UNITED STATES—Yes, indeedy, the “master” has been placated the most animals located in the Hollywood Zoo, both east and west and north (is there a South Hollywood?). Yes, there’s one in Florida, too. In point of fact, the whole Florida sheebang is farther south than the border where Alta California ends and Baja begins.
Woof! Woof! Excuuuuuse, me! There are some other hounds barking around the neighbors. The pit-bull, the cocker spaniel, a few Chihuahuas as if the ear-splitting din weren’t enough to convert the most benevolent and ardent of pet people into the most virulent of dog loathers. Barking may be a format for sophisticated communication, that long has left humanoids baffled. (Let us not eliminate the enigma entirely).
Barking also separates the truly patient and loving from those schizoid Homo sapiens who oscillate wildly as a ball at Wimbledon between loving and loathing. I daresay my master is one of those who bristles over with rage as a dawdle and sniff over a jerkified hamburger mashed by many a tire on Wilcox and he’s dying to get back to his keyboard, which when the Writers’ Guild comes up with the trans-species contract, will have gone to the dogs.
I, Lupe packed off from a prior situation ship in Echo Park thus showing my superiority at the game called survival. At least a pilot for made, so I’ve got some skin in the game.
The other night something happened in the wee smalls. Alerted by fellow canines in the hood, and their chorus of barks, one of my long spindly forelegs slapped the master’s shoulder blades. There was pain. The right foreleg tipped the coffee table, and its amalgam of art books, a Hitchcock anthology, journals, a coffee mug and an unmanageable knot of cables that keep the creative devices charged, and whose absence can cause a fatal blockage of those creative juices, suddenly fermented to bile.
Outdoors lurked a greater menace. Thank heaven that the master was so piqued, he immediately buried his head in a pillow. Otherwise, he would’ve interpreted our manic barking as a plea to be let outside and do our doggie business. True, the master would much later awake to a sour gooey yellow serum on the tile kitchen floor. The alternative, though was much worse.
Outside in walkway lurked a coyote. Not for nothing were Baby DeVille and Lupe howling like the hounds of the Baskervilles. This lean and hungry one was the forerunner. There will be more, many more come down from the hills in February. It’s the month of love and friendship, and sometimes death for us, your dear canine friends. Bearers of unconditional love.
To be continued…
