

# DAISY: WALKING ON WATER

## Edward Drobinski

Copyright © 2013 by Edward M. Drobinski

All rights reserved

#

### Contents

### Amazing Meeting in the Pre-Dawn Darkness

Winter set in early that year. The night temperatures dropped well below lethargic refrigeration level and already had produced a series of hard freezes. The most depressing part of the transgression was that it was only early November. A brief and incompetent fall had given up the fight and had bowed to the relentless offensive of disciplined winter. As is not uncommon for still distant January in Central Desert New Mexico, the skies clouded over daily. This opaque armor thwarted any attempt that may have been made by the pale, diminished, indirect sun. Displaying its most spiteful proclivity, the murky firmament cleared every night, and provided no shelter from the frigid night armies of the silent cosmos. Any petty, ground level zephyr became capable of a tedious but sure killing. A miracle believing optimist would have said that this might have portended an early spring. I could have used some convincing. I was still going about my early morning routine, though the one who had prompted it died six months prior. At the age of twelve and one half, Willy, my feisty, black and tan, full sized Dachshund finally found something capable of beating him; cancer. I had spent more than half his life right next to him and had difficulty thinking of another dog. When considering it, I would always eventually come to the word "replacement," and then quickly decide that there was no replacement for the little guy who would have defended me to the death against anything. Willy and I always took our main walk early, often before sunrise, as it was best to be on our path before a potential predator crossed it. I am certain that was what he thought of the enormous humans with large dogs who often came our way during "normal" walking hours. His response was to give a short warning and growl. He would then show his many sharp teeth. If the nemesis persisted, he was well prepared to draw first blood in defending us.

On this dark, cold, and fateful New Mexico morning I had already eaten, showered and dressed and was bringing out the trash, intending to have a smoke before coming back for the departed Willy, just like I had been doing for more than a decade. Through the discredited art of magic, I knew that if I followed the well-practiced precise routine, he, in turn, would perform his magical ritual, and be waiting for me when I got back inside.

I opened the back door, took two steps and froze in terror. A huge black and white dog ran full tilt at me. I thought of Willy, the only dog I ever had. If he ran at someone the next step would be to bite them. Before I could run, the lanky she stopped at my side and licked my bare trash hand. I knelt down to pet her and she licked my face passionately. This was the big, expressive brown eyed Dalmatian, who would come to be known as Daisy. Despite the frigidity of the morning, her thick coat was as soft as that of an un-sheared lamb. Her white seemed to glow brighter than anything else in the dim obscurity of the early coming of winter. Though I had no idea at the time, I had taken my first step into the best years of my life.

She was hungry, but seemed oblivious to the cold. I held up one finger as if to say; "Just one minute," a signal she would quickly come to understand. I dumped the garbage and went back inside to look for dog food. I didn't have any. I had forgotten that what I had left of Willy's was donated to a rescue facility months prior.

As I searched, I saw Daisy through the kitchen window. She was looking up at me as if to say; "Minute's up." Her upturned head, as well as her lean body, rested on four disproportionately long and restless paws. She weighed about twenty-five pounds at this stage, which was less than the twenty-nine Willy had packed onto his dachshund frame. I made a quick decision. I did have some canned cat food, usually reserved for Drew, Teddy, Lucy and Little Girl. I put the contents of a can on a plate and brought it to her. She finished it in no more than a second and looked at me, as if to say; "This can't be all there is." This process went on three or four times before she threw the whole thing up.

I thought; "Oh my God. I hope I didn't make her sick."

She seemed okay and continued to act as if she was looking for additional servings, or more likely, looking for something different. I again asked her to wait a minute and drove to a nearby convenience store. All the way I kept thinking; "I hope I didn't poison her," and drove like a demon, anxious to get back and see her still alive.

When I returned, she was very alive and I was very relieved. She was also very anxious to see me with dog food. She never told me, but I've sometimes thought that she was insulted by the first feeding. She may have thought; "Do I look like a cat to you? Good lord. I am deeply offended. ......... But, I'm also deeply hungry." She ate the contents of four of the tall dog food cans and looked up for number five, her long legs dancing to a tune only she heard. As happy as I was that she seemed hungry and energetic, I thought it best to stop at four. Besides, I had only purchased six. I worried if she would still like me. That fear quickly subsided. I bent down to give her a big cuddle and she licked my face as my arms circled her chest. The sun had been making its long awaited entrance over the Sangre de Cristos for the past few minutes and I felt the warmth. In the absence of clouds and wind, a winter day in Corrales, New Mexico can start out at an intolerable twenty degrees and reach a comfortable fifty-five. It looked like it was going to be one of those good ones.

She started to jump around me, wanting to play. At age 54, I had no illusions about being able to keep up with her. When Willy died I made a plaque in his honor, saying among other things that; "We grew old together." One of us ran around and the other ambled. Daisy looked at me, seeming to strongly indicate; "Do something already!" So I looked for something to throw, which would allow her to do the bulk of the exercise. I got an early glimpse of her intelligence as she quickly figured out that game. I threw a heavy rope pull toy I had in the garage. As tradition would suggest, she went, got it, and brought it back to me a few times, however, rather than dropping it at my feet, she required me to pull it away from her. She held so tightly I lifted her off the ground. The third or fourth throw produced a different result. She went and got it, enclosed it in her mouth, but waited at the point of retrieval. She looked at me as if to say; "I'm not doing **all** the hard work. Where I come from, this is considered a participatory sport."

I thought that her approach was eminently fair minded. As smart as Daisy was, she was also very young; and thereby had no conception of the frailties and limitations produced by a long life. I had always found exercise to be somewhere near the height of sweaty boredom. After I had retired from pick-up, relic basketball three years prior, the closest thing to running I had done was a quick two step in an occasionally successful effort to beat someone with a cart full of groceries to the checkout line.

As I was already falling in love with this rambunctious female, I figured that I could still withstand a short burst of adrenalin inspired locomotion. I ran at her and reached for the rope. She easily ran around me. I repeated the process, but whenever I got close she would again zigzag away. Though I had entertained no illusions about my ability to catch a five month old Dalmatian, I tried to act as if I had a chance, often falling to the ground in a last second desperate move to tackle her. I did manage to fleetingly get a temporary hold on her back leg once or twice. After a while I just sat on the ground, winded by my geriatric efforts. Daisy curiously looked at me a few seconds, then came over and dropped the rope near me. I put an arm around her and held her close, again feeling her soft coat, and happily being the recipient of scores of Daisy licks. This dynamic was to become a pattern with us. I guess that she thought; "At least he tried." When my breath returned I threw the rope and we started all over. At 25 pounds and all legs, she absolutely loved to run. However, Daisy had an even greater desire; and that was to do it with a loving companion.

When I went back inside the house, desperate for some sort of invigorating breakfast, my wife, Diane, was going through the routines people customarily perform just before leaving for work. As I searched the freezer for some semblance of nourishment, unsuccessfully willing to settle for a frozen "Mama Bessie's Scrambled Eggs with Sautéed Potatoes" with gourmet taste and no preservatives added, and only six calories; I told her that the wildest thing had just happened.

In a hurried cadence, endemic to those cursed with the bleak prospect of soon having to smile and be sickeningly courteous to overly sensitive co-workers, clients and bosses, she said in a weekday prompted monotone; "I know. I brought her home last night."

"You should have told me. I went out the door in the dark, and the next thing I knew a dog was running right at me."

"She's sweet."

"I know that **now**."

Diane made a short snorting laugh and said; "She was roaming around in Las Lunas and showed up at my office. Everybody liked her so much that we kept her in my workplace for a month trying to find where she belonged; or barring that, a new owner. We couldn't do either, and the boss said that we couldn't keep her there forever. So I brought her here late last night."

