From the Dog's Mouth. Wavecrest Imprint

within an hour.

      But you have to give him credit. He’s learning, and he’s a lot more pleasant to be around. To tell the truth, I love him now and I think he knows it.

      Duncan and the Old Ranger

      At a recent trip to the Dog Park, something unusual happened. As I said, Daddy freaks out if I take a mud bath. There is a phenomenon in Sedona that starts around the Fourth of July known as a monsoon. The grass gets soaked and mud-caked and there are dirty water puddles all over the park. It’s something you just have to see, or for us dogs, to roll around in.

      So that day, we went prancing in, me on leash and mon père hurrying me away from three dogs who were chasing tennis balls through muddy waters. When Daddy wants me to poo he doesn’t want me to roll in the mud, chase balls or anything else. To him, this was a potty break.

      Then a miracle happened. Daddy may have been touched by an animal angel. As if it were his daily custom, he leisurely let me off leash. I literally flew over to where a friendly dude I call the Old Ranger was throwing a frisbee across the football-length field. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, a Welsh Terrier named Duncan grabbed me by the neck with his teeth. I made sounds like I am dying — I learned this drama from Daddy and man, he sure can make a big deal out of nothing sometimes. Mon père pulled me from the jaws of perhaps instant death.

      Now I have to give you some insights about Vince, owner of the terrier agir comme un fou (for the translation, hop a train with the hobos to the French Quarter in New Orleans and ask anyone in the Old Absinthe House. Open your yapper and say, “Pardon. Q’est-ce c’est ces mots?). He is the coach of the dog park—he’s the “go-to” guy if you’re a dog looking for a good time with a superman. Vince and Daddy seem to like one another. Vince throws the ball and whatever dogs are in the park chase them. I call him the Old Ranger but Daddy’s best friend, Cathy — whom he calls Miss Israel or Super Jew — would call Vince a mensch.

      I am not a blowhard or a braggart but I outran all the golden retrievers, Vince’s Welsh Terrier and a big old ugly German Shepherd. The Old Ranger seems to favor me because he always says, “Go get it, Mr. Darby.” Not that I need any encouragement as I have that winning streak in my gene pool. And of course I had to wallow in the mud to tease Daddy. He was hollering, “Mr. Darby, stay out of that mud if you know what’s good for you.” As Scott would say, my keeper was channeling his mother Maggie, who I’ve been told (time and time again) could be a real pisser. (I did see her picture once and all that “Sweet Jesus, loveliness and light” did not have me fooled. When you raise six brats like she did, especially with Daddy being one, I am sure she could raise holy hell if one of them disobeyed her.)

      I always have a blast when the Dog Park is full of all breeds sniffing and chasing and having a good time. Vince always gives me a scratch on the back or says, “What a guy,” to me and I love it. I keep wondering if that vicious terrier Duncan would trade places with me. Or as they say in the Army, Duncan could go TDY to our cottage on the golf course and I could hang with Vince. Daddy would whip Duncan into minding his Southern Baptist manners in a nanosecond..

      I did not poo on this outing. Daddy always gets up in the morning to see if I left a smelly surprise on his white carpet under the table where he sits to work with clients. You see, we had company the night before I ran wild in the Dog Park.

      Our visitors were Margot, a real fox, sassy and sexy and wearing a low cut dress, and her husband Tony, who was born in Belgium. Margot and my keeper did all the talking. I was so excited, going first to Dada and then to Tony. I stayed more with Tony because I heard them say he was a Pisces, like big piece of stuff Dada. When they got ready to leave, I wanted to go home with them. I flew out the door and tried to jump in their car. Margot had to collar me and take me back into my house. She is not only sassy and sexy, but she is a spoilsport. Drats, I guess they are either afraid of Daddy and what would happen to his temper if they tried to take me home, or else they have a dog already. And yes, Daddy told me when we went to bed that they had two dachshunds. Glory be. I would have a delicious time chewing on their ears as starters.

