. Using the iPhone as a guide, we found a nearby restaurant. Taking a scenic footpath, we stumbled into our destination via the bushes out front. Dirty, stinky, and covered with oil we pulled up to the 5 star restaurant bar and ordered a beer.

As we waited for Dave to arrive I reminded Aaron, "Well, this won't be a birthday you'll forget anytime soon." And then we laughed.

Shameless Puppy pics

2009-05-31T10:35:00.000-07:00

Here is Puumba, in all his adorable glory

I know, he's so cute it hurts. Everyone who meets him instantly falls for him. I hand out his adoption information daily as it seems we can't go anywhere without someone deciding he's the one for them. It's too bad I'm not single as this dog is the ultimate chick/dude/can't-you-imagine-the-two-of-us-raising-him-together magnet. Everybody loves Puumba, but that doesn't mean he's staying. Don't get me wrong, he's a cool dog, but we are not keeping him.

Last weekend we drove down to San Diego to meet another potential dog. On paper he was perfect, just about everything we wanted. In person he was also great, and he and Xochitl had great chemistry. But he never had a chance.

See, on the drive down Aaron and I had a long conversation and we realized our lives are complete. The huge part of me that craved another dog was simply mourning Paco, but now that time has allowed healing I can now appreciate what I do have rather than focus on what is gone. As Xochitl matures and our training continues, I realize she's all the dog I need right now, it's as simple as that.

I got home and promptly closed all the Firefox tabs I've kept open and check obsessively for the past several months: Petfinder, Craiglist, Petharbor. Like a junkie quitting cold turkey, I haven't looked back.

In the meantime, everyone around us is convinced Puumba is "the one". I post pictures and they tease how he's a dead ringer for Paco (he's not) and wonder when I'll crack under the pressure and give into the puppy cuteness. They point out what an awesome little guy he is, how nothing phases him, how he marches with such a confident stride, and his even-keeled energy and intense focus is something so rare in a pup so young.

All of this is true, but what they don't know is that my heart has already closed the possibility of adding another dog right now.

p.s. don't feel bad for Puumba, he just got an *awesome* application.

I'm not a hippie, I swear

2009-05-22T09:30:00.000-07:00

Since marijuana is practically legal, I think it's probably okay to post this...

Not to get into the specifics, but yesterday I found myself suddenly in the possession of a free pot brownie. I'm not anti-pot by any means, but I just don't ever find myself seeking it out. However, as I stared at the delicious looking edible I went through my mental checklist for the night and found everything pointed toward "eat me":

* I had no plans for the night

* Aaron was working in Atlanta until Friday

* My neck had been killing me for two days and I could barely turn my head

* between me making a major ass out of myself (long story) and Xochitl's graduation, I'd had a stressful couple of days

* it had caramel on top!

After a big meal with Dango, I went home and went through a preparation ritual. Both the hairless wonder and the foster puppy had had plenty of exercise, so they were taken care of. I did all my chores first so I wouldn't have any reason to fixate on a messy house down the road. I tried to download a movie, Johnny Got His Gun (which I've always wanted to see ever since the Metallica video), but it didn't work so I turned on the Family Guy.

I ate the brownie and waited a while. Nothing happened, not even after an hour. I knew eating dinner would slow things down, but, at this point, I hadn't even noticed anything. A little relieved the brownie was bunk, I passed out.

A few hours later I woke up and was, for lack of a better term, tripping balls. It was then I was really glad that my original movie choice didn't work out.

As I laid there half asleep, I went through all sorts of introspection and had a few epiphanies. The following sounds pretty hippie-like but bear with me...

First, I'm scared to go back to yoga. I'm ashamed that I let my practice slide and it's been nearly a year since I've gone to a class. My body knows this and is in pain because of it. But last night I listened to my body and stretched away the back pain that's been plaguing me for two days.

The second epiphany was that I figured out how to fix a few work-related issues. I won't bore you with the details, but the bottom line is that it all comes back to me and so long as my center is grounded and happy, then those around me will reflect that. This also kinda goes back to the yoga thing.

The third thing I discovered is that I need to let go of trying to find the perfect new dog, it's actually Xochitl's decision. I realize I just want the easiest fit for all of us, and that's going to depend heavily on the chemistry between the two dogs.

So I'm going to step back, push aside my preferences, and let Xochitl do the footwork from now on. She can act as divining rod, if you will. If there's something about the chemistry I'm uncomfortable with then we'll just pass. She's a good dog with bad habits so her partner in crime needs to compliment her, not challenge her. It may take a while, but I also realize she deserves to be the focus for a bit since we're just now making progress. We're driving down south to meet another dog this weekend, so it's good that this is fresh in my mind.

The fourth epiphany is that Xdog would probably be good at yoga.

I was up pretty much all night, I'm kinda tired today because of it, but you gotta hippie out every once in a while, you know?

Puppytron 3000

2009-05-20T11:11:00.000-07:00

This weekend we drive down to San Diego to check out yet another new dog prospect. In the meantime, we have a little foster to keep us occupied. His name is Puumba, he's just over 10 weeks old and, according to the scale at Aaron's shop, he weighs 17.5 lbs (Xochitl weighs 16.5, according to the Paco Collars postal scale).

Here is what the two look like in action:

Overall Xochitl is doing much better. The last week I've really gotten serious about training. I've thrown aside the puppy class curriculum, have begun homeschooling from the book Control Unleashed, and Xochitl's progress is amazing. She is absorbing lessons like a sponge and leaves our mental workouts so tired that she sleeps like a rock.

I try to keep her under threshold but we do live in the city so I can't control the environment 100%. For instance, yesterday as we were working on "heel" outside of our house, a drunk homeless man bent over to her eye level and yelled, "Aye, aye, aye, chihuahua!" right in her face. She barked, and I can't blame her. Still, she seems to settle more quickly after disruptions and is now more willing to reorient to me.

Tonight is our puppy class graduation and the final is "real life cafe" simulation which involves the puppies staying on their mats for several minutes. I'm determined not to leave embarrassed. Yesterday we worked on the lesson "Go to Your Mat" and we were up to the point where I could throw the mat across the room and she would run to "down" on it before it even stopped moving. Once she's on her mat she won't move, even if you're dragging her around on the mat or dropping toys right next to her.

But, of course, this is in a very controlled environment. We'll see how it goes tonight in the classroom with ten screaming, out of control puppies...

Breaking the Spell

2009-05-12T20:36:00.000-07:00

So Sunday night we finally went back to eat at the new BBQ place in the Mission. This event stands out because the first and only other time we ate there was the night Paco died.

I've debated writing about the details of that night not because I'm afraid of what other people think (it doesn't matter, I've beaten myself up more than anyone possibly could), but because I just want to be over it. I want to be done, but then someone asks me about what happened and I, literally, can't speak anymore. I know you can't rush healing, but not talking about it certainly can't help, so I'm hoping that finally writing about it will prove at least somewhat cathartic.

We moved into the cottage last summer. Previously Aaron had lived in the "front house" with his four roommates. When the cottage came up for rent, we jumped on it since property like that is nearly impossible to find in the city. It took an hour long interview with the landlord, but he eventually conceded that Paco was an exceptional dog, despite being a pit bull, and allowed us to move in.

For months, things went swimmingly. We remodeled the heck out of the cottage and, except for Paco's removal of the cat door during a fireworks induced freak-out, the place improved ten-fold. The white picket privacy fence that separated our two yards was often open to accommodate large parties or share laundry. The entire property was so secure that doors were often left unlocked and people (Paco included) moved freely between houses.

Just after the New Year, while vacationing in Mexico, we decided to add Xochitl to our family. We had just one day to make our decision and, at the 11th hour, we finally heard back from the landlord. He approved adding a dog to the lease provided we pay a reasonable pet deposit increase and fix the fence. "We haven't gotten any complaints yet from the front house," he wrote, "but I'd like to keep it that way."

We got back from Mexico and hit the ground running. Both Aaron and I had a ton of work to catch up on, not to mention there was a new little distraction in the form of one small hairless dog.

Dango had reported that Paco was destructive in our absence. I chalked it up to lack of exercise, but little part of me was worried that this behavior, coupled with his seemingly more ravenous appetite of late, was actually a sign of an underlying medical issue. Still, I had no time to follow up on my theory as we were getting ready for a huge event at the end of January.

A couple of weeks passed and we finally found a free day to take care of house stuff, which included dog proofing the property as per the landlord's specs. We ran our errands, picked up a new cat door and went home. Well, the cat door was off by 1/4" on each side so we couldn't install, but we managed to jimmy rig the rotten fence into compliance. See, Paco had made it a hobby to pop open one of loose boards and squeeze through to check Pirate's feeding spot on the other side. We'd tried to fix the fence before, but it would always fall apart. This time, we took our task seriously, used extra long screws, bracer bars and, on Paco's favorite loose board, a boulder to wedge it shut.

One week later our big event arrived... it was the Golden Gate Kennel Club Show, one of the largest AKC events in Northern California, and we had a booth. I'd been attending the event for years as a spectator so it felt amazing to actually be exhibiting for the first time.

Saturday morning came along and I headed out the door at 7 am to work the booth. Aaron had the dogs for the day and would send me little texts like, "Cuddling on couch with dogs, making sales?" and, "Just took Paco for walk, now for a beer at Benders". I didn't have any time to reply because, well, we were slammed. In fact, I didn't even have time to eat, save the gross $10 nachos Paul and I split in the morning.

When I got home after dark, I was exhausted, famished and elated. We'd done pretty good in sales and met a ton of people, but I'd been on my feet all day. Aaron had forgotten to feed Xochitl breakfast, Paco and Pirate were out of raw food, and I needed to eat as well. Quickly, we made Xochitl work for her food, kibble by kibble. As was the norm, Paco and Pirate participated as well.

We threw Xdog in the crate and left for dinner. The plan was to pick up food for Paco and Pirate on the way home. As we left, I saw Paco crawl out of the cat door and watch us depart. "Uh uh. Inside," I instructed, which was a command he knew well, but this time I didn't stop to enforce it. I can still see his little round eyes as he watched us leave.

We went to dinner at the new BBQ place up Mission street, and it was amazing. Especially after you haven't really eaten all day. On the walk home we stopped to split a piece of pie at the new pie place that opened on Mission, and then to split a whiskey at the Phone Booth. Along the way I discovered we actually had food for Paco and Pirate if I got creative (egg, brown rice leftovers, yogurt) so there was no need to stop at the store.

We were gone for about two hours, and, when we came back, that's when we found Paco.

Aaron went in the gate before me. He later told me that at first he thought someone from the front house had hung Paco's jacket up on the fence, but then he realized it was actually Paco, wearing his jacket, hanging from the fence by his neck. I heard him yelling, "Paco, no!"

I rounded the corner to see Aaron pulling at Paco's neck, trying to get his head unwedged from the fence. Without thinking I ran forward, grabbed Paco by his chest, lifted him from the fence. I later found my purse and bag upside down on the ground, thrown aside.

Since nobody was there, we can only guess at exactly what happened. My theory is that, unable to push aside his trick board, he went over the fence to check Pirate's feeding spot. The spot was empty and it was a pretty cold, January night so he tried to get back into the house. Once again, the trick board was not there, so he tried to go over. The fence had braces along the inside, so he could probably get out easily. However, the fence was smooth on the other side with no foot holds. Any other part of the fence would have been fine, but Paco attempted to go over the part closest to the latch, which happened to be the one part of the fence that had a gap of about 3 inches between the slats. He tried to jump over to get back into the house, didn't make it, his head slid in between the pickets, down the gap, and his feet couldn't touch the ground.

There was so much self anger and blame surrounding the event. Why didn't we feed him before we left. Why didn't we clip him up on the tie down. Why didn't we put him in his crate. Why didn't the cat door fit. Why did we have to fix the fence. Why didn't I take him to the vet. Why did we get Xochitl. Why did we move in the cottage.

As the spiral of blame kept going round and round, the most senseless finger pointed at that restaurant. I couldn't go past the BBQ place without thinking that, if it hadn't sounded so good that night, we would never have left and Paco would be fine. I knew it didn't make sense, but I blamed the place. I was, literally, mad at it. And the fact that the meal we ate was one of the best of my life was just more salt in the wound.

We "forgave" the Phone Booth a few weeks after Paco died. How could we not, it's our favorite neighborhood bar, but it wasn't until this weekend, over 3 months later, that we returned to the BBQ restaurant. It felt weird going in, and somehow the food wasn't as good as I remember. But the act of going back did the trick. It was if the spell was broken and now life can return to normal.

Even so, I refuse to go back to the pie place. I don't care that it was featured in the last issue of Readymade, I'm still mad at it. And the pie sucks.

Lights, Camera...

2009-05-07T21:40:00.000-07:00

So tomorrow we film a commercial. Actually it will probably be more like an infomercial or educational video, something like that. I wrote the script today and it's pretty dry. We'll do our best to spice it up but the point is to educate rather than entertain, so the bar is low.

It's a far cry from our first commercial attempt just a little over a year ago. I remember it was just a few days before Paco's TPLO follow up appointment where he got the green light to return to normal activity, and that was Cinco de Mayo last year. Eric, JR, and I stumbled into Van Kleefs without a script or direction, just a vague idea about about what we thought would be funny. I don't know why we thought it was a good idea to shoot a dark dog in a dark bar, but the background was necessary for the loose plot we'd envisioned.

The result is here. We're supposed to be having a relationship talk but the salvageable material may not make that clear, and somehow the end disappeared into the nether-regions of unusable footage. JR sent me this clip last week, and I just finally got the point where I can watch it without bawling my head off and successfully uploaded it to youtube tonight.

Yeah, it makes me sad, but I'm really happy it exists.