In later years Diane told me that she knew that I'd fall in love with Daisy and that it was obvious that I was completely incompetent at finding another dog. Willy was my first and I never could get over the thought that he would find me disloyal if I got re-entangled. But now, since I really had no choice in the matter ........ I guessed that it was unavoidable and unequivocally for the best. For fortification, insofar as internet begotten information was the least bit accurate, I found the comforting support, when I researched Dalmatians and found that they were difficult adoptees. The reasons cited suggested that twenty-first century tastes had moved toward a preference for wind-up dogs, who moved only when wound, for a slow, at-the-master's-side walk, and in lieu of that blessing, remained stationary all other times, urinating and defecating only when well ensconced in an area suitable for such activities; like a cat box.

At Diane's office, they must have had a name for the little ball of energy and affection, but I don't remember what it was. I do remember that Diane suggested naming her "Spot," which I immediately rejected. Sometime during the first week of her attainment of a forever home, I insisted on naming her Daisy. I had two reasons. First, it seemed to me that we were in a time of people using unusual modern names, like Pastiche or Brittany, as in Spaniel. In this, as in all areas, I wanted to go against the flow which was I thought contributed to the 2003 malaise, which I interpreted as requiring devilish and stoical nothingness for survival. I wanted to use something from a kinder and gentler, former time; old fashioned and dreadfully out of style. I wanted to re-kindle a thought abhorrent to a right wing, 1960's revisionist. Secondly, in the face of possibly philosophically flawed considerations, she was in simplicity, a truly wild flower. On the most personal level I could muster after three decades earlier having attempted to resist the brainwashing of an MBA program, whose dictum was that all information was biased, I simply thought that I had picked a wild Daisy or perhaps that she picked me. Time would prove me undoubtedly correct in my thinking about reason number two, but shortly after I started walking her in the neighborhood, I discovered that there were two other canine Daisies living within 500 feet of us.

At the time I wasn't certain of how well her thick, soft and gorgeous coat could withstand cold. I probably cared about her too much to leave anything unsure unconsidered. The day was warming up, but it was still morning. I thought that the outdoors was fine for me if I kept in motion, but I still felt chilly when standing still. I didn't want to compel her to keep moving. Even with her energy level, I reasoned that there must be times when she needed to rest. I also wanted to bring her inside just because I liked having her around. I put some more food in one dish and water in another and put them in the TV room, whose main attraction was two futons. It was from these run-of-the-mill, cost efficient vantage points that Willy and I had spent his last years. I brought Daisy into the former domain of the warrior and shut the door; as we had cats and I wanted to be on the safe side. I saw that Daisy was still ravenous and I left her in the heated room. I went back outside and did whatever routine it was that I did at that time of day in 2003.

I came back in an hour or so to check on Daisy. She was fine and rather than resting, she was busy at work pulling the last of the fluff out of a futon mattress. She looked up at me with an expression that conveyed not one bit of guilt. I imagined her saying; "I know it's in here somewhere. I almost have it. Give me a few more minutes."

Daisy was soon returned to the backyard. She didn't seem to mind or think of it as a punishment. She soon was chasing birds from her property and I was attempting to stuff fluff back in the futons. Daisy had more success with her project than I did with mine.

I went outside intending to have a serious talk with her. As I walked the fenced perimeter, with her following, I told her that destructive behavior was not acceptable and that under those circumstances she would have to stay outside, at least temporarily, until adjustments could be made. She gleaned the seriousness of my conversation and showed that by nipping at my hands; her signal for me to get and throw the rope pull toy.

I thought of another possible place for Daisy the Dogged Destruction Devil. There was a triangular room at the back of the house which was attached to the main adobe structure, but had no access to anything other than the garage. It contained a water storage tank, a water softener and had some heat. On a cold day it would peak at about 50 degrees. But, if I left the door partially open for Daisy's entrance and exit that number would dive. I didn't know how much, but in the case of my new puppy, I didn't have a huge tolerance for error. While I agonized to find a suitable solution, Daisy showed her concern by again nipping at my fingers.

I deferred to her lack of worry; got the rope and threw it, chased her, and wrestled with her to get it back. We played for a carefree hour. She darted like a young OJ Simpson while I made unsuccessful last minute lunges at her with all the agility of a portly, outclassed, high school offensive lineman.

In the very near future, either I became more adept at catching her or she purposely slowed down to give me a chance. I strongly suspect the latter. In our game, when I caught her, I was then required to pull the rope from her un-cooperative mouth and simultaneously wrestle her to keep her from making a break for it. On one such occasion Daisy let out a yelp and dropped the rope. She looked at me as if to say; "That's not fun. That hurt!" I immediately recalled my Dalmatian research which told me that this breed did not tolerate any kind of physical abuse and was quick to strike back. I gazed into her brown eyes and thought; "Uh oh." But, rather than attacking, she flouted the American Kennel Club's wisdom and ran full speed around the perimeter of the back yard; did it again, and came back to resume play. I thought she was great and that under no circumstances would I ever risk injuring her. I threw the rope and each time she allowed me to catch her I held on very softly and pulled weakly. After a few easy breakaways from her halfhearted playmate she again looked right at me, this time with seeming disgust. She exhibited a posture which said; "Oh, come on now. Keep it interesting." We resumed our rougher play and I would always strive to find the right balance to make the game exciting, yet safe. Sometimes when my arms tired and Daisy still possessed tons of energy, I sort of played a trick on her. I would hold her between my legs and she would fruitlessly squirm and writhe until she was tired.

We went back in and we both occupied the TV room on a futon which had lumps begging for a dermatologist. Daisy quickly got an MD and started a procedure.

I said; "Uh oh. ............... Stop it!" She looked at me a second and went back to work. She and I were soon in the backyard. I recalled that the triangular room had an oversized pillow, once the never used property of Willy.

I couldn't see any real difference between this pillow and the futons. I expected that she would rip it apart. But, for right now it was the best thing I could imagine to buy time to hopefully come up with an inside alternative.

Off and on we ate and played in the backyard the rest of the day. When I had to leave her in the evening, I hoped she would choose to stay and to a lesser degree that she wouldn't destroy her pillow.

I didn't sleep well that night, worried that she would be gone in the morning. A little before sunrise I went directly outside with a plate of dog food and she came running out of the triangular room. I was relieved and my blood pressure might have returned to normal. As she ate, I peered into the triangular room and was surprised to see that the pillow was still a pillow.

A bit later I came out to play and Daisy showed her usual eagerness. I would come to know that she was always ready. I threw and she chased the rope and we did some wrestling. I thought a bit ahead, knowing that one day we would go walking other places. I wanted to see what she would do when leashed. I attached a chain to her oversized, cumbersome, blue collar and found out quickly. She immediately started running. Not entirely the product of choice I clumsily ran behind her and thought; "Uh oh."

I stopped her and unhooked the chain. I noticed that when my hands approached her head, she ducked. Over the next few days I saw that this was a consistent pattern. I knelt next to her, put my arms around her, and promised that I would never hit her. I never did and in six months she believed me.

At this early age, Daisy already had most of her spots and was camera shy. When I tried to photograph her, she'd look at me as if to say; "What terrible thing are you pointing at me?" and move away. Many pictures of her butt got discarded, but I did get a few almost good ones.

She always had her own mind about things and was smart enough to play tricks on me. One time, after our yet to be discovered walks, I went inside to get her food ready. When I came back out she had no collar. I thought; "She must have had the collar on when we got back or else I wouldn't have gotten her back." She followed me around as I searched the backyard.

I found nothing and I told her; "I'm going back inside to get you another," at which point Daisy ran somewhere and came back to me with the collar in her mouth.

Over the next few days I rearranged one room, and added some old Spanish styled furniture, pictures and tin wall hangings. I removed all that was plushy and put a blanketed mattress on the floor in the center. Daisy, now, not only had a forever home, but she also had her own indoor New Mexican room. Daisy seemed to be very appreciative. No doubt, up until now, she was searching for her place in the world. Despite having had a few false starts, she still seemed to have faith that this would be it. I was proud, but more so grateful that she would be with me. Initially I thought it possible that she might tear the mattress up, but she never did. Daisy and I had a new, warm, soft and stylish place to spend the nights together. When I brought her in that evening, she first ate and drank. Afterward she got right on the mattress and curled up to me, seeming to instinctively know that she had finally found her rightful place and home.

