It wasn’t when I got her initially. I just wanted a dog. It’d been a year and a half since I lost Bear, whom the wonderful Pat Rogers so aptly called “the little golden dog” – who acquired a large and active fan following who [...]]]> I have a black dog. This is very important to me..

It wasn’t when I got her initially. I just wanted a dog. It’d been a year and a half since I lost Bear, whom the wonderful Pat Rogers so aptly called “the little golden dog” – who acquired a large and active fan following who continued to query me for months after her death as to where she was. Enough time had passed for an emotional reset. And to prepare myself I’d read the amazing and useful The Other End of the Leash by ethologist Patricia McConnell. So when I happened by the animal-adoption fair being held at the nearby PetSmart, my main concerns were a nice dog who’d get along with me and the cats and not eat too many house guests or neighbor kids – after one or two, people start to talk.

But more of that tale later. It’s just that the dog I’ve grown to know and love and rely upon to defend the redoubtable Milán Pack and territory against the wicked (lately, mostly young moms strolling past with prams and little dogs on leashes – as every schoolchild knows, among the leading perpetrators of home invasions!) is black. A very deep, glossy black, except for a white blaze on her chest that’s seldom visible.

So why, oh my, when I open the back door, is what I get back a khaki dog?

This just happened. Again. It’s about 1:30 PM Friday. I’m trying to get some writing done and maybe at last plant the honeysuckle I’ve nurtured in a pot on the kitchen counter all these months in the backyard, before heading out to dinner with some Wild Cards Mafia types – including Denver’s own Carrie Vaughn, of Kitty and the Silver Bullet fame – and then to ASFS to hear Ian Tregillis read from the first novel of his upcoming Milkweed Triptych trilogy. I love that name, by the way. Anyway, I read the ending (I mean, silently, to myself. Without even moving my lips much) as part of the Critical Mass authors’ group, and it completely rocks, and Melinda says Ian’s a great reader, so I’m much looking forward to it. Anyway.

So in the exceedingly unlikely event you’re holding your breath waiting for it, the answer to the above question is: because the adorable tyke likes to lie in the dust. And roll in the dust. And just generally root around in the dust. And there’s much, much dust available in my sizable backyard for her to choose from. It’s a vast wasteland out there.

And it’s going to get more so, as I’m also fixing to take my trusty scuffle hoe – man, it’s just Double-Entendre Theater 24/7 when you’re talking about that thing – out back and denude it further. This action is preliminary to planting a native-grass meadow using a seed blend I’ll buy from Plants of the Southwest, a kinda-sorta neighbor, being located a couple mile up Calle Cuarto, and general cool place. Especially if you’re into xeriscaping (the name might give a hint, there.)

Hopefully, the grass will actually root and grow – yeah, I know; insane optimism is what I do – at which point the problem of Khaki Dog Syndrome – or the Brown Dog Blues of the header – will be solved. Or at least alleviated, since I’m not seeding the whole 50′ x 70′ expanse.

In the interim I’m at a bit of a loss. Emma doesn’t like to be examined or fiddled with – she’s near phobic about it, in fact. She’ll tolerate my working at her with a dog brush. But naturally that does no good. I’ve thought of going at her with a broom but that would probably terrify her, which isn’t the object of the exercise. Or I could use the hand vac. I bet she’d flippin’ love that.

Ah, well. Suggestions will be appreciated.

Meanwhile, back to writing that I actually get paid for…