Boot Camp

2009-04-28T10:24:00.000-07:00

In dog training you call it "the breaking point." This phrase refers to the exact moment when the dog's behavior becomes so offensive it prompts the owner to finally address it and the relationship dramatically shifts.

This weekend we hit the breaking point with Xochitl.

It happened in Dolores, again (first bad episode in Dolores resulted in Xdog losing all off-leash privileges). We took her there and she began barking at everything. And I mean everything: dogs, people, balls, kites, food, etc. We tried all the different tricks we learned, but she was obviously making it a sport.

We went home, Aaron crashed (he had just flown in from Germany earlier that day), and I did some research. Low and behold, I realized that we'd allowed Xochitl to run the house.

I blame myself a little. After Paco died it was just too hard to be strict, and with a little dog it's easy to allow them up on the furniture and in the bed. If she was larger, we may have noticed sooner, but when it's kind of cute when a little dog is being bad. Behaviors you wouldn't allow in a big dog, like tearing across the couch, harassing the cat, or ripping up anything that looks like a dog toy are adorable when done in miniature. During the months after Paco's death we needed a good laugh, and little Xdog provided it.

But now things were out of hand. As I poured through training materials, I realized we'd totally let her run our lives. It's hard to step outside yourself and get a good read on the situation, but, as I did so, it became very clear what was going on.

So now it's boot camp.

No furniture privileges and no bed privileges. She is either crated or on leash, attached to a human or a table leg. Off leash time is spent working on her homework, highly monitored, and exercise is more regular. It's good for all of us, really, and her behavior is improving rapidly.

The first night I fought with her for an hour, making her settle on the floor versus the couch. She would settle for a minute and then try and get up again. The theatrics were incredible, as she flailed like a fish and whined like crazy, alternately attacked the leash or pawed at my leg. All the while I quietly stood on her leash with just enough slack to make the only comfortable option for her to lie down. Eventually she gave up, but now I had a measure by which to judge her bad attitude. See, I've done that exercise with many a dog before, the most stubborn of which was one of my other favorite dogs in the world, Boodles the Boxer. She fought me for 30 minutes before she gave up, but Xdog put that record to shame.

Now she settles on the floor instantly and doesn't even try and get up on th couch, but this is also just a couple days into boot camp. We'll see how the progress goes and, until then, this is a thing of the past:

Grosser than gross

2009-04-24T21:57:00.000-07:00

It takes a lot to gross me out. Explosive black-green diarrhea, a plastic bag of raw chicken vomit, and puss-filled cysts are all things that I can deal with. I cannot, however, deal with people talking with their mouths full of food.

Okay, I realize it's occasionally a necessary evil. You take a bite of food and get caught off guard, someone asks you a question that demands an immediate answer, or you need to interject before serious injury occurs. That's fine. A normal person generally tries to minimize the grossness. You cover your mouth, turn your head, talk out of the side of your mouth, etc.

But not this one guy I know. He makes a sport out of talking with his mouth full of food.

He seems to think that eating is the ideal time to carry on a conversation. In the middle of a sentence he'll wrap his mouth around whatever he's eating and take a huge bite, a bite so big it's apparently impossible to close his mouth all the way in order to chew it. Sure, he'll make a show of covering his mouth with his hand when he speaks with his mouth full, but it's accompanied with a gargling sound that gives the impression he's drowning in the food that's trickling down his throat. And the worst is when he exclaims, which is often, and gives you a full look-see at all the contents of his mouth. It's so gross that I've gotten to the point of feigning an alternate activity just to give myself an excuse to look the other way while he's eating.

Sometimes I feel like maybe I'm being unfair, but you have to understand that this has been a pet peeve of mine since birth, practically. I remember when I was about 2 or 3 years old and sitting across from my best friend in her kitchen. She was chewing with her mouth open, slapping her lips together, so I leaned across the table and physically closed her mouth with my hand. I don't even know if we could make full sentences back then, but somehow I knew it was just wrong to flash other folks a mouthful of food.

Tonight I met up with someone who spends a lot of time with my gross-eating friend. The plan was to hang out for a bit but then we started eating and I was horrified to see she'd picked up his eating mannerisms exactly. It grossed me out so much I had to cut the visit short.

As I made my quick getaway I wondered if I was being too judgmental, but then I realized we're all allowed one weird phobia-esque thing... and this is mine.

Tales from the road

2009-04-21T22:27:00.000-07:00

So this past weekend Paul, Xochitl and I piled into his truck and drove down to SoCal for a big Pet Expo. Overall things went well. Paco Collars sold a decent amount, we met some really cool people, saw some old friends, and managed not to strangle each other the entire time. On top of that, Xdog got a really cool new outfit.

The entire weekend was a lot of work, but there were some highlights (one of them not being Field-Trip-to-the-Pet-Expo-for-Every-School-Child-in-Orange-County Friday... that kinda sucked and forced us to hide all of our free handouts lest they strip us dry).

We totally scored when some cool folks we'd never met offered us a place to stay one mile from the expo, making the commute somewhat bearable. We also made up cool games and spotted SoCal trends, like "extreme plastic surgery" and "moms getting full sleeves." Xochitl got to meet another Xolo, as well as a slew of Chinese Cresteds and a handful of AHTs.

But the highlight happened Friday. A mother and her two children stopped by the booth. The daughter was a toddler. Xdog was sitting pretty for them and I asked the little girl, "Would you like to give her a treat?"

She nodded so I handed her a freeze dried liver treat... which she then promptly put in her own mouth.

Paul, her mother, and I all caught it at the same time and, before I could get, "Oh no, not for you," out of my mouth her little face began to twist and contort. It turned bright red and she let out a huge cry, followed quickly by the wiping off of her tongue with her hands. The three of us started laughing and Xochitl began barking, which only heightened the little girl's discomfort and she started crying harder. The mom picked up her daughter to leave but was laughing so hard I thought she was going to drop her.

I'm sure one day that little girl will be telling that story from a psychiatrist's couch, but the visual of her paddling her tongue with her hands completely made our weekend.

Wingman

2009-04-12T22:10:00.000-07:00

So last night the plan was to drop off Aaron at the airport then hit the town with D, who needed a wingman. I was pretty excited about the role, and Aaron and I brainstormed about it over dinner.

But then later, as D and I walked the dogs down Mission street, she burst my wingman bubble. Since D is pretty much a dude, and I'm definitely a girl, people were going to assume we were a couple, she warned. I understood what she was saying, and when a stranger at the bar told the dogs that they had "great mommies," I knew we had to devise a plan.

"Listen," I said, "when there's a cute girl you want to talk to, just introduce me as 'your friend, Ana' and then add something like, 'she and her boyfriend live just around the corner so that's why I'm in the neighborhood.' You've got to find a subtle way to mention the boyfriend thing so girls know I'm not a threat" We practiced it a few times.

Eventually there was someone who caught D's eye, but I could tell she was unsure about who the heck I was and what I meant to D. She left for a minute so I leaned over.

"Okay, when she comes back, you need to introduce me and use that boyfriend line."

"Yeah, good idea," D agreed.

The hot girl came back and D started talking.

"Oh yeah, I forgot to introduce you to my friend, Ana. Yeah, her boyfriend had to go out of town tonight and she gets sort of lonely so, you know, I'm showing her a good time."

I later explained just how bad that actually sounded.

iDidit

2009-04-11T19:01:00.000-07:00

I got an iPhone. Squeee!

Now I can spend the next several days dorking out, which is perfect timing since Aaron flies out to Atlanta tonight to fix the robot and then Paul and I leave either late Wednesday or early, early Thursday to go down to SoCal for a big Pet Expo. The goal is to have the phone souped-up by then so we have hours of entertainment and I won't go crazy without the internet.

Okay, back to dorking out... will check in later.

Xochitl goes under the knife

2009-04-08T09:36:00.000-07:00

Yep, little Xdog gets spayed today.

Sure, I thought about keeping her in tact and having puppies, but then I realized I didn't want to go through the trouble of tracking down her pedigree, devote my weekends to getting her titled, and deal with several weeks of bleeding on end only to pump out substandard offspring, so under the knife she goes!

(I cannot wait to see her little head cone... is that weird?)

Opposites

2009-04-06T00:58:00.000-07:00

Because fate has a sense of humor, the day after I pretended that I'd found "the one", two viable adoption candidates actually appeared.

In addition to the freakish nature of their appearance (after months of searching, they cropped up within 15 minutes of each other), they also stand out as being polar opposites: one is a 6 week old puppy and the other is a much older guy, as in, he's about 8 years old.

They both have their pros and cons. The puppy is, well, a puppy, and the older guy we can't get much info about.

We went to go visit the puppy today and the situation is about the best you could hope for. The litter plus mom spent just a handful of days in the shelter and have been raised in a great foster home since then. Mama dog has a beautiful temperament, is beautifully built, and we really just wanted to take her home. She was a silly girl and did a little Paco-esque dance for us that made us smile. The whole litter is healthy and happy.

I picked up our prospect and he just looked into my eyes and wagged his tail non-stop, but in a relaxed happy way. Instead of being like, "OMG a person! A person! I'm gonna freak out!" he was more like, "Hey, you're my kind of girl." He was a cool little dude who hung out with his siblings but chose to retrieve toys over intense wrestling matches. And did I mention he is frigging adorable?

I think the rescue, Butte Humane, was stoked not to have slacker college students applying and they're sold on us (Chico has historically been voted one of the top party schools in the U.S. and consumes 1% of the nation's alcohol annually, so I wasn't surprised to see, "Will this animal be living in a fraternity or sorority?" within the first 5 questions on their application). They even preemptively took him off their website until we give them the final word.

But what about the old guy, you ask... good question.

I inquired about him about a month ago. I saw his pic back then and fell for him, but was informed he was a pretty big guy. Our place is small, so a dog with a nearly 70 lb frame would take up a lot of space here. I put him out of my head but kept thinking of his face every now and again.

Fast forward a month and, just a few minutes after I found the pup, a customer sent an e-mail from Seattle Craigslist listing the same dog and touting his weight loss. Seems like he should actually be around a 55 lb dog, which is perfect for us. Oh, and the rest of his bio sounds like he should fit right in.

The next day I contacted the person who runs the rescue and she gave him a glowing review and gave me the contact info for the foster mom. I arranged for my old roommate to drive down and check him out for me once we get the word, but I haven't heard from the foster home and it's been a few days.

I keep telling myself there's probably a logical explanation. They're busy. Or on vacation. Or moving. Or there was a family emergency.

But then the insecure part of chimes in and my imagination starts to run wild... maybe she's decided to keep him. Maybe she dug up info on me and decided I wouldn't be a good home. Maybe she hates me.

The more I think about it the more I feel like an obsessive stalker. If someone told me they saw a picture in a personal ad, wrote an e-mail, and hadn't heard back for two days I'd tell them to take a chill pill. But then I go and do the opposite. I check the e-mail compulsively, scrutinize the photographs for any signs of my fears.

Is it rational? No, but in the world of emotionally based decisions loosely framed around lifestyles and givens, someone's bound to get butt-hurt.

Anatomy of a prank

2009-04-01T21:35:00.000-07:00

Last April Fools Day Aaron got me good. I mean really good, so this year it was payback time.

It's no secret we're looking for a new dog. It's a pursuit we visit on a daily basis, so it seemed the perfect topic for a great prank. I knew it would deeply offend Aaron to come home with a dog without his prior approval, so the question was how to go about it in a believable fashion...

Carolyn helped me come up with the game plan. Once the framework was in place, the only issue was coming up with a suitable dog, one who was opposite enough from our wants but was still believable. Jade offered to lend her dog, but Aaron would never believe I'd bring a small, wire-haired terrier mix home. He'd met Nelly when Tim brought her over, so she was out. But then Melinda came to the rescue with a viable candidate.

The night before the trickery I began prepping him.

"Hey, do you need the car tonight?" I asked, "Because I'd rather BART in and leave it in the east bay tonight since I'll have to drive in to meet Melinda at the shelter tomorrow."

The wheels were greased, and we made work and dinner plans around the supposed shelter visit.

All day I played it cool. Aaron told me about how he tried to trick Jeff but was foiled. I pretended to be awed by his ability to pull off a joke, all the while biding my time.

I closed the store and raced home. I texted, "call me ASAP!", promptly turned off my phone, did the dishes, fed Xochitl and Pirate, stashed them away, and raced over to pick up Ruckus from his foster home. By the time I got back, Aaron had beaten me home. I tethered the dog up outside, and went in.

The boy and the dog were playing on the couch so I quietly walked over to return The Roach to her crate and explained to Aaron that I had picked up a little something at the shelter. "Don't panic," I explained, "I only agreed to foster. We don't have to keep him. He's not normally what I go for and I know he's a little different than what we've discussed, but there was just something about him and I couldn't leave him behind."

And in I came with Ruckus.

Aaron's jaw dropped.

It's not that Ruckus is a bad dog, he's just exactly the opposite of what we're looking for. And, in Aaron's mind, we were stuck with him.

As the dog pulled and strained to explore his new surroundings I talked about how cute I thought he was, showed Aaron his missing tooth, and explained the situation would be temporary. I could see the pain in his face. He was trying to like this dog, he really was, but the possibility of this large, unruly dog in our home was too much. He looked like he was going to cry.

"So, how long?" he began to ask, and then I broke down and spilled the beans. I couldn't keep it up any more.

To say Aaron was relieved was an understatement. He knows I'm a terrible liar so he never dreamed I had it in me to pull off such an elaborate scheme. It totally caught him off guard.