Diane and I discussed what was going on with Daisy, and it was decided that Daisy needed a trainer, primarily for the reason that I might not outlive her and an untrained adult Dalmatian is virtually unadoptable.

We contacted a female trainer who did not believe in corporal punishment. I think she used the word behaviorist. We made an appointment for her to come and see Daisy for an hour. She was to make somewhere between four and six one hour visits. Snow was on the ground for some of them, which is fairly unusual for Corrales, a central New Mexican horse town, with warm afternoons and many trails, most of which we would soon know.

On one of the trainer's visits I saw Daisy take off running full tilt, back and forth, across the back yard. She was unable to stop at the wire fences, so slid into them like a speedster stealing second base, then got up and headed for third. The trainer said; "They're so beautiful when they run like that."

I just proudly watched and said; "Yeah," picturing a lifetime of activity, and at the same time fearful that my age would limit her.

The trainer told me not to take Daisy out walking until she behaved properly on a leash. So, for the moment, Daisy was a backyard girl with her own room. I sensed that she was very happy to have a home, but I suspect that she eagerly anticipated the day we could broaden our horizons.

After one visit, I was arranging the trainer's next appointment when she told me; "I really shouldn't take your money. I can't do a thing with her."

I can't recall my response. I probably stared quizzically.

The trainer said; "It's not that she doesn't understand. It's that she's playful and doesn't take rules seriously. I'll show you what I mean. ............. This is the easiest way to show it. It's like this with everything."

She walked to where she had a stick supported by two cinder blocks. She said; "Jump, Daisy." Daisy easily cleared the hurdle and was rewarded with a treat. She did it a second time. On the third command performance Daisy walked under the stick. She looked up at the trainer as if to say; "Wasn't that cute? Where's my treat?"

The trainer said; "No, no, no," and went to the other side of the stick, and again said; "Jump, Daisy." Daisy walked around the stick and looked up with the same expression she had previously. The trainer indicated that this was a pattern.

I asked if Daisy yet walked properly on a leash and was told; "For a short time."

I looked forward to getting Daisy out of the back yard. Though I knew there would be some difficulties, I also knew that she had the sweetest disposition I had ever seen, and felt that should override any other considerations. The trainer told me to use a pronged collar and though I was reticent, I planned to acquiesce. She also told me to use a long leash, as Daisy needed her space. That seemed obvious after she said it and I was thankful for the good advice. Initially it would prove difficult to keep the long chain from tangling Daisy's frequent change of direction legs. I often had to stop and uncoil her. With practice the process became easier than driving a car. We used a double length chain, as the trainer advised me that the ones which reel out like a fishing line precluded the possibility of quick retraction. With Daisy's energy level and playfulness, it seemed that this would be necessary at times.

### Sunny Daytime Play and Wandering Explorations

Sometime during Daisy's weeks in training I had purchased a new, leather, properly fitting collar for her and discarded the blue one. In addition to the aesthetics involved, it seemed proper to get this happy little girl out of blue. The morning after the trainer's final visit, I switched Daisy's collar to the pronged one, attached the double length chain leash and we went out the garage door. I should say that we bolted down the driveway, Daisy in front, unable to contain her exhilaration at being able to see the rest of the world. It had warmed up a bit and the snow had left puddles in roadside depressions. Most houses in the vicinity were fenced in front, but those fences were set back ten feet from the asphalt roadway. This was a source of confusion for adult humans and it seemed likely that a puppy would have a few questions, no matter how smart.

It was immediately obvious to me that Daisy did not care about whatever pain the prongs caused her. She wanted to see and feel whatever she wanted to see and feel, regardless. I couldn't stand the look of those prongs and after going the distance of our front fence, with difficulty I stopped the excited, squiggly puppy and restored her "normal" collar.

Though there were about fifty houses in the area, we seemed to have the whole place to ourselves. Daisy moved briskly and I struggled to keep up, though I attempted to avoid breaking into a trot. About three houses away Daisy saw a congregation of puddles and proceeded to splash through all of them. I tried to remain on two feet in the random mud. Before we went around the Camino De Lucia circle several times and went back home she plopped through every possible puddle in the area a few times. I did manage to remain vertical; strongly suggestive of a clear cut success for both of us. Her black spots were now mixed with tinier brown ones, as were my pants. She was happy and so was I. I just thought that it was strange that we had seen no people or cars. This would not have occurred to me in New Jersey, where suburban dwellers disappear in the morning and return at night; a necessity dictated by the rigors of work. But, I had been advised that I was now in the land of manana, where work took a back seat to weather conditions, problems with children and wine. I had a lot more to learn.

Since we had survived the perils of suburban or exurban living unscathed, our wrappers merely dirty and muddy, this trip was to become a twice daily routine. The paltry winter sun would soon take credit for making the puddles disappear, though mere absorption was probably of more significance. The puddles were replaced by petty, slimy, slick and annoying mud, which failed in its attempt to limit us, and served only to bring us to greater adventure, as they necessitated and therefore instructed us in agility.

But, before we were to continue our exploration of the shallow depths of triviality, we had to get to the Vet. Daisy appeared to be as healthy as one can be and more loving and playful than anyone I'd previously met. However, it was prudent to obtain professional confirmation of the health portion of that triage. Of practical significance, the law required that I had to get her rabies shots and a license attesting to that fact.

Daisy had never been in the car with me. There was no reason to have been. Since her arrival at the desolate mud hole some call Camino De Lucia, in tandem, we had, somewhat of necessity, been sequestered to the confines of our own back yard and very recently, the neighborhood. Her happiness at having a steady, regular home seemed to grow daily. I suppose each additional day of having a regular home inferred that the same situation would be more likely to recur the next. She had not taken a math course and was therefore not subjected to the vagaries of randomness, though she seemed to have an instinct for probability. She showed her increasing stability by routinely policing the borders of the backyard fence and chasing any bird, rabbit, or squirrel with the audacity to trespass on her long sought after place in the world.

Willy had always liked the car. I used to say; "Car ride," and he would eagerly go to the door, anxious to glimpse his realm at a speed which was not possible on paws. When I had planned to bring her to the vet appointment, I said; "Car ride," to Daisy, and she, too, jumped up, anxious to go, though I would soon discover that the precise meaning of the words were not in her vocabulary.

As always we went out through the garage, but this time I stopped her at the car. She turned her head around and gave me a concerned look as if she thought that I had stumbled. Her concern for me turned to personal panic when I opened one of the car's back doors. She desperately tried to pull me down the driveway, wanting no part of the car. I reeled her in and with some difficulty, got her into the back seat.

While we were on the road I kept watching her in the rear view mirror. She was trembling. I felt guilty and fearful that she would have a heart attack. The five mile trip seemed to take an hour. Fortunately, we got there and back without either of us having a stroke. I thought that I might have had an insight into her fear. It was possible that up until now every time she was in a car she was left at a different place.

The visitation itself, was a cheerful event for Daisy as she got to make new friends. The examination was complicated by Daisy's frequent rolls onto her back, insisting on belly rubs. Mine was complicated only by the nervousness I felt, when after telling the Vet of how I met Daisy, the vet told me that she would then look for a chip that might note her owner. I thought; "Oh, no," and that; "Daisy was right." The vet slowly ran some instrument over the entirety of Daisy's body, including some places unsuitable for a chip. I thought; "Do you have to be so thorough? You know damn well know that this is torturing me." And I'm sure the woman did, as it is easy to detect the behavior of someone madly in love. She painstakingly found nothing and said that Daisy was in good health. Based on Daisy's size, she estimated her age to be six months.

Daisy seemed less fearful on the drive back. But she showed that she was not going to volunteer for another car ride by lying motionless on the back seat with her brown eyes, the size of quarters. On the way home I got a bright idea; find a vet who makes house calls. When I parked in the garage, Daisy bolted from the opened car door and went directly to the back yard.