      The next morning Daddy found a pile of my poo in four parts. I was so excited over meeting those two new people that I had to get up in the middle of the night to relieve myself. While I’m a very talented dog, I have not been able to jump high enough to unlock the sliding glass door. And holy St. Francis, he didn’t scream at me. His exact words were, “I should have taken you out into the backyard after you met Margot and Tony because I knew you were excited.”

      Folks, you just read another reason why deep down I love my lord and master. He knows how to share responsibility with a dog that needs to poo.

      That Schedule

      We have an unbendable schedule at mi casa. I come home from the business office around three o’clock in the afternoon and il mio papà always asks if I brought home the bacon. He can be a smarty pants because he knows that Riggs and I are always playing and biting and yes, Signore Marine, kissing until we flop and nap. All play and no work and he and I like it that way.

      Dada usually puts my dinner out when I get home. He works at his computer until his afternoon shower. (May I remind you that he refers to the computer as the anti-Christ. Yet he cannot stop using it. Go figure). Scott, who is like a son to him, says he always seems to be going into or getting out of the shower. Dada showers in the morning and before going to bed at night. He is from hillbilly Alabama where those God-fearing, Republican-voting rednecks take a bath once a week if at all. I have them beat. My groomer Diane bathes me twice a month when she strips and powder puffs me. Dada kisses me more than Riggs the day I am de-flead and fluffed — but that slows down until the next time I get groomed.

      My first dog walker was a man named Bob. (Bob, by the way, left town more than a year ago and I’ve had a few new dog walkers. They’re younger and more fun than adults). I would sit and stare at the door, waiting impatiently for Bob to arrive for my afternoon constitutional. We’d then go on a 45-minute walk, when I would poo and pee. God, anal Dada would always ask Bob, “Did Mr. Darby do his business?” The few times I didn’t, mon père would go off the rails. He’d walk around the house asking me why I didn’t poo. “Do you want more food?” he’d ask. Daddy is famous for holding his eliminations when he is on a plane or at the movies or in a restaurant. He even had a friend from North Carolina named Jim Bob who could never go to the bathroom in a public place. Mister G caught his phobia.

      And a side note: After going on a walk with Bob, I hop on my Dada’s bed and as he describes it, I scrunch my behind on a pillow on my side of the bed. I do like his bed, partly because I didn’t like the alternative when it was first presented: “You can sleep in your crate or on 600-thread count Pratesi million-dollar sheets and pillows.” (Mon père loves to tell the story of how Pemigio Pratesi started the sheet business in Vinci in Tuscany Italy in 1906. He goes nutso over anything Italian and is wont to say he’ll take mafiosa over any other ethnic. I told you that Dada is more than eccentric!) The choice was a no-brainer so I have been on that fancy bed ever since.

      Living by Grace

      Here’s a too-hot-to-handle saga of another trip to the Dog Park. Dada loves the fact that we dogs can do our business quicker and better when we smell other dogs. Anyway, I was sniffing and working myself up to potty, thrilling mon père with every whiff. All of a sudden I spotted this canine babe with chestnut skin and a tail wagging a million miles a minute with excitement at seeing me. I ran to her like a good ole boy from Powderly, Alabama, chasing a southern slut in a twirl skirt. Her name is Grace.

      Wouldn’t you know it? My Daddy knew hers, a chef named Alan. It seems that Alan’s restaurant Fork in the Road recently closed. Fork in the Road was where Daddy and Scott took clients for their graduation dinners. Mister G is real picky about restaurants. His measuring stick for a great restaurant is Highlands Bar and Grill in Birmingham and Picholine in New York. He’s been known to drop a few bucks for rack of lamb at Rene’s in Tlaquepaque in Sedona. Yummy, yum, yum.

      Grace was a Rhodesian Ridgeback, all of eight weeks old. She was frisky and she ran from me —and