After the laughter died down, we settled into fixing dinner and playing with Ruckus. After he realized the dog was leaving, Aaron loosened up and actually grew fond of the big lug. He confessed that, before I walked through the door with Ruckus, he'd been secretly excited to see what I'd come home with. Unfortunately Ruckus was way too innapropriately interested in Pirate (and Xochitl) for it to ever work out, but he did get some lovin' and a peanut butter kong before we returned him home.

And although I'm proud of myself for pulling off my first ever April Fools prank, I'm a little wary of what wrath next year will incur...

A perfect weekend

2009-03-31T09:47:00.000-07:00

This weekend marked the first that blessed the bay area with two whole days of beautiful weather. Naturally, we took advantage of it.

Saturday we walked Xochitl up to Bernal to frolic in the grass like a little bunny rabbit. She loved it.

Xochitl is going through a phase where now she's barking at any dog she sees, which is totally awesome in a place like Bernal which happens to be an off-leash dog park. After a few trials and errors, she quickly learned that the presence of a new dog on the horizon meant treats magically appeared on the ground. That worked long enough to get her over the hump and stop caring about the new dogs, since there were many of them. After that, she figured out to just follow us on the trails.

I went to work for a few hours, came back, and took a nap.

That night the front house had a party. Normally a front house party consists of a crowd that begins in the street, spills out the back, and stumbles into our house at 3 am looking for the bathroom.

But this weekend, probably due in part to the untimely good weather and the presence of spring break, the crowd was pretty tame. The second keg wasn't tapped until about 2 am (which is normally when folks are screaming for blood because the second keg went dry), and the new fence proved to be a monolithic deterrent that successfully kept the drunks out of our yard. We were able to have actual conversations with friends and all the windows and doors survived. They may not have been able to recoup the cost of the booze through the cover charge, but it did mean there was plenty of Pabst left to make that Sunday even lazier.

The next day Aaron took me out on the BSA. To understand the enormity of the previous statement, you have to hear the back story...

Last spring we drove up to Enumclaw to rescue the BSA. The 1969 single stroke motorcycle had been one of his dad's favorite toys, and Aaron remembers hopping on as a child and going for rides up the logging roads around their house (hey, it was the '70s!). Several decades ago the BSA was retired and sat lifeless and broken in the garage. A few years back, Aaron's younger brother Craig decided to "fix" the old bike while on a short visit home. Well, he managed to take it all apart, but never bothered to put it back together. When we got up to the farm, we were faced with an assortment of parts scattered around the garage and a couple old manuals to guide us. We pieced it together and brought it back to San Francisco.

Fortunately Aaron's landlord happens to be the premier old bike expert in the Bay Area. Even with Dennis as an invaluable resource, it's still taken nearly a year to get the bike working, and this weekend was its first time out in the city. Isn't it pretty?

(Aaron looks stoic because starting the thing is an art in itself and takes a huge amount of concentration)

We puttered around for a long time. I have to admit that I was a bit nervous. Not because Aaron is a bad driver or because I'm scared of motorcycles, but because all the controls are reversed (it's an English bike) and Aaron had told me that, during practice rides, he'd repeatedly mixed up the clutch and brake when his reflexes took over. Fortunately, this ride was without incident (except for maybe stalling a few times).

We finished out the afternoon in Dolores Park which was perfect except for Xochitl's amazing display of her nonexistent recall.

Next week we begin a dog training class that promises a "Rocket Recall." We'll see.

What a difference two months make

2009-03-24T21:40:00.000-07:00

It's been exactly two months since Paco died but it seems like much longer. It's like a whole lifetime has passed.

Today I am two things I never thought I would be: a store owner and a small dog person. Let's tackle these one at a time...

I cannot even begin to explain what a relief it's been to create the new store. Finding out we got the space just days after Paco died picked me up out of my despair and forced me to create something in Paco's name. Here is the result (please ignore the mop bucket on the floor, this was the evening before we opened... also ignore the fact that Paco Collars products are prominently missing from the shot, they're behind you, er, behind the photographer):

It's funny because I've never aspired to have a store. In fact, a few years ago a friend offered to have me inherit her retail space while her business moved to a larger location and I declined. I didn't want to be stifled by the hours, the public eye, etc.

But that was then. Now I feel this opportunity came at the right time. I think we, as a company, are ready to take that leap and the retail space we've made is a total refection of who we are. It's weird, but it feels like a second home. Even Xochitl has her little produce crate in the window from which she sunbathes and watches people go by all day long. Which leads me to my next point: I am a small dog owner.

Now, when we got Xochitl she was supposed to bridge that gap between Paco and Pirate, the cat. But with Paco gone she's now taken the role of primary dog, and the experience trips me out beyond belief. I mean, I'm a "small dog owner" now. I walk her around, worrying more about people stepping on her than running away in fear (which they should, actually). By necessity, I have to dress her up when it's cold. It's true, Paco had an extensive wardrobe but that felt normal. Now it just feels like I'm dressing up a doll.

I also have to deal with a temperament that's totally foreign to me. I'm used to unflappable, people-loving pit bulls but little Xdog is wary of strangers and likes to bark at random things. We're tackling each of these issues with much success, but it's a full time job, especially given the seeming randomness of each act. For instance, she won't even flinch at a wheelchair going by but will bark at someone who just gave her a treat. And let's not even get into children... she *does not* like them. At least she can walk by a stroller now, something she was unable to do without raising a major fuss before.

But she's totally great around other dogs... go figure. Guess you can't have it all.

Xochitl's Crappy Achievement

2009-03-16T21:01:00.000-07:00

What is so important about today, you ask? Today marks the 4th day Xochitl (So-Chee) has *not* made a potty mistake (knock on wood).

Part of the reason for the brag is because Xochitl was/is such a hard dog to potty train. A dirty dog from the beginning, she's never had an issue about, say, peeing on her bed and then laying on it. Or peeing in her crate, even when it's barely larger than her and she's fed her meals in it. The Flokati rug is just one big wee pad in her eyes, and if it's concrete and indoors then it's fair game (sorry, Home Depot). Real wee pads are to be sniffed while the ground nearby is the chosen dumping ground, and grass is for frolicking in.

Probably the worst incident happened a few weeks ago. Aaron had worked a long day and was feeling incredibly run down and irritable. As you do with a grumpy man, I gave him space and allowed him to go to bed early while I continued to stay up. The light in the bedroom turned off and a split second later I heard a cry.

"Ah! Someone shit in the bed!"

No fingers were directly pointed, but I was pretty sure he didn't mean me.

As we changed the sheets we started laughing. First at the image of Xochitl burrowing in between the sheets and wriggling to the bottom of the bed only to lay a turd, and second because I don't think you could have written a more ironic ending to a crappy day.

After that, "Soche the Roach" lost her bedroom privileges.

I've never seen a tougher nut to crack than the Roach. We tried every trick in the book, watched her like a hawk, and she'd still squeeze out a mistake. Even when she was 99% at home, she's refuse to generalize. But finally, persistence, patience, and dog treats won out. This week something clicked.

At home she's got the routine down. If she wants to go potty, she'll go tearing out the cat door and go in the 1'x2' self-designated pee spot. At work she'll gaze longingly at the wood chip mulch yard next door and that's my cue to leash her up and run her out. She's starting to expand, too. On walks she now recognizes the cue, "Go potty," and will instantly start searching out the perfect spot.

Sure, she's a puppy so there's mistakes to be made, like last night. Aaron has just mopped the floors so we were marooned in the couch in our socks. Xochitl went out to go potty, then came tearing back in. Both Aaron and I were hypnotized by trashy television (VH1's "Tour Bus of Love" is amazing) so it was the smell that hit us first. I looked down to see Xochitl next to me on the couch, both back feet encrusted in a poo. There were clumps of poo next to her on the couch as well as a dirty trail that lead from the door. And there sat the little girl, so happy and playful.

Without thinking I screamed and reached for her, which, of course, lead to a game of chase. All over the freshly mopped floors she ran, spreading little brown footprints all over the place. I eventually managed to wrangle her and wash her out in the sink while Aaron tended to the floors.

But even though it was the most poop ever smeared around the house, it still counted as a successful Day 3 in the road to perfect potty training.

Sad about Paco

2009-03-13T10:12:00.000-07:00

Today I woke up crying. I really miss Paco. The more dogs I look at, the more I realize what a unique dog he really was.

I never told him, but when Paco was alive I'd occasionally cruise Petfinder. It was harmless, of course, but sometimes I'd find a cool dog and I'd start cursing Paco's existence. "If I only didn't have Paco, then I would totally own that dog," I'd say.

It was the strongest when I met Hector, which coincided with Paco's knee surgery. Like a bad affair, every day I'd leave Paco crated at home, say my goodbyes, then go pick up Hector and take him to work or for a walk around the lake. I'd drop him off before I got home, but Paco always knew. Jealously he'd sniff me up and down, his pupils getting large and the whites of his eyes showing. I would try and explain myself, "but he's giving me something you can't. If you could walk then it would be different and I wouldn't have to see other dogs."

But now that Paco's gone and I have the opportunity to choose any dog in the world, not a single one appeals to me, not even Hector. I'll try and visualize myself with each dog I see, and I don't like the result. It just doesn't seem right. And then I start to miss Paco even more.

The Puppy Mill Wars

2009-03-10T14:47:00.000-07:00

So Paco Collars has a company policy that we do not allow stores who sell puppies or kittens to carry our products. It's been a policy forever, but today it was finally put to the test.

First came the inquiry e-mail:

"We are a store called Pawsh Puppies Inc. in Chicago and would like to carry
your products. Please email us a wholesale catalog and pricing information.
Thanks!"

So I sent them our standard form letter that includes a link to our catalog, which in turn outlines our company policies, including the one that states:

"-- we do not allow stores who sell animals to carry our products (puppy mills=bad)"

The e-mail then appears to have been forwarded on to someone with a different e-mail address than the original writer and the response is:

"We are going to carry live puppies for sale that we buy directly from quality breeders, nothing to do with puppy mills at all.
So we can’t carry your products then?"

Me:
"Send me the link to the breeder kennels and let me check them out. "

Them
"Sure. They are the best around.
http://www.pickmepuppies.com"

Go ahead and click it... I know you want to!

So, after some careful deliberation, I wrote back:
"Alex

I'm sorry, but that would violate our policy.

They are a puppy mill. No reputable breeder would have three litters in a month, sell puppies to a store at 8 weeks of age, or make up their own dog breeds. Not to mention there is no proof of OFA testing, any titles or achievements.

They may be the best at what they do, but it is still not in the best interest of the animals and we cannot support that.

-- ana poe
www.pacocollars.com"

It's funny because back when we first made the policy I never actually thought we'd have to defend it, but now I am glad we had it in place. If we can make one store open its eyes then it's worth the lost revenue.

Target

2009-03-05T09:11:00.000-08:00

This is what happens when you let me and Carolyn loose at Target.

First, you try on stupid hats...

... oggle things meant for children...

... and then you come home with underpants for your dog.

Blind Date

2009-03-01T19:27:00.000-08:00

Yesterday we piled into the Mercedes, Xochitl assumed her favorite spot in the car, and we headed across the bridge and out of town.

The reason for the trip was to go meet "Casper", a dog we spotted on Petfinder last week. I've been cruising the site somewhat obsessively the past two weeks and he was one of the few profiles that invoked the response of, "That's him!" (and the only "that's him!" that actually turned out to be a male dog).

On paper and in pictures Casper was perfect. With a face somewhere between Paco and Honky Tonk, he stood on long legs and was pure white. Not normally awestruck by white animals, this guy broke my prejudices and forced me to acknowledge his sheer beauty. As a friend said, when I sent the picture along, "He looks like an inverse of Paco!" The description told the tale of a dog who loved everyone, including other dogs, and enjoyed car rides.

I began e-mailing furiously, though I understood there may be a delay since the rescue center was moving to a new location that exact weekend.

But by noon the next day I couldn't wait any longer, so I called. The resulting phone conversation was scattered, which was to be expected as they were still moving their operation, but I managed to explain our wants/needs/desires in a pet dog and left with a string of promises to photograph and cat test the dog.

Confident we'd found a true contender, I finally spilled the beans to my friends. I kept perusing the internet and visiting shelters, but suddenly every dog was a comparison to Casper. I knew it was bad, but I couldn't help it. Still awaiting pictures, we planned a trip to Fresno that weekend.

The drive down was so exciting. I exchanged texts with friends and Aaron and I made bets ("Okay, whoever can name-that-band first gets to rename Casper"). Located near the Fresno river, the landscape was beautiful in that Central Californian agrarian style. The orchards went on for what seemed like forever, and then they ended and there was the house.

Instantly I could see why we had never received pictures of Casper. The rescue was essentially a solo operation: there was one woman and thirty dogs. The chain link enclosures were small and the ground had turned to mud from the recent rain. The dogs were barking like mad, every one obese from lack of exercise, filthy from mud and, sometimes, feces. We walked the gauntlet to Casper's pen and there he was...

It's like when you go on a blind date and it turns out their profile picture was taken ten years and ten pounds ago. This was not the dog from the picture.

As we spent time with him out on the lawn, it was evident this wasn't going to work out. Yes, he was pent up, that's normal when you spend 23 4/5 hours a day in a small pen. However, that doesn't excuse a hard-mouthed correction.

Case in point, after we put Casper back we toured the rest of the dogs. I found one I fell in love with, though he would never work out in our house (too much prey drive). We took him out for fun anyhow. This dog had about 4 times the drive of Casper, was about 8 times as smart, and when he put his mouth on me a) it was gently and b) he cut it out when I told him to. By the way, this dog has papers if you're interested:

We left Fresno a little disappointed but also relieved. After the visit we had a much more firm understanding of what we want, what we don't want, and what kind of pre-adoption circumstance (ie. foster) is more favorable. Casper was instrumental in assisting those conversations. Even though he didn't come home with us, we still did play the "what if" game and fulfilled the bet...