While her desire to resume play suggested that she had already forgotten about the whole thing, time would show that she had a good memory and a well thought out plan. When we were to go on our daily walks, there was a little routine we always followed. I'd bring her out on her leash, and then release her to take care of any emergency. She would then follow me into the triangular room where I kept another long chain which I would attach to the leash chain, giving her more freedom, but retaining the ability to pull her back from any danger. I would re-attach it when she was ready and we'd go out through the garage.

I could never figure out how she did this. It has been suggested that she has the ability to read my mind. There were to be times when I intended to take her somewhere in the car with me. I was always careful to follow the same departure routine I did when we went walking, but intended to grab her near the car door and get her in it. One hundred percent of the time she sensed my devious intentions and went to the corner of the back yard furthest from the triangular room and would stay there. Just as Willy used to leap into action at the sound of; "Car rides!" Daisy retreated when she telepathically heard "Car rides," and she was never wrong.

When I went inside I found a Vet willing to be ambulatory. His office was closer to our home, and we would find that he was a better Vet, very competently treating Daisy a few times in her later years.

Another routine surfaced around this time. Since the room we shared had no outside door, Daisy had to hold it. I would get her into the back yard to take care of the necessaries in the wee hours of the morning, feed her, and then later come back to her room to initiate our morning walk. By this time she was usually sound asleep with a full belly. She would rouse and stretch out when she saw me. I would clear the sleep from her eyes and kiss her head. She would roll onto her back, demanding extensive belly rubs. After she had her fill she would get up and we'd be on our way.

At 8AM the next day we ran down the gravel driveway, in my case not entirely by choice. The sun was up, the temperature was on the positive side of freezing and Daisy was literally raring to go.

I'm really not sure exactly when this started. I think we strolled Camino De Lucia for a week or so before we discovered that it was inhabited. We bounded through the dormant grass and active puddles, while Daisy learned a new "command." She often tried to investigate unfenced properties and I would say; "Not too far." She seemed to immediately understand, though I had to say this many times, as she tried every possible entrance.

But, after approximately one week, as empty as it was previously, it was full one day. Three older women stood near the end of our driveway. They laughed as they watched Daisy pull me. I didn't mind in the least as I thought that this must have looked comical and it was fun. As would become a pattern, I also saw this as an opportunity to tell everyone what a wonderful puppy Daisy was. Daisy went right to them and I tried to hold her back when she got close, not wanting her to jump on someone. She had an instinct to put "paws up." I discovered that it is difficult to stop a charging Dalmatian on a gravel driveway.

It all worked out. Daisy got loads of pets. I got to proudly tell them all I knew about her, and no one got knocked down or was in need of stitches.

We departed and tried to repeat our former walks, but human congestion dotted the landscape. All were curious about her, most offering pets and some adding treats to the package. Daisy loved the attention and tried to climb a few friends. I loved her and loved watching her so excited at seeing the people. Her tail was like a helicopter and always would be. On numerous occasions during the early years, people told me how happy Daisy appeared, as if it was a complement to me. I was very proud of that, but replied; "She's naturally that way. I'm just trying not to screw it up," which was the truth, as I saw it.

The number of people in AM attendance gradually diminished to four or five regulars, most of them also with dogs; none as pretty, interesting or as friendly as Daisy. With no resistance attempted by me, Daisy regularly charged over to all, except when their human companion waved us off. In that case I would struggle to hold her back and I don't know if Daisy understood this. She may have concluded that I wanted her all to myself and that had more than an iota of truth. She was a very smart dog.

Approximately one year later I got a new insight into the original barrage of curious people. A woman I hadn't previously met was by her car in her driveway. She said; "I can't believe that dog."

I don't recall my response. I know I would have thought; "She's too good to be true."

The woman went on to tell me that she formerly owned a Dalmatian which died shortly before I got Daisy. He or she used to hop the fence daily and it would get into fights with other dogs and even bit a few people. I concluded that some of the early callers were concerned that there might be another menace in the neighborhood. Not a chance with my sweet baby.

When we weren't walking or sleeping, we'd romp in the back yard. The method of play further evolved. For a while Daisy had known that I couldn't catch her. So, she'd slow down a bit to give me a chance. In exchange, if I could latch onto her, I would have to wrestle the rope away from her before I could throw it again. But, a new game presented itself.

On our early walks I often found lost tennis balls, which I pocketed. I used them to initiate another game with Daisy, wherein I threw the ball against the plain stucco wall at the back of the garage and generally catch it, when it came back to me on three or four hops. Daisy would attempt to intercept it. Usually it took her four or five tries. When she did get it she would run away with it, and I would chase her until she let me catch her and then pry the ball from her mouth. I would then restart the game. For some reason which eludes me, doing this seemed to tire me less than the rope game, while Daisy would still slowly reach her previous level of fatigue.

By this time Daisy had memorized every square inch of her domain. She was so protective of her home that if the wind had carried in a candy wrapper, she would immediately go to it. She would look at me as if to stay; "What is that doing here?" I'd pocket it for future disposal and she would continue her search for intruders.

Sometime in her early years, I had a tiny degree of concern that Daisy was unable to bark. One day the thought struck me that I could not recall the last time that she did. However, I was to soon see that she barked very well whenever someone was near our backyard fence as well as the windows in our room. I liked her desire to protect us, but wish that she would have come to tolerate the hummingbirds which fed on the flowering yucca plants near our windows.

On a sunny December afternoon I went through the back door, slamming it behind me. Daisy was contentedly napping in the partial shade of the naked Chaste Bush, fifteen feet from the house, after having walked and eaten. In a very short time our routine was to have changed to her coming in to eat after our walk. I'd leave her outside while I got her food and straightened up her room, during which time she would recline under the sometimes clothed Chaste Bush. They have a short blooming season. I'd then bring Daisy in, eat, and then we would nap in the sun streaming through the two windows of our room. But on this earlier day I noticed that she seemed to have no doubts that she was in her forever home and appeared even happier than at the outset. I'm not sure if that was possible, but I liked to think so. Her head popped up at the sound of wood thumping against wood. Sleeping beauty, more commonly known as Daisy, was jarred awake by the sound and excitedly ran to me, putting her paws up on my thighs and licking my face. She lowered to ground level and thought she sensed something unusual. It was my pants which had been sitting in the lower drawer, undisturbed for years. The mustiness was intriguing and she moved around me sniffing at them seeming intent to investigate every square inch. I was amused and said; "Wait until you get a whiff of this sweatshirt." I ran to the tennis ball in the triangular room and threw it across the yard. Daisy hesitated a fraction of a second, not sure what she wanted to do. My strange scent was intriguing, but she took off after the bouncing ball. She tried to take it out of the air, but that proved too difficult. She did succeed in knocking the ball further away from her with each try resulting in an irregular darting and slashing type of maneuver practiced by linebackers, as she followed the ball. The ball finally came to a stop on what is euphemistically referred to as grass and Daisy got it firmly in her mouth. Now she had to decide what to do with it. She tried to recall the differing options open to her when playing previously, but the closest thing to a pattern she could recall was that the response was whatever felt right at the moment. Yesterday I had spent a fair amount of time chasing her, but had not yet done that today. I was standing still watching her. Daisy decided to be co-operative and bring the ball back to me. At the same time she could further study what it was that I had in or on my "new" pants. She trotted over, dropped the ball at my feet and commenced sniffing.

