Pooch Profiles: Meet Muzzy

Name: Muzzy     

Owner: Zia

Nickname(s): Muzzy-moo, Muzzer, The Muzz, Moomish, Muzzola, Moo-moo (alternate spelling: Mu-Mu)

Age: almost 2 (born sometime in April)

Breed(s): Hmm. German shepherd and perhaps beagle (something  hound-like)

Place of origin: Oklahoma (found by friends at 8 weeks, wandering with her brother puppy)

Best feature(s): Liquid brown eyes, velvety ears, long tail with little white tuft at the tip

BDPFs (Best Dog Park Friends): Bindi, Tessa, Wilson, Bailey, Maggie, and Little Dog

Mortal Enemies: Sophie, the neighbor's dog; that  three-legged dog at Dog Park

Favorite Toy: that  @#$%-ing squeaky red football, Nylabone (chicken flavor)

Movie Stars She's Been Compared to: Anne Hathaway (for her leggy, wide-eyed charm)

Signature Move: Paw in the water bowl while drinking, standing exactly where you want to walk, bunny-hop pounce, also--she licks everything

What She'd Say If She Could Talk:  "Why are you yelling? " "Open the door, please!"

Later that same day: I forgot to say that I hope to make this a regular feature about dogs other than my own who visit Dog Park. Dear Reader(s): Please send me photos and interesting stats about your own Dog Park faves. Thanks!

--zia

Bluebonnet on It

Yesterday I saw the first bluebonnet of the season at Dog Park. It was puny little thing, pale and wan. I was amazed; I did not expect to see any this year. It's my understanding that bluebonnets need a winter cold enough to break seed coats and rain enough to germinate them, and we had neither this winter or last. Two years ago, when we had a great deal of rain, was a banner season for bluebonnets and all the wild flowers at Dog Park. The north field was awash in purple blooms. From the parking lot, it seemed our field had been transformed into an azure lake. Quite beautiful. I never did take a photo of it. I think I wanted my own little Wordworthian moment. I wanted to recollect those bluebonnets in tranquility. And I often have. 

Bluebonnets are especially cherished not only for their beauty but because they are clear season markers in a place that has little in the way of seasons. Some springs are so hot that the flowers are the only way to identify the time of year. The Dog Parkers await the wild blooms the way kids anticipate Christmas. First signs are not only noted but talked about. Once the flowers are out in full force, they become the main topic of conversation. How long can they last? Are they brighter than last year's? Taller? Fuller? How is the weather helping--or not? The colors in the fields change as the purple of the  bluebonnets gives way to reds and yellows of Indian paintbrushes and Mexican blankets. By early May, only a few tough stragglers are still hanging on before summer heat truly kicks in. 

I will try to find that bluebonnet and take a photo this year. In the meantime, for those of  you who have a shaky memory of high-school English or don't have your Norton's Anthology handy, here is the Wordsworth poem I alluded to above. --zia

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud (1807)

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er the vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of the bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company;

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my hear heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

Source: The Norton Anthology of Poetry, 3rd edition, 1983, p.556.

Man on Wire / Dog at Park/ Free as Bird

Over the weekend, I watched the film Man on Wire, a 2008 documentary about Philippe Petit, a Frenchman who walked a wire strung between the World Trade Center buildings one muggy August morning in 1974. The stills and footage of the diminutive man strutting on a 7/8" wide cable hanging a quarter mile in the air were stunning. His performance lasted 45 minutes before he was arrested by NYPD. Years later, he described his time on the wire as the ultimate freedom, like that of the gulls circling above his head and--amazingly--below his feet. What struck me, though, was the clear difference in how the experience affected both Petit and his accomplices. He felt baptized, pushed into a new realm of possibility—as well as into celebrity; he beamed while recalling his experience. His friends, however, were reduced to tears at the memory of the efforts they had made and the risks they had taken. Their experiences were so intense that their relationships with Petit did not withstand it. Of course, my thoughts drifted to Dog Park. 

Our Dog Park is full of hundreds of canine versions of Petit--bold, adventurous, graceful, hyperactive creatures that are naturally oblivious to the efforts we humans make in their constant care and upkeep: feeding, watering, walking, grooming, medicating, loving. Every day I make sure my girls get a chance to run around like wild things, without the restriction of leashes. The burden of responsibility falls on me. I watch that their interactions with other dogs are friendly, that they don't stray too far. I watch for their poop and pick it up. I watch for the runners and cyclists and kids with kites and the crazy park neighbor who chases us on his motorcycle and Animal Control. I carry bags and leashes and water. I am Doggy sherpa—all so that they can experience a hour or two of freedom. 

A dozen years ago, as a novice dog owner, I worried about my older dog's freedom all the time. I adopted Roma from the Humane Society. A husky mix, she had been somewhat neglected by her original owners. She had no loyalty to me and when she got out of the house, she would run--a bad deal on Austin's East Side, just blocks from I-35. On a hike with friends in Bull Creek Park, she took off. She ran up the embankment of Highway 360, across the six lanes, down the other side, and into the woods. I did not see her again for ten days. Friends and I searched every day. We plastered that part of town and the park with Lost Dog posters. I got daily  calls of Roma sightings so I knew she was still alive and uninjured. One park ranger told me he had seen her in a trash can that very morning. My thoughts were mixed and stupid. "Maybe," I thought, "she needs needs to find her own way, to be true to her wild side. Maybe she ran away because she was unhappy, because domesticated life was so constraining." Eventually Roma let a stranger slip a leash on her, and she was returned to me. She looked unfazed by her experience, though she slept for two days afterward. Amazingly, too, she seemed somewhat reformed, coming when called, avoiding the street, and never, ever running away again. I have often wondered what she thought about while on her great adventure. Had she felt exhilarated, liberated? Was this her Thoreauvian experiment, to see if she could live better without humans than with their cushy sofas and cheesy treats and their constant, annoying demands (sit, stay, heel,down; hate them!)? I will, of course, never know. She will never tell me. 

I still have dreams of losing her. She is always running off, deaf to my calls. In the most recent dream, my ex-husband shows up on a bicycle unexpectedly after a seven-year absence, and Roma takes off after him without a moment's hesitation. Disloyal bitch. Or simply too loyal to her own desire for freedom—she is  in my mind anyway. In the meantime, I continue to be her benevolent dictator, keeping her leashed to this world as long as she will put up with it.