"I'd name him 'The Stay Puffed Marshmallow Man'"

"No, Baby Beluga"

The hunt is on...

2009-02-23T19:58:00.000-08:00

So we're officially looking for the "new Paco." It's not that I think Paco is replaceable since, obviously, that's impossible. But the fact remains that I need another dog in my life eventually.

I first got a dog when I moved to Oakland. My freshman year of college I'd had a bad experience where I was nearly raped. I managed to talk my way out of it at the time but, after that, made it a point to never walk alone at night. Come my senior year when I made the move to Oakland, I decided it was time to stop relying on human escorts and get myself a dog. Always an animal husbandry nerd at heart (not that my 11 years in 4-H prove that or anything), I quickly picked up some reading material and studied up on dogs. I read the book "How to Deal With Your Dog's Adolescence" on the hunch that, if a dog's adolescence was a fraction as terrible as human adolescence, then I'd be prepared for the worst.

Armed with my new knowledge, I marched down to the Oakland Animal Shelter and returned home with Ajax, a young mixed breed puppy who grew up to look and act like a Cattle Dog/Chow cross. She was an awesome dog and she (and her tennis ball) accompanied me everywhere.

In the year 2000 I hit the road in a van to travel across country, Ajax in tow. The first couple months were great, and then we ran out of money. And then the van broke down. So that's how I ended up stranded in Georgia for 6 months.

During that time, Ajax hit two years old and developed epilepsy. I was homesick beyond belief but refused to go home unless Ajax could come. Finally, my friend Amy called to say she'd be making a road trip back east to visit a few friends before the semester began, and she was willing to drive down to Atlanta and rescue me and Ajax. I was so elated, but then my traveling companion (who had been a boyfriend at one point... we'd broken up quite early on in the adventure but remained on good terms) broke the horrible truth to me: I was about to return to the Bay Area with no home or job lined up. Ajax needed to be on a constant stream of phenobarbitol to regulate her condition. He had a house with 1/4 acre of property, a job, and Sherman, his puppy who thought the world revolved around Ajax.

It broke my heart, but I did what was best for Ajax and left her behind in Georgia (she died a year later from a massive seizure).

Upon returning to the Bay Area I got a job at a dog day care to fill that void Ajax left behind, but being around dogs every day just made things worse. It took a while since I, literally, had to start from ground zero (I applied for the job with a handwritten resume and $2.60 in my bank account), but I eventually saved up enough money to get my own place, one where I could have a dog. And that's when I met Paco.

Fast forward many years and I now find myself without a dog again. And it feels weird.

When I was little I had a fantasy of what having a dog would be like. I imagined myself hopping in a large pick-up, my trusty dog jumping on the bench seat beside me, and off we'd go, feeding the horses and patrolling the ranch together. As I went about my daily life my dog would be there acting as a trusty sidekick. And at night we'd cuddle up by the fire.

Of course, in real life I do not live on a ranch. While Ajax would have been perfect in that setting, Paco was the perfect urban sidekick. They may be allergic to everything in nature, thus making them ill-fitted for ranch life, but I think pit bulls are perfect for the urban environment. Since I'm committed to staying in the city for a while longer, I want to find another pit bull who can be that go-everywhere-buddy for me.

I know it's just a matter of time...

-----------------------------------------------------

Paco demonstrates just one of the many duties of an urban ranch dog: clearing the territory of varmints (in this case, Prop 8 supporters).

Breaking the fast

2009-02-20T23:27:00.000-08:00

Today was Day 5 of the cleanse and tonight we broke the fast with vegetable soup.

The original plan was to go a week, but as the weekend approached and the possibility of attending the Grilled Cheese Invitational approached, we knew we had to break the fast in order to enjoy the weekend. So we hit the store around closing time, grabbed some veggies, and made a simple soup to ease our stomachs back to the land of the eating.

Two years ago I did the master cleanse for a week and, I gotta say, this time was much easier. True, I did get so spacey that I forgot how to do math for a day and, another day, Tim got so worried he insisted on driving me home, but overall it was pretty tame. Somehow the hunger never got in the way of what I was doing. It was a constant dull thud in the background, kind of like a little friend you forget about until he taps you one the shoulder and you remember he's there.

Last night we saw Slumdog Millionaire and somehow the occasional hunger pang made the acts performed for sheer survival in the movie seem normal. It's hard to imagine what real hunger feels like. Even on the cleanse you have a constant supply of lemonade, water, and Smooth Move (dinner!), but to go without anything for days is a sensation completely outside of my bodily vocabulary. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. I'd rather it be that way. But now I'm also convinced it may be a good idea to do the cleanse and/or fast more often just to remind myself I'm human.

We'll see how that goes. And, in the meantime...

Quietly Cleansing

2009-02-16T21:02:00.000-08:00

So today is Day 1 of the master cleanse.

We were supposed to start after we returned from Mexico, but then business trips and Xolo showers got in the way. We had finally settled on a firm start date and then Paco died. Not wanting to forcibly add more discomfort to the situation, we postponed again. But today we started the cleanse with no fanfare.

It's funny because normally this would be somewhat of a focal point in my day-to-day life, but if feels like a side note. There are so many other, much more important things going on that it's pretty much an aferthought. Granted, Day 1 is probably the easiest day, but right now it just feels like a dull thud, which essentially mimics my mindset.

It's funny how hunger and mourning are the same. One is physical and one is mental, but they're both based on loss. They both teach you to value what you have, not take things for granted, and suddenly you experience life with heightened senses. But only one requires a saltwater flush...

For V-Day, A Love Story

2009-02-14T00:03:00.000-08:00

A lot of people think Paco was a rescue. He wasn’t. I actually bought him from a backyard breeder.

The story goes something like this:

My friend Mara used to live in a house commonly referred to as “Hamilton Place.” It was located on Hamilton Court, a cul-de-sac off Harrison Street in Oakland, near the north end of Lake Merrit. It was an extremely large Victorian that housed six Mills undergrads and a huge storage space beneath, a space filled with the belongings of many people, as the girls upstairs often volunteered its capacity to friends that were in transit. I was one of those friends.

One day during May, 2001, I was either moving stuff into or moving things out of the space, I can’t quite recall. Their street was so tight that, in order to get out, you had to drive up the steep hill, make a three point turn in the cul-de-sac, pray you didn’t tap someone’s car, and then go back down the hill. On this particular day, while making the three-point turn, I noticed a red-nose pit bull with extremely large nipples sitting on a porch.

Two days later I returned to Hamilton Place with manpower in the form of Davon, one of the corner kids that used to hang out on Vallejo Street. This time while making the three-point turn, we saw a woman and a teenage boy sitting on the steps of the porch I’d seen before. D'angelo jumped out of the car.

“Hey, ____, long time no see!” he embraced the other teenager. They started gabbing. So I started small talk with the woman I assumed to be the boy’s mother.

“So, I noticed that dog the other day had really big nipples,” I said, though I’m pretty sure I didn’t say it quite that crudely. Or maybe I did.

“Oh yeah, she just dropped eleven pups yesterday,” the woman informed me.

We started talking and I told her about my situation. At the time I was living in a punk flophouse with motorcycle messengers, skaters, and construction workers, which is no place for a dog. But soon I was moving into a new place, one where I would actually have a room with walls. Once I was settled, I wanted to add a dog to my life ASAP. I had lost my old dog, Ajax, the previous fall and working at the dog day care every day just made me miss having a dog more and more.

She told me I was welcome to come back and buy one of her puppies when they were ready. I politely said, “Sure, I’ll check them out,” but in my head I knew there was no way. I’d never own a pit bull.

Fast-forward several weeks.

This time it was Jake’s stuff we were moving into the basement of the Hamilton Place. And he had a lot of stuff, so my truck and I were asked to join the moving posse.

I dropped off a load and headed up the hill to do the three-point turn. I wrestled the truck into the first part of the maneuver (no power steering) and that’s when I saw him. A little, dark puppy waddled its way across the porch, stuck its face in the corner, squatted down, and took a piss. I was hypnotized, absolutely frozen behind the wheel of my immobile truck. The spell was broken by a woman’s voice.

“Hey! Hey, you! I remember you. Didn’t you want a puppy?” It was the woman I had met a few weeks earlier. Despite my initial protests, she finally convinced me to turn off my engine and come out and meet the dogs.

For over an hour I sat there with the family and their dogs, both mesmerized and horrified by what I saw and heard. Mama Dog had dropped eleven puppies, they told me, but only 8 survived. Two died shortly after birth and the third somehow broke its leg and they ditched it at the vet after they learned how much it would cost to fix it. “We just left,” she bragged, then laughed and mimicked talking to the vet, “’Hell, now you gotta deal with it!’”

Of the eight surviving puppies, four had been sold already (I later did the math between the first time I saw Mama Dog to the day I met Paco… the puppies were only 5 ½ weeks old). Two of the puppies were female and brindle. They were lively and wrestled with each other incessantly. The two boys were much more lethargic, and Paco, the runt, was about half the size of his chocolate brother. “We’re gonna take the rest to the flea market tomorrow to get rid of ‘em,” they informed me.

All the puppies had huge bellies, swollen from worms. I held Paco and scratched him behind the ear and felt something crunchy under my fingers. I looked down and saw dozens of fleas scatter. Mama Dog keep circling and growling at me. If she got too close they’d take a wire coat hanger and shake it at her, threatening to whoop her with it. Daddy lived out back, and was so happy to have a visitor he nearly knocked me over with his enthusiastic “hello”.

The sun went down and I was still sitting on the porch with the puppies. At this point I’d been dog shopping for weeks. I’d been to every shelter in the area many times over but I just hadn’t found “the one”. In fact, I thought “the one” would be female and a border collie cross. This little dark pit bull was about the furthest thing from that I could find, but I couldn’t deny the bond I had felt instantly when I saw him waddle across the porch and take that piss.

Of all the dogs, he was the least outgoing and wanted the least interaction with people. In fact, he didn’t want to be handled *at all*. He was the smallest, and the sickliest. He was so flea infested that the parasites had managed to burrow their heads under his skin like ticks (at the time of his first vet visit he weighed 3.2 lbs and, when he was dewormed, he pooped solid worms for days on end).

I imagined him being sold to some kid at the flea market the next day, living in a backyard tied up, and then getting dumped when he was deemed to be a nuisance. And the kid probably wouldn’t care since the dog didn’t want anything to do with him, either. I imagined a mother’s voice booming out the back door, “I told you, git rid of that damn dog!” Internally, it made me cringe.

“So, you want one?” They were trying to close the deal.

“Well,” I finally said, “if I was going to pick one it would be that one.” I pointed at Paco.

“That one? That one?” she asked incredulously, “Shit, you can have him.”

I thought that was pretty generous, considering she originally had asked for $250 per puppy, but then she thought it through more.

“Let’s do this, give me $40 because I at least need to cover the cost.” The pups had not gotten any shots or dewormer but they had been taken to the vet for a preliminary visit. I believe the broken leg puppy was dumped during that visit.

I agreed to her terms, telling myself I would just nurse the dog back to health and then find him a real home. But who was I kidding, it was love at first sight.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Paco at 6 weeks wearing a sombrero that once adorned a tequila bottle. If you notice his fur looks grey or blue because it was dead, and his forehead is suspiciously bald, a feature that almost earned him the name "Grandpa"... I'm kind of glad "Paco" won.

Letter to a friend

2009-02-10T10:53:00.000-08:00

A few months ago my good friend/customer/possible soulmate, Shanda, envisioned the perfect collar for her dog, Lemonhead, and contacted us. This is the result (and that's the Lemon himself modeling it).

Coincidentally, Lemon and Paco had the same exact neck size, so I took the completed collar home that night, had Paco wear it, and then promptly made him an identical one the next day.

Shanda and I are a little in the same head space right now. She works in the animal industry, lives in Florida and, on this past Christmas Eve, had to make the difficult decision to put down her dog, Lemonhead (aka. Frodo). While it doesn't necessarily help you heal faster, somehow it's helpful to know you aren't the only one out there feeling the way you feel. Here is a letter I sent to Shanda today:

Actually, you are bonkers, but more so for carrying your own bags [the trend of bringing your own bags to the grocery store has not yet caught on in Florida] rather than grieving like you are. I was thinking about you all night last night and this morning. Like you said, not that it really helps, but it kind of does to know you're not the only one out there.

There has been so much change in a short amount of time that it almost seems like Paco's death was a lifetime ago. Frankly, I was not able to go into work until after we found out that we got the new studio. The old place was just too depressing. It was seriously bumming me out when Paco was alive, and the thought of going there after Paco died was just too much. The only way I could stomach it was knowing that we were able to jump ship soon.

Since every routine in my life hinged around Paco, it was vital to break that habit. If everything was still exactly the same as it had been before he died, I don't think I'd be handling things nearly as well.

It's kind of like quitting smoking (which I've done more than once). You have to change your entire lifestyle. In fact, in one of the only activities that remains relatively the same, driving, I lose it almost every day. That's actually where it hits me the hardest, but I've gotten really good at navigating traffic through blurry tears and have decided I don't give a shit if other people see me cry.

As dumb as it sounds, the first day I was blaming the collar. I figured it was cursed. I mean, first Lemon, then Paco... then I realized that was an insane theory, but sometimes you're just so angry you have to blame something. And then I blamed The Roach. In theory, if we hadn't gotten her then our landlord wouldn't have insisted we fix the fence, Paco would have still had his trick board, and never would have tried to go over the fence. But that line of thinking doesn't get you anywhere, either.