I saw our neighbor, Gerald, standing at the bordering eastern fence, grinning into the mid-day sun and watching the activity. From previous experience I was certain that he was ready to articulate his judgment implying questions of the situation in a fashion amusing only to him. I pretended not to see him and picked up the ball and threw it toward the western boundary. Daisy was still more interested in my pants, so I ran after the ball and she followed. I got to it first and sat on the ground with it in my hands because I wanted an excuse not to be on the other side of the property where Gerald was now pretending to show avid interest in the standpipe five feet from the fence which was attached to an outdoor watering system that had not yet been turned on. I glanced in his direction hoping that he had left as I still believed in the possibility of miracles. Daisy didn't understand my reluctance to move and tried to pull the ball from my hand intending to run with it. I was afraid of that as it would bring us near Gerald, a retired computer technician who knew nothing of anything devoid of programmable plastic parts. If engaged in conversation Gerald always performed a tedious soliloquy about **all** the intricacies of how his state-of-the-art watering system operated, though it rarely did, which speech he had previously well-rehearsed, chuckling in what he considered the amusing parts, waiting for a return chuckle before continuing his pedantry. If one attempted to re-direct the flow of the chat to any other subject, rather than saying what he knew about it, which was nothing, Gerald would always respond with a question designed to suggest that at his high level of sophistication and education whatever was ventured was incredibly and stupidly opinionated and not worthy of any commentary his feigned broad view encompassed. When I told him of what I had learned about local coyote behavior Gerald responded with his customary; "Isn't that just one way of looking at it?" He said that to everything mentioned except his expertise regarding his programmable, non-operating watering system.

Daisy settled down somewhat seemingly content to sniff at the "strange" pants on me while she considered her next move. I thought it best to continue to introduce Daisy around and Gerry was about as around as one can get. I thought that we might as well get things over with when Daisy stopped showing such an avid interest in my "new" old pants. In the quiet calm Daisy heard a sound come from the east that **broke the wind** less silence and ran in its direction. Gerald was squatting by the standpipe, clearly visible in the "overlooked" designer, red baseball cap, which covered his bald head, but allowed the curly, gray Friar Tuck fringe to stick out, unknowingly imitating Bozo without the coloring.

Daisy already had good ideas of where her new boundaries were, but she had a problem with her uncontrollable need to use the very American concept of "eminent domain." Gerry was close enough to it to warrant an investigation so she started the dialogue with a threatening bark. "Grrgrrrgrrrop," she yelled as she approached the noisy man with his hands lovingly on the stem of his standpipe. Gerry wasn't surprised at the sudden company; he knew it would get there sooner or later.

I was slowly walking and less than half way there. I was in no rush to get there for a few reasons; first, I liked watching and hearing Daisy display what humans would like to had they no manners; and second, I knew I would get there sooner or later.

Gerry feigned fear and put his hands up in front of his chest and popped his eyes and mouth widely open. He kept the pose for only a second as he was uncontrollably compelled to laugh at the mercifully short performance.

I was now close enough that I could see his face well and with Gerry laughing and desperate for company I felt required to make an obligatory short smile without parting my lips. Daisy toned down a bit when she saw that I wasn't agitated, but still was far from thrilled about the intrusion and growled resonantly between the sporadic short barks.

I said; "Feel pretty safe with a fence separating you, don't you, Gerry? Oh yeah, 'Happy Easter' and all that."

Gerry wasn't sure if I had a momentary lapse or if he'd been dissed and somewhat threatened. If he knew elementary history he would have known that it was the latter case, but his plastic preoccupation precluded the time necessary to learn the matter and resulted in his passion for the most common buzzwords distributed by the coiffed, smiley lady on the 6PM big station "News with Kathy," in some circles referred to as "News to Kathy." He offered a grin weaker than mine and said; "Is he vicious?" He bent down to get a better look at Daisy's hindquarter's and merrily added; "Or should I have said she? Yuk. Yuk. Yuk," another line funny to one-third of the audience delivered by the flexible plastic man. His wife, Barbie, was currently in the hospital recovering from complications associated with her latest plastically surgeoned head fix, so Gerry was in desperate need to berate someone, a surrogate now necessary. One has to say "head" as "face" would no longer apply to every situation as scalp forays have been in evidence for a while demonstrated by her covered bald spot which always manages to protrude from her pink baseball hat.

Hoping it would expedite things I chose to play the unwanted game straight and chirped; "Daisy is a she and she can be stubborn and protective," as I inserted one hand into Daisy's collar, holding her close. Daisy thought what seemed logical to her and concluded that the toothy man on the other side of the fence was a friend or that it was all right with me for him to be there, completely wrong on one count and middling on the other.

"When are you going to have her trained?"

"When she attacks someone she shouldn't."

"Isn't that a bit .......... cavalier?"

"Not really. We can get away with one. Legally it takes two attacks before there's any real trouble."

Gerry didn't appear shocked; at least he had years of practice covering that up as he never, never wanted to jeopardize the "man of the world" image only he thought he conveyed. At the same time he must have realized that his proximity to Daisy's and my house and his penchant for fence sitting made him the most likely candidate for attack number one.

Gerry's silence made me conclude that the conversation was over and I let go of Daisy's collar and threw the ball westward. I ran after it with Daisy. Gerry called out; "It might be safer to have a few training sessions."

I didn't break stride when I saw the opportunity to end the encounter with a bit of a role reversal and said; "How many dogs did you say that you have had?"

Daisy easily got to the ball first, picked it up in her mouth, faked right and then went left, eluding me. She ran back to the eastern limits as I looked to thankfully see that Gerry was either gone or hiding under a rock. Daisy and I played for hours. Who was supposed to chase the ball and who was supposed to get it back was not clear at times, but, left to our own volition each would complement the other's willful behavior resulting in both of us doing exactly what we wanted.

It seemed as if Daisy could run forever, or at least that was how it felt to me after a few hours. The sun was casting long thin shadows, the temperature decline reminding me of the time of day. I wanted to sit as much as I could, but at the same time wanted Daisy to exercise her puppy energy while she had it. Nothing lasts forever. I threw the ball ten feet from her and when Daisy got it I was right there and cradled my arms around her neck. I held tight and after enjoying the embrace Daisy tried to get free. The struggle didn't last very long as Daisy succeeded with the third try, spoiling my plans of tiring her out by holding her in my arms. They just weren't strong enough. I got up and chased her a bit, but couldn't get near. In fatigue I sat on the grass. Daisy still wanted to be chased more, but soon got the idea that that was not going to be. She trod to me and I again put my arms around her, but this time when she started squirming I wrapped my legs around her belly. Daisy was unable to escape my playful captivity though she pushed and pulled with all her might, craning her head around attempting to access any possible leverage available. She used all her energy in a few minutes and then lay tired and still. I loosened my leg grip when I felt her body go limp and motionless. We lay there a few minutes without a thought in our heads. The sun was no longer visible, but somehow managed to faintly illuminate the area and made the few low hanging clouds pink-washed fragments perceptible over the now less dominant gray.

I petted her neck and got up. I said; "We've got to eat," held up one finger and went in the house. I found the dog dish and food on the kitchen counter and proceeded to dole out an appropriate portion. I brought it to Daisy. Initially she ate voraciously, but as she saw I going back to the house she looked up and her face showed surprise, as when one first hears of a death. I came back to her and scratched her head at which point she re-discovered the dish. I said; "I wish you could understand. I, too have to eat." Daisy didn't understand a word but was re-assured by my concerned tone and distracted by her appetite.

I re-entered the house and took an inviting portion of the meatloaf to the unoccupied kitchen counter. Standing there, I wolfed it down; anxious to finish and get back to Daisy, who was looking up at me through the kitchen window, the same way I eyed her. Some subsequent time I brilliantly deduced that I could bring Daisy to her room first and eat in a more civil fashion, but it always seemed that some mysteries take me inordinate time to decode.

I finished my meat loaf, drank two glasses of ice tea and went back out. Daisy seemed somewhat puzzled as she followed me on a tour of the fenced borders. My thinking at the time was to give her one last opportunity to use the great outdoors as a privy before we settled into a mattress sleep. Daisy lifted her leg next to a chamisa. When she put it down I said; "Ready?" which Daisy always understood as; "Time to go in?" and we did. I got under the blankets and my hot-blooded girl got on top of them and leaned up against me.