I know you feel directly responsible, but even if you hadn't been the one to make the decision or Lemon had died a natural death then you would probably still find either some way to blame yourself or blame some insane theory. That's just part of it. I can't even imagine carrying the weight of that burden, but at some point you'll have to forgive yourself (now you see why most people wait for their veterinarian/behaviorist to make the decision for them... too bad you're both rolled into one).

In the meantime, take a vacation, get a dog, or institute some sort of change. I'm going to be doing all 3, lol! Don't get me wrong, I love The Roach to death. It's hard to keep crying when she does something adorable or hilarious, but, from the get-go, she was never supposed to fill the role of "dog"... she was supposed to be the bridge between Paco and Pirate. Right now the house is feeling a little feline heavy, so we need to get a dog in here soon. I think I'll start the search later this month. Every day with out a pit bull in the house just feels kind of empty. I know I'm not quite ready yet, life is still a little too jumbled, but as soon as the new routine starts, I'm adding a dog to that ASAP.

Okay, need to get a move-on. I've gotten into the routine of staying in my PJs until about noon every day, not the most productive of habits.

Barely keeping it together

2009-02-07T09:36:00.000-08:00

Last night I had my first dream about Paco.

I think I've been relatively lucky in that I've managed to avoid it so far, with the exception of the night he died and my dream about him and Xochitl (So-Chee) having the same forehead and, therefore, she was really his love-child. That night I woke up sad, but Paco had appeared as a ghost or presence, and it was obvious he wasn't coming with me when I woke up.

But last night I dreamed that I had arbitrarily set a euthanization date for Paco and it was the day before I was to put him down. As I looked over my porch railing onto my country estate (my dream house was totally pimp), I saw Paco running the acreage with my friends' dogs. His front leg was stiff and reminiscent of his actual dead body pose, but the rest of him worked just fine. I wondered aloud why I had chosen to put him down, and began rethinking my decision.

"I don't care if his front leg doesn't work," I told my friends, "I just want Paco. I'm not going to put him down anymore. I don't care if he's old, grey, and his body doesn't work. I just want Paco."

When I woke up I thought he was still alive. And then I got really sad.

This whole week has been an eye-opening experience for me. I realize that I'm not yet ready to go out in public and make small talk (as demonstrated by my colossal demonstration of water-works at the Burning Man party... well, I'm assuming from the age and general tendency of the guests to rub me the wrong way that it was a Burning Man party), I'm one step away from rage (pouring paint into the metal pan versus the disposable liner will invoke a fury worthy of the WWE ring), and if I cry a number of times less than the fingers on one hand, then I can call it a good day. Basically, I'm barely keeping it together.

In vocalizing my emotional state to Aaron earlier this week, I realize that I'm kind of constantly on the verge of breaking down. If things are going normal to good, then it's okay. I feel and act fine, though it's hard for me to get truly elated. But if something goes wrong, I feel stressed, or if the conversation turns toward a topic that reminds me of Paco, I kind of lose it. It's like I'm walking on a tightrope and the slightest breeze of negativity forces me to lose my balance and go spiraling down.

Perhaps the best thing that this week has offered is the chance to build the new store. It's given me something on which I can focus and meditate. At first it started out as a group project, but that stressed me out beyond belief. Once I realized I had to take sole ownership of the endeavor, it became the cathartic experience I needed it to be.

With silence and space on my side, I have been able to visualize, plan, and build. I taped a photocopy of Paco prominently on the fireplace for inspiration and it's been working. I was an apartment painter for years and later a mural painter, but have been burnt out on painting since the '90s. However, with this project I've regained my former zen and am taking joy in the process, rather than feeling a haste to get to the end. I pay painstaking attention to the details. With every brush stroke I feel like I'm building it for him, and that has been the therapy I so desperately need right now.

Today we purge and pack the old studio and tomorrow we move. Before/after pictures will be posted later... I'd hate to give away the surprise makeover before it's time.

Fence Destruction 101

2009-02-01T23:24:00.000-08:00

Since a picture is worth a thousand words, here is the photo essay of Paco's fence tear down/rebuild wake. We began Friday afternoon. Linda, her husband Bill, and Donyale came over to tear down the fence and put in the posts.

The fence before:

This is the view looking out from the house. The other side is the really disturbing one, as you can clearly see Paco's pre-death struggle, but I will refrain from posting pictures of it. I've had over a week to get used to it, you haven't.

The tear down took about 5 minutes. Here I am getting aggro:

And this is what our yard looks like without a fence:

We had to break up the cement so we could dig the post holes down far enough. Linda, who was initially scared of the sledge, learned to really like it:

We mixed cement in a wheelbarrow and set the posts:

Admiring the work:

Paco managed to leave his mark:

The job ended up going way faster than we expected, but we had to halt work and let the cement dry overnight before we could go any farther. So we took "Soche the Roach" out to the bar.

The next day we got an early start. Volunteer labor began showing up. Even my parents made a guest appearance:

We measured twice and cut once...

... put the planks in place...

... and trimmed off the excess...

... bam!

Everyone had a job. This was the puppy brigade (see if you can spot a sleeping Xolo):

The fence was topped off with a 2"x6" and a 1" trim. Everyone grabbed a paintbrush, battled the insane fumes, and the fence was sealed and complete in no time. The results:

You can see the puddles of sealant:

By the light of day:

Already the change is profound. Just to not have to look at that fence makes a huge difference. And it was quite touching to see everyone who came out to help celebrate Paco's life.

His ashes arrived Thursday, so he was able to attend as well. His kitchen table shrine kept getting bigger and bigger as people added to the cards and gifts that have been arriving all week. More than a few tears were shed, but overall the mood was positive, which is how Paco would have wanted it. In fact, I think he would have rated it a "two-bowl" party.

And it's a good thing so many folks showed up to help as our in-house Mexican labor was not up for the task.

Alone time

2009-01-30T08:57:00.000-08:00

So we're slowly moving forward in the grieving process. The pain is not 24/7 anymore, like it was. Now it just comes in waves, and usually when you least expect it.

Like yesterday at the bank. I wasn't ready for that.

In general I find it's easier talking to people who already know about it. Breaking the news is nearly impossible, and usually ends with me bawling and telling them to go read the website because I simply cannot bear to tell the story any more. I'm still not answering my phone unless it's someone with whom I'm immediately coordinating plans.

But the happy times are peeking through. I can laugh with my friends, have a decent dinner with Aaron, and go on a dog walk successfully. In fact, so long as I'm in the presence of other people I'm pretty much fine. It's when I'm alone that it really hits home.

I realize that I haven't actually been alone for nearly 8 years now. Paco was not just my dog, he was my sidekick. He went everywhere with me, literally. When he was 5 1/2 weeks old and needed to be fed every few hours, I wore him in a papoose behind the counter at the junk store I worked at. When he was 12 weeks old he would come with me to work at the dog day care every day. When he was 4 years old and I quit the daycare to pursue Paco Collars full time, he came along with me. Vacations were planned around his inclusion and my avoidance of public transportation was on his behalf (except the one time I snuck him on BART in his therapy dog vest when my car broke down).

I went out of my way to get him his CGC and Therapy Dog title so that he would be accepted everywhere. In places other dogs were not allowed people made exceptions for Paco.

Just a few days before Christmas this year some friends had a get-together at their house. The hosts were pregnant (well, the wife was) and had invited all of their "baby friends." In fact, it was primarily a "baby party." And, guess what? They went out of their way to invite Paco. They knew Paco was as important to us as any of the children were to their parents, so they asked if Paco could come. Visually he was a little out-of-place, being the only four legged guest, but he was happy to perform tricks for latkes and allowed the children to walk all over his back.

I was away from him for a week two summers ago when I went to New York. Most recently, we were in Mexico for two weeks. That was by far the longest I'd been away from him. Part of me wonders if this recent extended absence prompted his desire to squeeze out the cat door and follow us that night. Or maybe my fears were true and his seemingly increased ravenous demeanor of the late was the presence of a new, budding disease, one that prompted him to check Pirate's feeding spot for leftovers on the other side of the fence.

All I know is that now I feel alone. I can be surrounded by other dogs, and there's still a giant hole. Paco was my other half, and I wonder if another dog can ever fill that hole.

Today we tear down the fence and build a new one. Folks will be coming over to help. In essence, it will be a two day wake for Paco.

New Leaf

2009-01-28T10:46:00.000-08:00

The saying goes something like, "When one door closes another opens." I think that's the polite way of saying life has a twisted sense of humor.

Yesterday afternoon we found out that we got the space. *The* space. It's the space we've been hand-wringing about for two weeks. The space that was too perfect. The space that required the preface, "I don't wanna jinx it but," whenever I mentioned it to the handful of friends I knew would share our pain if we didn't get it.

Several different events, such as the lease running out, our 24 hour security guy moving to Oregon, and the lack of insulation combined with the roof leak directly above my desk (it's not the biggest of the roof leaks, might even be the smallest, but it's the most annoying) prompted the desire to find a new place, and we were hoping the move could be an upward one. Given our meager budget, our options were slim, but one day we found a posting on Craigslist that was too good to be true.

Formerly a blacksmith shop, the building was one of the oldest on Shattuck. The space is as long as our current studio and about half the width (which is totally fine since, if you've ever seen our current studio, you know half our space is just full of junk).

It also includes a small office.

But the best part is that it includes a fireplace. Having worked in warehouses, basements, cargo containers, and garages for the past 7 years, this is downright luxurious.

The facade. Yes, we can affix signage and yes, we have both windows. Note the hitching posts.

It's just $50 more than the rent we pay now and across from the Berkeley Bowl, the best grocery store in the entire bay area. Just 2 blocks from BART, the location is beyond perfect.

In a way, the timing couldn't be better. We all sorely need a project to get our minds off the recent tragedy, and what better project than creating a physical tribute to Paco in the form of a store that honors his memory. It all seems so bittersweet, though.

We start to move in this weekend and, in the meantime, we're totally taking design advice. The one bad thing about all of this news is that we cannot change the colors of the facade. The Paco palette is pretty earthy so we'll have to find a compromise. We can do whatever we want to the interior so goodbye, sunset wall.

Pet Cemetery

2009-01-26T11:32:00.000-08:00

Yesterday we took Paco up to Napa.

It's fortunate that the one pet crematorium that was open on a Sunday also filled the desire to get the f- out of town. While making the reservation the woman on the other end of the phone asked me, "Do you have someone to carry him? Because I'm the only one here."

"Of course," I answered, "we can carry him."

"Are you sure?" she asked, "Because I'm the only one here."

It seemed strange to me that she didn't think we could handle carrying a 48 lb dog (actually 47.5... I had just taken him in last week to get his rabies booster and was shocked to discover he was a pound under his ideal weight). But I dismissed it.

We hopped in the car and went to get Paco. Carolyn had taken away his body the night before. She's an ACO for Contra Costa County and, therefore, the one I called to find out what to do with the body. When we discovered Paco, his extremities were cold but his core was still warm. By the time Carolyn took him away his core was cold as well. But as we took Paco out from her trunk to put in ours, I pulled back the quilt to expose his elbow and rib cage and was shocked to feel how utterly chilled his body was. This, of course, sparked a fresh crying session.

We dried our eyes, picked up Donyale and headed north.

The drive was absolutely beautiful. The air was chilly but the sky blue and full of moist clouds that threatened to rain at any moment. The wine country made a beautiful backdrop to distract us, as the mood in the car was somber. As we climbed the hill to the Bubbling Wells, I was amazed at the scenery. I mean, check out the view.

Inside the office/chapel, things were... um... creepy.

The woman instructed us to drive around the side to the refrigeration area. She pointed to the astro-turf covered bench and told us to put the body there. We carried him out in the quilt and placed him on the bench.

She produced a large, black trash bag. "Okay, and now you need to take him out of the blanket and put him in this bag."

We peeled away the blanket, lifted up his stiff body, and that's when we all started bawling. I realized then why she had stressed so much about asking for help. Carrying him wasn't the hard part, this was.

"Oh my," she said, "he looks so young." As the three of us stood there sobbing, each with a hand on Paco, I tried the best I could with what little oxygen I had to explain what happened. While she had seemed a bit hardened before, I could see that the story impacted her generally tough demeanor. "Oh dear, how tragic," she kept saying over and over.

I don't know how long we stood there petting Paco. Somehow his mouth had closed during transport and his lip was hung up on one tooth, which was always my favorite facial expression of his.

We lifted him up and slid the trash bag around him, sobbing and following her instructions about pushing him to the bottom.

"Now twist up the end," she said. I was staring at Paco's face and reaching toward the bag but I couldn't do it.

"Now twist up the end and tie it in a knot," she instructed again. But I couldn't do it. I was, literally, frozen in shock staring at his little snaggle-tooth.

"You don't have to do that," Aaron said, as he bear hugged me and pulled me away from the scene, breaking the trance. And that's when I really lost it. I was crying hysterically and couldn't stop. All the pain came crashing down in that one moment, and I felt the loss in a way I hadn't experienced before. The reality of it all hit me, and I just let it all out.

Eventually I pulled it together and we lowered Paco into the fridge. Stacked on top of those other bags he was indistinguishable. We took a few minutes to pull ourselves together and potty Xochitl, who was doing a really good job at distracting us with her puppy-antics.

Randomly, Leslie and Nickie were up north, so we met up with them at one of their favorite wineries to toast Paco. This is the view from the winery (and also what I look like with a purse dog... this is only until she gets all of her shots, I swear).

It was on the drive home that we decided we'll be tearing out the fence. We just can't look at it anymore.

Hardest Post Ever

2009-01-25T10:31:00.000-08:00

Paco is dead.

He died last night while we were at dinner. I guess he broke out of the fence (we have a short fence that separates our yard from the front house) and then, while trying to get back into the house, tried to jump over the fence, didn't make it, got his head caught in between the fence pickets, and strangled. By the time we got home he was dead.

I cannot explain how much this event rocks my core.

This wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to get old and grey and crotchety. He was supposed to raise Xochitl. He was supposed to make me a millionaire so I could get taxidermy done to his head when he did finally kick the bucket.

There are so many "what-ifs" in this situation but what I can't shake is the image of him hanging in the fence. His feet couldn't touch the ground and his toenails were bleeding from the attempt to get his head unstuck. The last thing he wanted to was get back home and he never made it. He died alone.

The simple act of putting the key in the gate brings back the image. Without the aid of sleeping pills it would have kept me up all night last night, but, as it was, it only kept me up about half the night.

Today we drive up to Napa and get him cremated. And I think I'll commission Tim to make a piece to hold the ashes.

I still can't believe it. I feel like there's a big hole in my life. The night before he died we went out, took Paco, and left the baby at home. At one point, we were at a restaurant having a beer under the outside awning. I looked down at Paco and had a moment of realizing just how much he made me feel complete. We were so in tune with each other that we could move in sync. Together we made a whole and now it's broken.

If anyone wants to do anything for me/us/Paco then make a donation to BADRAP under his name.

Growing a thick skin

2009-01-23T17:25:00.000-08:00

I promise you this will not become "The Xochitl Blog" but, let's face it, she is one of the most exciting things in my life right now, so let's talk about her!

In my head she just gets cuter and cuter every day. Her little personality is evolving hilariously and her body is beginning to mature, lengthen, and grow. At daycare she's making friends. Yesterday she played with Monty the Min Pin all day. He grew to love her so much that he began resource guarding her. That's right, if any dog approached the pink satin love pillow they shared, he would fight them off. I'm not sure if I approve of her seeing older men, but I suppose a day long flirtation is of no harm.

Today she moved on, apparently.

She's also incredibly smart when the reward is obvious. It took her one day to learn to sit, wait, and watch for her food. And her "fetch" is amazing.

It's such a departure from Señor Paco, who, when asked to fetch, didn't see the point since the toy tasted just as good over there as it did here. And, actually, it tasted *way* better over there since he got to keep chewing on it longer. In his world, the command "bring it" still means "chew faster".

So if Xochitl is such a wonderful, charming, and adorable dog then why would I say I'm having a hard time? It's because not everyone thinks she is. In fact, some people are absolutely repulsed by her.

Now, I'm kind of used to this. I own a pit bull and have for the past 7+ years so I've gotten pretty immune to the opinions of others. In fact, if someone has something bad to say about my dog I have an entire arsenal of facts and demonstrations I can whip out in order to give them another impression. Paco has managed to change quite a few minds in the past and we will continue to educate for the rest of his life and mine.

If someone says to me, "Pit Bulls are bad dogs," I have a prepackaged response ready.

But if someone says, "Man, that dog is ugly," I just don't know what to say.

The first statement can be fought with facts and examples, but the second statement is an opinion... how do you fight someone's opinion? I mean, I know people do that all the time, but it's a totally new experience for me and I have yet to put together stock responses and grow a thick skin. Right now all I have are, "Takes one to know one," and, "Have you looked in a mirror lately?" but both are pretty adolescent, which usually does not persuade someone to come around to your side. It's all so new and fresh I take it personally now... if someone is weirded out by her then I feel like it's somehow my fault.

It's like when Paco was a puppy and I would tell people he was a pit bull. At first the general response was so negative that I took to lying about his breed. Ironically, I went through a month long phase where I told people he was a Xoloitzcuintle (at the time I thought that would be the closest I would ever get to owning one).

It took quite a while to get the words "pit bull" out of my mouth without the cringing, but eventually I embraced it. Like so many other derogatory terms that have been co-opted by the groups they once alienated, I feel the term should be said with pride, so now I never hesitate to use it.

So I know it's just a matter of time before I get used to it and come up with a response so witty people will swayed by our combined charm, but, until then, I expect a few uncomfortable months ahead of us.

Xolo Shower... Paco Hangover

2009-01-19T17:22:00.000-08:00

We now have a barometer by which we can judge the success of a house party: Paco's food bowl.

Knowing Paco's propensity for turning anything into a toy, we always buy a handful of $.99 dog bowls every time we hit up Ikea and, when he gets excited, it's usually one of the first things to go in his mouth. From the photograph below, can you tell how the Xolo Shower went?

Yesterday we had a little shindig to serve the dual purpose of both introducing Xochitl (So-Chee) to our friends and filling in everyone about our trip to Mexico. Things started out just like any other party...

Aaron donned his Oaxacan grilling duds and sparked up the weber.

Folks came over to meet the little girl and bring her clothing.

We served a variety of Mexican snacks, including chapulines. Here Claudio is contemplating eating one. And the decision was not a light one. In fact, the consequence for not trying one was that you had to take a shot of tequila.

I guess it's okay to disclose now but the spicy salt we used to rim the margarita glasses actually gets it's color from the mescal worm so, yeah, you were eating bugs whether you knew it or not. And to say that taking a shot of tequila was actually a "punishment" is also a little bit of a stretch. In fact, the tequila we brought back from Mexico was so good, many folks were taking optional shots, which leads me to the next barometer of a good party: lack of documentation.

There are no shots of the Mexican flag cupcake trays.

There are no shots of the pit pull/pug/Patterdale portion of the party.

There are no shots of little Xdog killing the pinata (well, she kinda failed but Paco was more than happy to finish the job).

There are no shots of the dog-laden after-party at the bar down the street.

But probably that's for the best, since drunken party shots are usually less than flattering. This is one that actually made it.

(and you can tell we must have been drunk since Muggy and Lola were partying on the couch)

It's official...

2009-01-15T10:05:00.000-08:00

... life with Xochitl is ADORABLE!

Let me preface this by stating that, after having worked with dogs for so long, it takes a lot to impress me. I mean, I have seen/met/worked with so many dogs that a dog had better possess a little something-something that sets it apart from the pack (no pun intended). I am not one of those people that walks into a shelter and wants to take very dog home. Nope, not me. I have a harsh, critical eye when it comes to the dogs. Just ask Aaron, who was amazed at my puppy critiquing skills a couple weeks back as we cruised petfinder.com.

"Ugly, bad dog, biter, ugly. That's a cute one," I'd call out as we quickly scanned each page.

"How can you tell from just that tiny thumbnail?" he'd amaze.

"Easy, when you see as many dogs as I do you can just tell which dog is a trouble maker, and which one is an ass-biter, and what it's going to look like when it's full grown," I told him, matter-of-factly.

I also have to admit that I'm not a puppy fan. They take up way too much time, energy, and patience and all you get in return is a something that constantly demands food and produces nasty smelling stuff from the other end. Over the years I've dealt with my share of puppies and, except for a handful, I would have to say that they're more trouble than they're worth.

All that said, I have to say that Xochitl is the cutest thing ever. Her little personality is adorable, she's hilarious when she waddles across the floor toward you or wants to kill a stuffie three times her size, and her constant need for warmth is endearing as she constantly wants to cuddle.

It's this need for warmth that is bonding her and Paco, as they both crave comfort. While their friendship in the "awake hours" is still developing (they had their first real play session yesterday, but mostly their interaction consists of them both playing with toys near each other), they don't hesitate to take any opportunity to cuddle. Rather, Xochitl will hunt down Paco and cuddle on him, Paco just tolerates it. But this is the beginning of something beautiful, I can tell.

And now the pics...

Sharing the sun spot (note Xochitl's new Paco Collar)

For scale

RWAAAR!

Just for fun we've also taken to writing Xochitl's name phonetically on her ear band-aids... one side reads "SO" and the other reads "CHEE".

Introducing Xochimilco Gonzales

2009-01-08T22:38:00.000-08:00

But you can call her Xochitl (So-chee).

She's Paco's new sister and the story goes something like this...

One day we left the hotel in Oaxaca and I saw a woman walking a beautiful Xoloitzcuintle down the street. Stunned by its beauty, I stopped in my tracks and started gawking. Eventually she caught me staring so, not wanting to be rude, I mustered up my best Spanish and called out, "Me gusta su Xolo!"

She looked puzzled so I tried again, "Me gusta su perro!"

"Oh, thank you!" she answered, in English.

As we continued walking Aaron asked me what the heck a Xoloitzcuintle was, an innocent enough question that elicited from me a several-block-long-dog-nerd-monologue that explained the Meso-American history of the breed, my lifelong fascination with them, cataloged every personal interaction with one I've ever had, how Frida and Diego owned them, and the exact circumstances that would have to exist in order for me to actually own one (Xolos have a tendency to be shy around strangers so early socialization is key). My speech was interrupted by another Xolo sighting (see previous post for the proof).

The next day we went on the hunt for a good outdoor cafe. And by "outdoor cafe" I mean "a place to drink beer outside". While wandering the streets we stumbled across an art gallery. As I stepped into the courtyard I recognized the first Xolo from the day before.

This time I struck a conversation with the owner about her dog. She's owned many breeds but is now completely sold on Xolos. I asked her about the breed presence in Oaxaca and she explained the regional differences in conformation. "You know," she said, "there's this woman artist up the road that has a litter right now. You should go see them."

Suddenly feeling like a Bigfoot hunter with a good lead on a fresh set of tracks, I sat eagerly as she drew me a map to the house. Strangely enough she only lived a short walk from our hotel in the neighborhood of Xochimilco (So-chee-meel-co).

After a good lunch, we stopped by the hotel then headed up the hill to the neighborhood of Xochimilco. We were told to "ask anyone" should we get lost and, sure enough, everyone we asked was able to point us toward the house that held the "perros sin pelo" (dogs without hair).

The owner, Gabriela, was not at home, but she lived in a compound and several people were knowledgeable about the history of the dogs. Goya had six pups, they said, three with hair and three without. The ones with hair were given away and Demian Flores had just taken the one hairless male. The two remaining puppies were both 8 weeks old and female which, unfortunately, fit the exact specs of what would work well in our household. Of the two, the smaller one was far cuter.

That would be this one:

After playing with the puppies and Goya we went on our way. "Did you hear her?" I asked Aaron, "the puppies are only 1,000 pesos! We paid more for that painting."

"No, she said 4,000 pesos," he replied. My heart sunk a little, but it still seemed unbelievably cheap to me since Xolos are so rare in the states. In our heads we named her "Xochimilco" and she was Paco's personal bedwarmer, but we knew it was just a dream. We didn't have the time/space/want for another dog, let alone a puppy. Not to mention the idea of buying a dog just seemed wrong to me.

But as the night progressed I couldn't get her out of my mind. People would have intense conversations around me and all I could do was go through every imaginable combination of issues that involved owning two dogs. In the past, every once in a while I would crave a second dog, but the feeling would pass and I would be happy I'd stuck to my guns.

But this time it was different. Topping out at around 15 lbs, that meant a full grown Xochitl could travel with us and, being a fairly low energy breed, the demand for extra exercise and attention wouldn't be there in the long run. In fact, aside from twice the feeding, it was hard to see why fitting my dream breed into our lifestyle wouldn't work. And, let's face it, it's not every day a Xolo puppy with beautiful parents and temperament comes your way.

We talked about it late into the night. "Listen," I told Aaron, "I'm going to call the breeder in the morning and meet with her. I need to be talked out of this but it can't come from you. I need to ask the right questions and see for myself it's a bad idea."

After breakfast the next morning I called the number and spoke with Gabriela. She was on her way to the mountains for the weekend with Goya but had already sent me an e-mail through the Paco Collars website explaining the price for the pups was actually 6,000 pesos (!), we were welcome to go visit, and that her housemate had all the paperwork and could answer our questions.

Up the hill we went again, this time with Aaron's father, his brother, and his brother's girlfriend. Enamored with the puppies, they didn't help at all. And I didn't get the answers I wanted. The puppies already had shots, this was Goya's last (and I believe only) litter, the sire had been carefully selected by the family veterinarian to expand the bloodline. This was getting harder to say "no" to and unbeknownst to me, after turning down several people, Gabriella had already researched us and had selected us to be the parents to the one pup that was for sale (the pup we didn't choose would go back to Goya's breeder's family).

This time, going back down the mountain, it was Aaron who was sold. "Xochimilco Poe. No, Xochimilco Bautista," he mulled, trying on several last names.

"No, it's Xochimilco Gonzales," I said, fitting his mother's maiden name onto the dog. But we still both knew it was a bad idea. So we decided to set up some alternate hurdles. And down those hurdles came, one by one.

His parents, who we expected to be opposed to the idea, actually endorsed it and offered to cover the extra pesos we lacked.

It turned out the customs procedures for puppies are actually quite lax, and our airline told us they could fly the dog out for a small fee.

But there was still one major hurdle, and it wasn't until after nightfall that the landlord finally got back to us an okayed the addition of a second, small dog. At this point we had been hand-wringing for several hours, since we didn't want to fully commit until we heard from him, but were also due to leave Oaxaca the next morning.

As this final puzzle piece fell into place, we knew it was meant to be... all the stars had lined up just right. As we bustled back up the hill in the dark, I likened the decision to an unplanned pregnancy: sometimes you things just happen when you least expect it, but in giving it an appropriate amount of thought you see there's no reason why you can't make it work with just a little bit of rearranging.

We left the compound with a small, warm bundle wrapped in a scarf in Aaron's arms. "I suddenly feel like one of those celebrities that goes to a foreign country and comes back with a little brown baby," he said.

More to follow...