One early morning I had to break from my usual routine as Daisy let me know that she had to get outside **now**. I rushed her out, but had to go back in as I had not yet dressed in clothes suitable in suburbia, exurbia or whatever people classify Corrales, NM. I was ready in five minutes.

I went out the back door and Daisy was chasing a bird. When she heard the door slam she looked, saw me and ran over at top speed. She squatted and we licked each other's faces and then I put the leash on her collar.

Because of my delay, Daisy was expecting another rope toy playing session, so she was surprised when I led her toward the triangular room. She momentarily balked, the thought crossing her mind that this might be some new tactic to get her in there, close the door and force her to use the hated doggy entrance/exit.

I said; "Come on. We're going to see the wonders of Camino De Lucia and I don't mean the landscaping." I chuckled at my own sarcastic witticism and Daisy was somewhat less appreciative, adopting a reserved posture beyond her years. She couldn't quite detect what I said, but must have concluded that it was intended to be some kind of good natured humor. Since it seemed to lack any purpose she followed me to the room. Her expression seemed to indicate that Daisy was chastising herself for not being able to merely trust me. I opened the door to the garage. Its door already raised, Daisy was ecstatic when she saw the great outdoors and ran as fast as I could move down the hundred foot driveway, straining at the leash. I tried to stop her at the street so we could watch out for cars. I had no problem as when Daisy got there she willingly stopped undecided whether to go left or right. She didn't yet know that her direction didn't matter as Camino De Lucia was shaped as a circle where she was and she'd wind up covering the entire territory no matter which way she started out. That was unless she took the straight road off shooting from the circle, which was also named Camino De Lucia. A huge street by Corrales standards Camino De Lucia had other parts which were laid out differently. One other section was a warped "L" with two culs-de-sac leading to a real dead end after creating a false impression of an earlier one. This wannabe "L" actually insisted on being referred to by a different name; Manzano Road, probably to emphasize the view of the Manzano Mountains which it didn't have, though the rest of the area did. Magnanimously people called it Camino De Lucia, despite the occasional pompous protestation. An aerial view of the entire street was that of a lollipop with an incomplete useless handle on a stick with a spare.

Daisy sniffed the air, got a whiff of the low, muddy river and ran left toward it, pulling me. I was laughing and almost keeping up. Coincidentally, one of the residents of a two story, traditional, square white stucco house on the inner side of the circle also entered the street. Daisy slowed down appreciably. It was Demetrius Shamsky, a retired engineer who previously worked no-bid government contracting jobs very sporadically, specializing in easily refutable land studies loved by builders. He was grinning without having had the benefit of seeing his Friar Tuck by way of Bozo hairstyle partially hidden by the baseball cap he perennially wore, even indoors, though he didn't know a cut fast ball from first base. He said; "Morning. Is that a new dog?"

"Morning, Dim," I echoed back utilizing the shortened name Demetrius disliked, but everyone used. I tried to think of an interesting response to his opening and drew a blank, so I said; "I think she's about six months old and she's new to me. Wanna say hello?"

"I don't know. Is she all right?"

Daisy came to a full stop. She was trying to figure out what was going on, having that in common with Dim.

I said; "Yeah," and moved toward our neighbor. Daisy took that as an indication that I was comfortable with Dim and in excitement at the possibility of making a new friend she wagged her tail and ran at him. Dim ducked something no one else saw and put his hands in front of his face resembling Floyd Patterson attempting to survive a Sonny Liston onslaught. Peek-A-Boo.

Daisy kept going and put her front paws up on the mail order, loose fitting, tan slacks Dim purchased for "country" expeditions. Dim yelled; "Get her off me. Get her off me."

I pulled the leash and held it short five feet away from the neighborly country boy. Daisy tried to get back to her new buddy and didn't understand why I denied her access. Dim walked away, utilizing both hands to brush away the invisible offensive evidence on the shining pants, poorly mimicking the sun's unfettered display. He looked back and chastised; "Keep that dog away from me. You ought to train her better than that," apparently unaware of the adequacy of his own training in engineering.

I grimaced and was silent, seeing the humor in the situation, but was not enough of a wordsmith to adequately share my feelings without opening up the possibility of a "rude" characterization.

Daisy was befuddled. She thought that Dim wanted to meet her and that I was going to allow it. In a matter of seconds the situation reversed. She got her first glimpse of human nonsense and wished that she was not compelled to dwell on the problems of a Dim-ly lit world. In the future she would try to focus only on her new family.

I again walked and Daisy quickly ran ahead of me seeing one of her favorite things. **Puddles**! Shaded depressed areas in the dirt at the side of the asphalt road still held some water probably from the downpours of the prior week. There was now more mud than sea, but Daisy didn't care as she could easily splash and slide through either substance, not knowing or caring where mud ended and water began or where water ended and mud began. However she was soon to discover that I did have a line of distinction. I smiled and ran with her. We both covered our lower bodies in kicked up mud. I had a harder time in the mud than she did, being limited by a two legged handicap, but was her equal in the less slippery water.

Daisy suddenly felt her head pulled back and turned to see that I had fallen and was sitting in the mud. She was worried thinking that she may have been responsible for hurting me. She went to me and licked my face frantically as if to say; "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Are you hurt?"

Daisy was surprised to see me laugh and lick her back. I put my arms on her back and stood up after a few false starts absolutely covered in mud like her. I said; "Let's go," and started to move again, so she continued through the water-mud. Daisy soon felt a gentler tug on the leash and turned to see that I was still standing, but I was back up on the asphalt brushing myself off. I mumbled; "Another neighbor." I liked playing in the puddles, but didn't like to be watched doing it at age 54. This is virtually impossible for a puppy to understand, but also unnecessary for Daisy. If I could convey my reluctance to perform for an audience it wouldn't make any sense to her anyway. All she needed to know she already did. Daisy concluded; "Sometimes he likes to play with me in the mud, despite having more difficulty handling it and sometimes he doesn't. I'll respect his wishes."

"Dog taking you for a walk?" came the boisterous, smirking, well-anticipated, time-worn remark from Maximillian Propanis walking with his wife Minnie. He outdid himself when he chuckled and added; "Or should I have said taking you for a wallow?" Broad near laughter was on the faces of the couple who boasted that they were on occasion capable of completing the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle; no doubt unchecked for accuracy. I had to smile at the second quip, considering it a remarkable improvement over the first. Daisy was nonplussed and remained stone faced as I brought her to a halt.

I replied; "Wallows are cool? Wouldn't you say?"

Max looked to Minnie for help as she pretended not to notice finding fascination in the chamisas she had only previously seen about a million times.

When prompted a second time by a direct question of what she thought about the controversial subject, Minnie felt the need to adjust something on the bun holding the bulk of her pulled back brown hair and Max replied; "I'm thinking about the contradictions apparent in those chamisas, perhaps a bit of a double bind. They are defined as evergreen plants which is at best a half truth. While they always maintain some foliage, what there is of it at this time of year is akin to the stretched dry skin of a corpse reclining in a funeral home. In bloom, the densely packed, five foot by five foot mature shrubs display sulfur to gold flowers, appealing to all tastes, but then turn to an uninvigorated straw color, for some reason choosing to remain on their stems."

Minnie said; "The unstoppable attraction of body and soul."

Max's eyes widened and he fidgeted with the top button of his well-used-no-longer-office-quality white shirt. He scanned the scene and saw me and Daisy staring. He put his right hand on his wife's shoulder and exclaimed in a voice that almost displayed sincerity; "That's pure poetry Minnie. How do you come up with these things?"

Minnie feigned over-complimented ordinariness and self-effacingly radiated; "Oh, I don't know. I suppose anyone can do it," as she basked in the glory of her impromptu brilliance.

Max turned his attention to me and asked; "Don't you think that was right to the point?"

Without missing a beat and without inflection I said; "Oh, yeah. I especially liked the part about the corpse. Reminded me of 'The Fall of the House of Usher.' Ever see that?"

The couple donned their smile masks, saying nothing, but implying; "Of course, hasn't everyone?"

I imitated Roderick, put my hands over my ears, writhed my body in torment and in the best mock Vincent Price voice I could conjure said; "The noise. The noise! It gets louder every day. I can't stand it." I laughed genuinely and saw six eyes looking my way, none of which displayed the slightest hint of mirth. I cleared my throat and with rapidity said; "Never mind. Want to pet my dog Daisy?"

Minnie replied; "Of course we would were she not dirty."

Max added; "Maybe next time when he's had a bath. He's pretty and might be a great dog."

The couple walked away and undetected I mumbled; "She." Daisy and I went in the other direction and I said; "They're really nice people. So far one vote for potential menace and one abstention leaning toward not yet clean enough."

Daisy was temporarily out of puddles and the next item that piqued her interest was a trail through a lightly wooded brushy area. The partially bent weeds either meant that something very light, like rabbits, used it or that human activity was infrequent. The river fragrance was the strongest she had yet encountered and she wanted to further investigate. I wanted to get the neighbor introductions over with as quickly as possible, so I preferred to stay on the asphalt road and attempt to favorably impress the next people out for a stroll. Daisy went her own way until she felt her collar tighten. She stopped, surprised and aggravated and looked back at me, firmly motionless on the asphalt.

Daisy thought; "Oh, come on, now. I know you can get through this easily and there are some wonderful scents this way. I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist." She looked at me with a combination of probing and insistence in her wide brown eyes. She was answered with a back turn, my eyes on the oncoming couple, Jack and Jenny. She tugged gently. She didn't understand and saw the pink towel hanging from a nearby clothesline. She turned toward the irresistible scent and provided her own not so gentle tug. I was obliged to turn in her direction and took three steps to maintain my balance. Daisy was amused until she was brought to another abrupt halt. She lowered her head gaining leverage and attempted to continue her chosen way. She managed a few difficult steps and thought that there has to be a better approach. At this pace she would be worn out before she got there. She sat and thought, but refused to go an inch in my unreasonable direction.

From fifty feet Jack called out; "I once had a dog like that. One good crack in the head fixed him fine."

Jenny gave Jack a playful shoulder slap and said; "Don't listen to him. That's his weird sense of humor." Jack's huge chest rippled under his gray UNM sweatshirt as he laughed louder than the commentary seemed to warrant. Perhaps he was amused to have been so lightly struck as the high school football coach was a former player switching between offensive lineman and fullback. For his own personal development he preferred the line as he thought he had a shot at the pros, but his college team needed a running back desperately and the team consideration outweighed his personal goals. He would say that he preferred the line as he was just too slow a runner to attract the pro scouts, often wistfully which he would almost immediately convert to an "I don't care" attitude.

Daisy's attention was drawn to the noises and she took a few slow steps toward the group.

Jack did an approximation of his line squat and called out; "Git over here you bad dog."

Daisy charged and put her front paws on Jack's thighs and licked his round red face. Jack turned his head, smiling and pretended to be disgusted by the quick tongue. He stood up and Daisy also elevated again putting her paws on Jack's thighs, somewhat disappointed that there was no play scrap. As everyone watched the two Jack asked; "How long you have this dog?"

I pulled Daisy back toward me and replied; "Just about two weeks."

Tiny Jenny, less than half Jack, went to Daisy and rubbed her head saying; "Don't let old Jack fool you. Our last dog was a little terror and Jack didn't do anything but yell; 'Stop barking,' as the pug barked and ran all over the place."

Jack feigned a "Don't give away all my secrets" look, eyes directed at the clear blue.

Daisy felt very at ease with both of them and forgot about her aspiration to get to the river. The three humans remained in the same general area, in front of an oddly shaped one level house. Its current cockeyed "U" appearance with a distended way off center entranceway and a sloping roof to the left and a flat one to the right made one wonder who the bogus architect might have been. Aesthetics aside the sloping roof blocked the mountain view which otherwise might have been enjoyed from all rooms in the right wing. Was this an intentional or accidental denial? It defied property value. Two ignored eyes peered from a closed left window; the attached or unattached brain annoyed at the group's positioning near his property line.

All houses on Camino De Lucia are subject to a ten foot "utility" easement. Most houses are fenced at that point, but some aren't. Local protocol varies widely. Most don't mind if a person or dog walks this area and some do. Some landscape with rocks to make walking difficult and express no verbal preference. Customarily people walking by themselves or with other humans stay on the asphalt and safely avoid all possible controversy. Travelers of the canine persuasion go to the ten foot limit as they seem to prefer dirt and grass, but not rocks. They have difficulty in discerning their limits in front of unfenced houses for a variety of reasons too boring to detail and the possibility that they might absurdly think that open actually means open. Daisy already had limited instruction in this area and will later learn the necessary and contradictory nuances to this radical thought.

To simplify matters, what it unquestionably means in reality is that as soon as a dog steps onto the easement they will be viewed by the interior occupants, whose main concern in the moment is that the said dog doesn't adopt a squatting position while on hallowed ground. I think that Daisy already had this figured out with the exception of being confused with the oft invisible line of demarcation. One might think that the occupants might be watching something more interesting on TV, the internet or reading a book. That one has not lived in America's suburbs, where the height of entertainment is the glee induced when a dog squats on the easement of someone they don't like, presumably making the simultaneous statement that he or she won't need to squat on theirs.

Because of the complex drama an average dog can't possibly understand it. It squats, not in defiance of, but perhaps in essential disregard for community standards. This was what perplexed the arguably attached eyes in Weird U. They were compelled to watch the long rendition while they knew that their neighbors were amused at their plight. Eyes pressured brain for a plan. Brain was more interested in going back to the computer to watch the dog squatting websites.

Jack was trying to keep his weight down, so after a short period of dog petting, happy talk and smiles he and Jenny continued on. Daisy again showed how easily distracted she could sometimes be when greeted with affection as she no longer thought of her fascination with the river scent she had idolized just a few minutes prior and she too walked on, wagging her tail wildly, anxious to meet the next group of friendly people. Or so she thought as I moved my feet quickly to keep pace. Eyes and brain were at odds; not only because the programming was visually repugnant to eyes yet mentally amusing to brain, but because brain's preoccupation with vulgarity precluded him from formulating a plan regarding the possible boundary line invaders.

**More** **puddles**! Daisy silently screamed and she ran to them, me running to keep up after seeing the source of the excitement. They were in front of another non-standard house; this one a one story adobe with a sloping blue tin roof. Its peculiarity was the exterior display of uncovered adobe shunned by virtually everyone as an open invitation to early collapse from the rain and snow's ability to deteriorate the dirt based cement which held everything together. However, this hacienda had a unique idea. Desiring to maximize the beauty of natural adobe it was left exposed in areas under an overhanging umbrella and was covered by tan stucco in areas open to the mercy of the clouds. While visually stimulating the idea had a serious drawback recognized in early Greek architecture; to maximize exterior beauty it was necessary to also maximize interior darkness as windows under overhangs get no sunlight. Skylights have been used to attempt to attain the best of both worlds, but work best on flat roofs and are rarely used on slopes for a number of rather obvious reasons one can glean from their local Mr. Fixit if so desired. The point, if any, is that barring the foresight of a flat roof with skylights one has the choice of an externally stunning house with inner darkness or an ordinary house with inner light and warmth. Complicating things one practical step is that despite their unique look fancied by the uninitiated, flat roofs are avoided by Southwestern natives who know them to be a perennial leaking problem. Daisy's proven pure predilections provided perplexing problems. She preferred the sun when it was cold and the shade when it was hot. If she had chosen to be an architect she probably would have recommended many retractable features. She considered vocalizing her observations, but chose not to, as she didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings and she didn't have to live there.