And the person who came closest to guessing the surprise from the previous post was Jane but she doesn't win the 100 pesos since she described Xochitl as being "one of those ugly little dogs" and, as you can see, she's quite adorable.

Greetings from Mexico!

2009-01-06T11:15:00.000-08:00

Almost feels like cheating since we'll be in transit back to the states tomorrow, but it's been a jam-packed vacation. 400,000 photos to come but my camera cord is at home, making downloading impossible. Regardless, here's a sneak peek at what we've been up to...

First, the Etla market. "Etlas" are the towns and villages surrounding Oaxaca. There is a central market where all the vendors from the various etlas congregate and the result is a shopper's paradise. Not only is there an insane amount of fresh produce you've ever wanted, but you can also find a life-sized donkey pinata, a pig's head, or a pirated copy of the Simpsons in Spanish. We got an apron (for all the cooking I do, *cough, cough*), some fireworks, and a miniature Luche Libre action figure set. Here's what the market looks like (Aaron resents being filmed from behind as he argues it makes his butt look big):

And here is a Oaxacan traffic signal. Pedestrian fatalities in Mexico are high and I can see why... this little guy is so mesmerizing I almost got hit when sucked in by his cuteness:

And finally one of my favorites, a Xoloitzcuintle we met through a window. He lives at an art gallery and his sole job is to look cute and attract passerbys. Sorry for the sucky video quality, it's hard to film a dog and play with it all at once. I *heart* Xolos.

We get back home late tomorrow, put our lives back together the next day, so hopefully I'll be able to put together a concise summary of our vacation events soon. Here's a hint: we've got a BIG surprise! If you can guess it, I'll give you 100 pesos (which is not much considering the incredibly awesome, for us, exchange rate right now)

Good news and bad news

2008-12-25T01:03:00.000-08:00

We all know the order we like to hear it in...

Bad news is that I will not be around much the next two weeks. The good news is that I won't be around much because I'll be in Mexico!!!

The other good news is that I got my Flip Mino HD so I'll be able to document the vacation properly. It arrived earlier today, just in the nick of time as we leave at 6 am Christmas Day (which I guess is actually in just a few hours). I took a good video of Paco, and then took a bunch of stupid ones.

Like this one I took of myself, ala Myspace self-portrait shot.

I've gotta admit that I'm being pretty cheesy this year. I mean, the trip to Mexico is cool, the new Flip is cool, but this is what I think counts as the true Christmas Miracle this year.

Feliz Navidad and see you in 2009!

I heart haircuts

2008-12-22T20:40:00.000-08:00

So I finally broke down and got my hair cut. I haven't seen my hairdresser since June. It got to the point where I was wearing a ponytail every day, which is a major pain in the ass and heat waster during the winter, so I finally broke down and went in.

If there's one thing that can make you feel like a million bucks in a hearbeat, it's a good haircut. Check it out:

(note that I said it was a good haircut, not a good picture, but it does the job)

Can't do nothing write

2008-12-16T09:53:00.000-08:00

I hate to publicly announce these things for fear I'll jinx it, but I'm studying to take the GMAT. Why is this relevant, you ask? Because, through my studies, I've realized that I have no idea how to write or speak English.

This sucks. Now I find myself second guessing everything I say... er, write... er type. So if you've written to Paco Collars in the past few days and have noticed my e-mails seem as bland as oatmeal, well you can blame the GMAT. Singlehandedly the test prep has turned me from confident wordsmith to watch-my-mouth-Sally.

It's like that day in Jr, High when I thought I was so cool because Kate and I were wearing matching outfits: teal Sonoma County Fair shirts and white shorts (bet you can't guess where this is going). During lunch a girl I barely knew came up to me.

"Hey, did you just have art class?"

"No, I'm not in art," I replied, and a bit like a braggart since I kind of fancied myself an accomplished artist at the time... I could draw horses better than anyone I knew.

"Oh. Because you have a little, um, red on the back of your shorts."

The problem is that I was too embarrassed to tell any of my friends I had started my period a few months earlier. And I never brought any back-up protection because I was so afraid someone would discover a big old pad in my bag and, therefore, find out I'd started my period. So I kept my mouth shut and suffered the rest of the day in utter embarrassment, never going to the nurse or asking a pal for a tampon, slinking around and hoping no one looked at me or noticed that the sweater around my waist was developing a little red stain as well.

Occasionally you experience something in life that removes every shred of self-confidence you have, and that's what I'm suffering write now. I mean *right* now. Damn.

Oh well. I've got a new little toy coming soon that should take my mind off of my inability to grasp the English language. And it's finally an excuse to use this pic:

This was only taken four years ago but it seems like a snapshot from the wild, wild west.

Copy Cats

2008-12-12T10:28:00.000-08:00

They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery but when people are imitating your designs and selling them as their own, well that just sucks.

Yesterday Juliene sent me an e-mail.

"Found this while I was messing around on Etsy. They aren't exact copies, but they're similar. Just thought you'd like to keep your eye on them."

Juliene is a little bit our self-appointed watchdog, since she's constantly shopping online, is deeply involved with dogs, and is protective over Paco Collars like a cougar over her cubs (not that she's old, like a cougar). It puts her in a unique position to scout for imitators.

I click on the link not expecting much. Most of the time it's nothing. I mean, there are only a handful of design elements out there, most leather supplies in the US come from the same supplier, so there is occasionally something that kind of looks like our stuff because it uses the same decoration. Usually it's different enough to not be a threat. I mean, unless you have the $2,000 deposit to create a die and your own series of custom conchos, you're kind of stuck using what's out there. Since that's the case, it's not company policy to jump all over every Joe Schmoe who uses a Celtic Heart on one of their collars. It's not what you use, it's how you use it.

The page opens. Up comes pics of many different collars, I see the usual array of conchos that everyone likes to use, but then I see it: our collar. It's exactly our collar but in a different color. And it's not even a case where they're using the same decoration. It's a copy of our Simple Two-Tone collar, which has no decorations. Woah.

This happened once before. Many years back we had a customer order a custom dog collar for her dog. We worked with her, designed a collar for her dog, everyone was happy. About 6 months later I received a weird e-mail telling me to watch out for this particular customer and it contained a link. I clicked on the link and up came a thread from a forum where the customer was bragging about how she created a custom collar company.

(paraphrasing here)

"I recently purchased a custom leather collar for my dog as was disappointed at how much it cost so I decided to create my own *affordable* custom collar company," she touted. And on came the pictures of the collars she created. I scrolled through, yawning ("crap, crap, crap"), until I came across... drum roll please... an exact copy of the collar we designed her dog! Yeah, she was making, and selling, the exact collar we designed for her dog. And bragging about it.

At this point my stomach turned. It kind of felt like being dumped, but different. It was like dating someone you weren't really into, you were planning on breaking up with them but, before you could, they cheated on you with someone super hot just to beat you to the punch and rub your face in it. It's a small part heartbreak, a huge part disgust, with a sprinkle of losing all trust in the rest of humanity.

And so began my education in intellectual property.

I won't bore you with all the details, but I cannot emphasize how important it is for artists to protect themselves. The majority of people are not creative, so it's much easier for them to take something that's been done and try and own it. I did a lot of research, sent the former customer a cease and desist letter, and she pulled the design. Easy peasy.

But then it happened again about a year later. Knowing that she probably wasn't going to roll over easily, and that this was starting to look like a habit rather than a mistake, this time I pulled out the big guns. I put out my feelers and found an intellectual property lawyer within a few degrees of me. Turns out his wife wanted some leather goods for their dog and baby so we traded some legal consultation for product. We sent another cease and desist letter. As predicted, she did not want to roll over, but our case was pretty strong so she eventually conceded.

To me there is just something so wrong about copying designs, but I realize to some extent I'm in the minority. I mean, give me $50 and any parking lot in Oakland and I can buy you a faux Louis Vuitton handbag from a someone's trunk. Designers keep Oscar dresses under wraps but imitations pop up within 24 hours after the event. It's not a new concept, but when a company is as small as Paco Collars, any imitation could take away market share, which means taking money from our pockets, which means people don't get paid, and when you mess with my people I get pissed.

It's fortuitous that this new site pops up as we're in the midst of collaborating with the same intellectual property lawyer on building our body of work. See, Paul wants to go to law school so this is his practice. And how perfect that he gets a real life opportunity to stretch his fledgling legal legs?

So I want to thank this newest copy cat for giving us the opportunity to expand our legal knowledge even further. Wording on their website-under-construction alludes to the fact that they're placing themselves to be in direct competition with us (and there are parts where they actually lift and use our exact wording) so claiming spontaneous generation is not a viable argument.

I thank them for allowing Paul this opportunity to break his legal cherry. And all I have to say is, "Watch out guys, you're going down." Pissing off Ana Poe is one thing, but you've got folks that are way more mad about it than me.

"Call in Gay to Work" Day

2008-12-10T12:26:00.001-08:00

Well, since I was too sick to go into work yesterday I cannot afford to celebrate Day Without a Gay today, but Darth Vader will be my stand-in:

I mean, tell me that's not pretty gay! And can you imagine the Death Star as one big disco ball? Hello!?!

*Hopes they call her to write Episode 7*

The Face of Death(ly ill)

2008-12-09T15:34:00.000-08:00

It finally happened. I got sick. I know it's payback. As all of my friends fell around me I couldn't help but think, "That's because they're weak," or, "Sucker, I never get sick." But karma tallied up all those negative thoughts and threw them back at me with a vengeance.

Yesterday was the worst, but I had to go to work in order to meet a few deadlines. Even with the heater 6" from me I was shivering and my head was so cloudy I kept hitting my hand with the mallet. At one point I had to lay down and take a nap. Somehow I made it home (four layers of clothing deep and the heater full blast), where I promptly crashed on the couch, where I've been ever since.

Fortunately I'm doing much better today. I think I broke my fever last night as I woke up from a tormented sleep all sweaty and gross, and Aaron's been taking good care of me. I'm working from home today which is good since there are a ton of computer projects I need to get done. I've been so focused on constructing product lately that I've been letting little things like, oh, updating the website go unchecked. But today I am forced to tackle these things.

Behold, my executive suite for the day (or, as I like to call it, "the nest")

My assistant, Paco, is taking his calls from under the grey blanket.

Homestyle

2008-12-04T10:45:00.000-08:00

It's official, going to the salon is "out" and doing your beauty routine from home is "in."

Well, at least that's what I like to tell myself. I haven't gotten a haircut since June, which is also the last time I got my hair colored. I know my roots are incredibly long, but I delude myself in to thinking it looks good. And when my bangs finally got so long they began to impair my vision, I did not break down and visit my favorite hairdresser... instead I cut them myself.

I also gave Aaron a haircut the same day so he could save on the $50 salon visit. Sure he's been wearing a hat ever since, but I like to believe that's weather induced rather than shame over his "homestyle".

But perhaps my biggest beauty sacrifice due to the recession has been my nails. Now, I've never been a girly girl. Growing up I would ridicule the color pink, dolls, and flowers choosing instead to collect Transformers, play in the dirt, and wear pants. As I've matured I've learned to own my girliness instead of running from it. I actually own skirts now, enjoy soap operas, and wear my hair in something other than a bowl cut. Still, it was as big a shock to me as anyone else when I started getting my nails done...

It all started innocently enough. Last fall I walked into the nail salon around the corner from my house. My goal was to enlist the nail artists into airbrushing designs onto our collars, thus saving us painting time in-house. They quickly turned down the offer but I still insisted on watching an airbrush demonstration so I could see the tricks of the trade.

"If you want airbrush you have to buy nails," they said.

Surely they must be mistaken. I already had nails. My nice, short, bitten-to-the-quick nails surrounded by hang-nailed cuticles. I insisted they could use my natural canvas.

"No, airbrush no stay. You have to buy acrylic nails, then we do airbrush." They wouldn't budge.

I emphasized that I worked with my hands and, therefore, could not function with fake nails, but after much back-and-forth we compromised with them promising to cut my nails as short as possible. In exchange, I chose the tackiest airbrush design I could think of. Behold:

For additional tackiness, I even got a naked lady on the thumbs

I swore I would take them off within a day or two, but everyone at Paco Collars insisted I keep them, pointing out the fact that I'd used company money (it *was* research) and therefore my nails were really company property and had to stay. At first I fought it, but I was outnumbered.

I struggled through learning to live with the nails. I had to learn to re-type, use tools in constructing dog collars, and found these new, plastic nails were actually impossible to bite, thus thwarting my life-long nervous habit. I cursed them every chance I got, but then something magical happened: they grew on me. Literally. It had been two weeks and my nail beds were beginning to show so I had to make a choice, get them removed or get a filled in and redone. I chose the latter, and thus began my new nail obsession.

Every 2-3 weeks I'd go to a new salon, get a fill, and test drive their designs. I went to many shops in the East Bay and the San Francisco, a different one every week, actually, but the best one was still the first. I learned that airbrushing nails is a dying art and so is, apparently, updating your nail shop signage. The result is that you go into a shop because of the prominent "Airbrush Design" sign only to learn they stopped the service many years back and then you're stuck getting a paintbrush design, oh well.

For a while I kept diligent track of my nails and mental notes on the shop, convinced I would start a nail blog. But I never got around to it and also failed to document some of the best designs. Here are some, though not the best.

These are the "tuxedo nails" I got for BADRAP's "Tuff Love", a black tie event:

Carolyn really like these because they looked like eyelashes. Dango thought they were boring. My opinion falls somewhere in between the two and more towards indifference.

These ones were pretty '80's and you can measure my poverty at the time by how grown out they are. I took this picture at the gynecologist's office.

On the recommendation of a Office Depot clerk, I went to New York nails up Mission Street. Yes, they were by far the cheapest airbrush nails I got, but the reason is because the designs/colors are limited and the staff very inexperienced. The result is that they cut my cuticles and left me with a design that looks more like it should be on a My Little Pony's butt rather than your fingers. I went to visit Aaron afterward and complained it looked like I'd gotten "My First Nails".

When we moved to the cottage this summer I realized I could not justify spending the money on bi or even tri-weekly visits, so I went in to the shop around the corner and had the acrylics removed. It was the most painful thing in my life, and I later found out the guy did it all wrong and actually damaged my nails quite a bit in the process. The end result is that my nails had the appearance of having "tree rings" from every acrylic fill and it has taken me until now to grow them all the way out. Even so, my one thumb nail still has one ring left to grow out, but it's getting there.

Now my nail routine is much more reasonable. I bought a few bottles of cool polish and every Monday night I sit down, watch Gossip Girl, and do my nails. Sure, it's not as extravagant, but neither is overt consumerism. Here's my version of nails done homestyle (www.blackbirdphoto.com):

Sure, they're not as fun, but definitely more economical.

Interior Decoratin' 101

2008-12-01T10:24:00.000-08:00

So we moved into this cottage in July and proceeded to re-decorate like mad. It was just like one of those home improvement shows where every weekend was filled with ripping up floors, bringing the beige walls up to white, adding color, scouring Craigslist and junkyards, and spending more time in Ikea than I'm willing to admit. As the way of large projects normally goes, we got the place up to a certain level and then stopped, convinced the last few details could be knocked out easily in no time.

Fast forward a few months and those little details still remained unattended to, but the pressure of hosting Thanksgiving here was the fire under the pants we needed to finally get things done. I knocked out some curtains, Aaron wired the outside lights to a dimmer, and then we worked on the pretty things.

First, our centerpiece

The original idea was to get a piñata but none looked very good. A mad dash to every mexi-mart on 24th Street quickly lead us to favor a fuzzy ceramic sculpture, and I fought hard for the bull (you should see his balls). He's actually a piggy bank, but the thought of breaking him open for a few cents makes me sad, so I may just tape his hole shut (or stuff his balls in there).

Then came the big project: what to do with our silver wall. The way our house is laid out we have a slanted ceiling that leads up to one gigantic wall in the living room. We wanted it to be spectacular, so we chose to paint it silver with the idea that, at some point, we'd overlay a design of some sort. The design has morphed and changed over time, but with the deadline drawing near we had to pick something. So here it is:

And here it is with the rest of our living room:

If you notice, the hunter and dog are actually me and Paco

Ze birds

Aaron installing (a misleading picture since I actually did most of the installation)

Aaron has a laser cutter at his shop so we found images (and posed, when necessary), traced the outlines in CorelDraw, got the paper, and voila! Cool wall mural for $16. And that's this lesson from Interior Decoratin' 101.

Look, I Sound Smart... Kinda

2008-11-26T22:49:00.000-08:00

Prop 8 Rally from CafePress on Vimeo.

Okay, the truth is that I did not come up with that haiku on the spot, it actually took me a few minutes. But the way they edited it sounds like I'm an off-the-cuff genius. Heck, I'll take it.

Dressin' Like A Hessian

2008-11-23T00:49:00.000-08:00

This is kind of my new favorite shirt. I'm not always in the mood to rock it, but when I am, watch out world.

So last week we were in Dolores Park, I was wearing this outfit (sans jacket) and, as we were leaving, a girl ran up to me and asked to take my picture. I'm not shy, especially with a tall boy in me, so I posed. I asked why she was taking the picture and she said, "Oh, for my fashion class. We're documenting street fashion"

"Really? Anything interesting?" I asked.

"There's lots of plaid," she said, and then ran back to her group of friends.

I was so flattered. I was on cloud 9, just so happy someone liked my outfit enough to seek me out. I mean, it's not every day you're singled out from an entire lawn full of San Francisco's finest to represent "street fashion."

As I reunited with my crew Leslie asked, "What did that girl want?"

"To document my outfit for her fashion class," I answered.

"Was it for 'what to wear' or 'what not to wear,'" she asked.

Um, that's a good question... I hadn't bothered to ask.

Only one more day in Pathetic-Town

2008-11-22T11:47:00.000-08:00

As I bite into my gourmet breakfast of slightly freezer burned waffles that are still vaguely cold in the middle, I remind myself that this is the last day I have to live in this state. Aaron lands midday tomorrow and things will be back to normal.

It's not that I don't enjoy living alone and fending for myself, it's just that I'm no good at at. Aw, who am I kidding, I don't like it either. If left to my own devices I tend to let myself go, bathe irregularly, stay in my pajamas until high noon, eat only when I'm ravenously hungry, work until 1 am, fall asleep on the couch to the sound of the television, etc. But I can do the alone thing if necessary. I don't need Aaron around to survive, it's just that life is way better with him in it.

And at least I'm keeping busy. Paco Baby is almost up, running and ready for its mini pre-launch debut, I'm working extra hours so I can take a much needed Thanksgiving brain break, and Paco is getting all the attention in the world as he's temporarily #1 again. We've been hanging out with friends every day and he's meeting all sorts of new dogs. Check out the bear, I mean, dog we went on a walk with yesterday:

Newfoundland Hodgy belongs to Donyale's friend who is recouping from knee surgery, hence the reason D brought him on the walk. Here's Muggy and Lola for scale

And Donyale for scale

Really I shouldn't whine. Considering that, in the last 24 hours, my friend Bennett had to call the cops on an over zealous fan/stalker and Carolyn got hit by a car in front of her house while walking her dog, my problems are actually quite minor. Who am I to complain, really?

Addendum: Carolyn explained to me, over drinks tonight, that there's a specific term for the living style described above. The style of living which requires nothing more than the minimum upkeep expected for survival, contingent on no one else actually witnessing your day to day activities or holding you up to any sort of standards. It's called "going feral."

Right now I'm "going feral" by watching "Bring It On."

Babies = Emergency Plan

2008-11-19T22:55:00.000-08:00

Don't freak out, I am not "with child." I will explain...

Today marked the beginning of "Paco Baby", a Paco Collars spin-off providing leather baby belts and bracelets. Since there is fundamentally no difference between a 1" wide dog collar and a baby belt, it just made sense. The line will not be officially announced until Spring 2009, but the groundwork started today.

Tiffany (of blackbirdphoto.com) and I drove down to Redwood City in the wee hours of the morn to meet with Bambi and her daughter Piper. Bambi is the one that really put the fire under the (training) pants of this project, so it was appropriate Piper be the first model. Besides, little P-dog already had a beltand bracelet made over a year ago so that meant less sample product making for me.

Piper is only two but she's got a head of hair like a lion. Here she is with Spencer:

Not a great product shot but I love it for the fact that it showcases their relationship (or, rather, Spencer's relationship with the cheese).

And then there's this. The abandoned bike, the fallen leaves on the ground, and the forlorn look in a little child's eyes... it's just killing me. I mean, it could be the cover to the most depressing album in the world, an album theoretically entitled "Childhood Lost" or "The day I learned Santa was a joke."

Or it could be the winning shot on ANTM... you decide.

So I spent the rest of the day mocking up some sample product pages to go along with Tiffany's awesome shots. In the midst of this, Aaron called from Atlanta to check in. As I explained my activities for the day, I was suddenly struck with a profound realization: I'm enacting the emergency plan.

Last year I attended a cooperative conference and made sure to hit up the business plan session. When it was time to discuss worst case scenarios the presenter needed examples. "Ana," she said, "what's the Plan B for Paco Collars?"

Without skipping a beat I answered, "Oh, you mean if all the dogs in America died and everyone stopped buying dog collars? That's when we'd switch to making baby belts and do Paco Baby, because people will always have kids."

Now, in my mind, everything has followed a natural progression. We've always made leather products for people, including things for kids upon request, we have the capacity to produce more now, as I get older there are more kids in my immediate circles, we could use the sales since things are slow overall (shakes fist at economy), and people like Bambi are adamant it's a great idea. So I've blindly gone along with this "natural progression" not thinking twice about it when suddenly, after summarizing recent events into one or two sentences, I realized we've begun our Plan B.

So now, when people ask me my opinion on the economy, I can say, with a straight face, that we've gone into "worst case scenario" mode. Which would be "baby" mode.

p.s. This may not be the final version, but here's the working version of the Paco Baby logo. I need to get some impartial feedback, though, because right now I'm convinced it's the cutest thing ever.

Bachelor Mode

2008-11-17T11:08:00.000-08:00

So Aaron's been gone for less than 24 hours and I've switched into full bachelor mode. Pulled all the blankets to the couch, cuddled with the cat and dog and fell asleep to the tv, woke up an hour later than I should have, reheated nacho leftovers still on the counter, and about to start my second cup of coffee, a cup I gave up a few months back.

Why have I been driven to this point of sloth? Because Aaron's in Atlanta this week delivering the new robot. It's taken them nearly a year to get to this point, a point accomplished by a lot of blood, sweat, tears, then a little more blood, a few more tears, and so on.

Just to rub in the loneliness a little more, I've been going over video of Aaron demonstrating what the new robot can do. None of the footage is great, but this is the best one in terms of the fewest drunk people shouting in the background and a pretty clear demonstration/explanation of what you're watching.

[video is temporarily down while I work on making it better... check back in a few days!]

Once this puppy has a head... watch out, world.

A Rainbow of Realism

2008-11-16T23:08:00.000-08:00

The best thing about this picture is not that these two women are dressed as giant vaginas.

The best part is that they are "ethnic" and "caucasian" vaginas. And they are getting gay married. And they happen to be dressed in giant ethnic-and-caucasian-getting-married vagina outfits on a day that broke nearly 80 degrees in the middle of November.

Wow.

My Petty, Petty Pet Peeve

2008-11-14T12:33:00.000-08:00

For those of you that don't know, my job is Paco Collars. I founded it, own it, run it, make the product, advertise, eat, sleep and breathe it. Yes, I get a lot of help from a lot of people, but when when the feces hit the fan, it all comes back on me. I try to leave work out of this blog, but sometimes something happens that crosses the line and hurts my feelings personally...

So I'm in the middle of an e-mail correspondence with a potential customer (I do a hefty chunk of the customer service). They tell me about their dog, what collar they're envisioning, what customization they need, etc. We go back and forth until we come up with a piece that is both going to make the dog look amazing and the customer very happy.

"Great!" they say, "thanks for your help! I'm going to go put my order in through XXX store now!"

What?!!

It's kind of like saying, "Wow. That sure was a great 3 dates we just went on. And thanks for the dress. I'm going to wear it every time me and my husband go out." Wait a minute, what husband? You seem to have left something pretty major out of the conversation from the get-go.

But that's just my personal butt-hurt. It hurts financially as well. Let me explain:

Say it costs us X to make a collar. We then mark it up a certain percentage to cover additional costs and maybe a little profit. That's the "wholesale" price. Let's call it W. Stores buy it from us for W and then "keystone" or double it. The end result is that the customer sees the same product for the same price (2W) everywhere they look. If they buy the product from us, we make the W. If they buy it from the store, the store gets the W.

Now, we're a teeny tiny company. Each order means a lot to us. That W means the difference between someone getting their full paycheck or us being able to afford a new printer cartridge. We make a little money off store orders, but not very much. And depending on the terms, sometimes we don't see payment from the store until a month after the customer gets it. Sometimes stores are forgetful and we need to track them down and bill them repeatedly. Sometimes we don't see that money for 6 months. Sometimes, by the time we actually get the money, we've spent so many hours trying to get our money that we end up losing money in the long run.

Sometimes we don't see the money at all.

So when a customer tells me, after a lengthy e-mail correspondence, that they are now going to make their order through XXX store that currently has an outstanding balance with us, it's kind of like saying:

"By the way, I'll not only be wearing that dress out with my husband, but I also kind of accidently took the cash out of your wallet while you're weren't looking. You're the best!"

Moral of the story: if you're going to go through the trouble of tracking us down and establishing a relationship, just order through us. If you intend to order through a store, have them ask us the questions so we can help educate them in the process.

End of petty rant.

One Week Ago

2008-11-12T00:30:00.000-08:00

Kind of feels like a dream, but one week ago today (well, I'm writing this past midnight so I guess subtract one more day), hipsters sang the national anthem and waved flags with not a hint of irony. Cars honked, cops gave high-fives, and the entire city celebrated as one.

In our usual showing of style and class, we brought our own party.

It was so weird. Everyone smiled at each other, quiet streets sprung into spontaneous cheering, and while some residents were still hesitant about letting me into their house to use their bathroom, they at least escorted me to the most private public peeing spot.

But the evening was tinged with a bittersweet taste. There was barely a 3 minute lull between the warm afterglow of the acceptance speech to the news Prop 8 was winning by 57%. 3 perfect minutes in time followed quickly with a hit so hard it felt I'd been stabbed in the gut with a knife.

Sure the margin narrowed, but we all know what happened.

I contemplated removing my homemade car signs, but have yet to do so. Right now they read, "No on 8! No one should be denied the Mistake of Marriage." I figure I can't take them down until I come up with something that's both wittier but won't cause someone to bash my windows in. So I guess, "Only queers vote Yes on 8," and, "Congrats, you just let the White Man buy your vote," are probably not good options, but I figure the perfect slogan will come to me as things progress.

In the meantime, I am being as proactive as possible. I feel in times where you don't know what to do the answer is simply, "just do something."

Introduction

2008-11-10T01:29:00.000-08:00

That's me, Paco and Pirate. I'm Ana Poe of Paco Collars. While I'm often quite vocal in the land of dog collars, there's not really much about me. That's about to change.

p.s. Paco's eye looks weird because he's in the middle of a dream... shhh!