Daisy's favorite feature was the mud puddles which succeeded in attaining the best of both worlds by choosing to reside in the easement next to a weathered post and rail fence outside the house. She splashed through them slowly recalling her partner's good natured difficulty previous times and also in recognition of her own desire to spend more time in the mud-water. She slowed down more as she watched my surprised smile as I was expecting another track meet and was prepared for it still retaining much of the mud from my fall. Daisy liked the feel of the squishy matter and slowed to a point where any further deceleration would have resulted in a stop. My feet finished moving and she merely swayed.

George and Adrienne Lovelace exited their lavender streaked front door wishing to get a closer look at the contented couple. The door closing behind them drew Daisy's attention. Seeing them, Daisy meandered to dry land and grumbled. I was surprised at how quickly she understood suburban norms. I did the same. In a low charming voice Adrienne slowly said; "Oh no. Don't stop on our account. We're admirers." George vigorously nodded his head in agreement.

I dejectedly shrugged and said; "Too late now. The mood is broken."

Had she the power of speech Daisy would have produced an echo in a mildly belligerent tone.

George, a middle-aged, tall, thin and craggily handsome man adjusted the lapels of his denim jacket and led the way to Daisy. He stopped a bit short at the fence opening and asked; "Is she friendly?"

Wanting to make Daisy welcome in the neighborhood or at least not be a subject of constant scrutiny; at the same time desiring to be truthful I said; "Definitely, but go a little slow right now. You may have caught her in an unguarded moment."

Addie didn't pay any attention to the spoken words. The only thing in her head was Janis Joplin singing "Ball and Chain." She strode past George. From Daisy's ground level point of view all she saw was long confident legs incarcerated in the tightest pink, stone washed, denim jeans she had yet seen. Of course she had never previously seen pink denim jeans of any sort; loose, unwashed or stoned, but that's getting too technical.

Everyone and she knew what was getting Daisy's attention. Addie leaned over, her curled blonde hair falling onto her lightly made up face and caressed her under the chin forcing her vantage point upward to Addie's rocking blue eyes. In a silly adult version of a childish voice, which any child would be embarrassed to duplicate she said; "Is she the prettiest girl?" three times, either for emphasis or the provocatively catchy beat and since Daisy didn't respond, then answered her own questions with a closing; "Yes she is."

Everyone laughed, excepting Daisy and that was merely because she didn't think it was a joke. Addie's rhythm reached her happy chord, but all she could do was to let her tongue hang out and pant. Not to be outdone George put one arm around Daisy's neck which was greeted with a rapid series of licks, leaving George's face drizzling. George persevered and continued cuddling her and scratching Daisy's head with the zeal and enthusiasm of a complicit and seasoned paramour. With the couple focused entirely near her head Daisy thought that the rest of her black spotted, white body deserved more attention and she squirmed free, presenting them with a side view. She soon had four hands all over her belly producing an ecstatic tiny yelp.

George and Addie moved back and admired the beautiful puppy. They were oblivious to the fact that they stood in the mud, undeterred from satisfying their optical senses. With the slightest hint of a Georgia drawl Addie said to me; "Now don't you let anybody, and I mean **enn-nee-body** , tell you that this dog needs any kind of robotic educating. You know what I'm saying, girl," presumably directing the last word toward Daisy.

I wasn't sure, though tended toward "Yes, with a clarification required," but in the beaming happiness of the moment nodded my head and said; "You bet." George and Addie caught each other's eyes and used them to simultaneously motion toward their house and walked that way. George said; "Have a great day," as if he meant it.

I responded with an unintended overly perfunctory; "You too."

Addie said; "Can't miss. It's Easter. Happy Easter!" She laughed at something only a southern belle understands as she opened the lavender streaked front door letting a grinning George in behind her. I was thrown as I thought that the holiday was a few months off.

Daisy and I looked toward each other as if each said; "Tell me what I'm missing." We shrugged, me overtly. We smiled, Daisy utilizing her prettiest tongue out, panting version and we walked on. I whispered; "I like them, but I can't tell you why. Sure, they made friends with you, but so do others think so." I smirked and quickly after did a pirouette to see if anyone was watching or in earshot. Not detecting any spies I added; "Sometimes it hard to tell if the others are sincere." Had Daisy been able to understand that and possess the ability to talk she would have said; "Not for me, precisely because I don't get confused with words," quite a Catch-22, as if she really could understand a volume of words and talk she wouldn't be able to say what she sort of just did.

Some fun house mirrors project images that are not really there. Some switch the sides with the center. Some invert bottom and top. Some ignore what is really there and show something else. Some make you fat. Others make you skinny. Some do combinations and mixtures of the real or distortions. The one in our eyes doesn't do anything at all.

We came to a fork in the Camino De Lucia road. Left would have put us on a long straight road with few bushes and trees taking us further from home. Right was curved and therefore not entirely visible with lots of trees and bushes, but would lead us right back home. Daisy came to a complete stop and I stood still beside her. Daisy sat and looked up at me for guidance. I fully understood her or thought that I did and said; "I don't care either."

Daisy probably thought; "Darn it. Why does he leave the tough ones for me?" She took long looks in each direction hoping something would come out of somewhere or that I would show a preference. She sighed heavily when the delay produced no movement. She wanted not to go home yet, but the road toward home was much more attractive. She continued to sit but was becoming fidgety and her audacious stomach growled at her and she felt like eating. I took a step right and Daisy eagerly got up ready to follow, her biggest decision of the day settled for her. Then I took a step to the left. Daisy stopped moving and was confused. Again I stepped right. I stepped left. I was dancing to a tune Daisy couldn't hear. I gave her a hint with a few words. As I moved my feet to the tune of a silent drummer I leaned over and touched her nose saying; "Pardon me, Alphonse." I danced away, put my hand across her belly and said; "No, pardon me Gaston," and made a small bow. Daisy stared motionlessly. If she had any thought it was not apparent to me. I grimaced and sat on the asphalt next to my confused puppy who was physically on her haunches and mentally on some broad edge.

In a few seconds that seemed like hours to Daisy, I jumped up and excitedly said; "I got it!"

Daisy was composed and required some convincing.

I began my one step right, one step left dance and said; "I've got to get more modern. You're too young to know about any Alphonses or Gastons. Besides you're an American dog not expected to know anything of France."

Daisy thought; "You'd be surprised."

I said; "Okay, American interpretive dance," as I put my hands behind my neck and rolled my belly, hoping more than ever that we were not in plain sight. I moved right to her and again touched her nose saying; "Pardon me, Jonathan."

Daisy was captivated but chose to retain her low vantage point.

I giggled as I moved left and put my left hand on my midsection and sloppily said; "No, pardon me, ......" I drew a blank and stopped moving. Daisy showed her eagerness by rising from the ground. I put one hand on my forehead to show that I was thinking. Daisy sat back down and made a disinterested face. She peered down the long straight road wishing to see some interesting trait in the lifeless monotony; a hedgerow, a thick grove of evergreens, wild shrubbery, wild flowers, anything but the boring nothingness.

I was disappointed at her reaction to my silly entertainment improvisation. I thought that Daisy should have made a good attempt to fake interest as this wasn't the least bit easy for me to do. Deep down I was a very shy person. I stopped moving and stood with my hands at my sides. I said; "Oh, the heck with it. It's the repertoire of some contradictory contemporary genius Diane told me about. Frau Kroger. No. Crammit. No. Cramzit. No. Pedantzen. No. I give up." I saw Daisy turn her head sideways as if she was on the verge of some sort of idea, but not yet comfortable with it. I shrugged and shook my head from side to side and in exasperation said; "Oh, I don't know. Something like **Francis**."

Daisy again rose and vigorously pulled an astounded me all the way home; down the driveway, through the triangular room and into the back yard. I removed the leash from her collar and out of breath and perspiring from the jaunt said; "You will never make any sense to me." Daisy panted and her tongue hung out, always her most flattering way of being photographed, which is no rare occurrence in "curious" Corrales, New Mexico. I evoked the same countenance, but would have hidden from any detected paparazzo.

I held up one finger and keeping an eye on her entered the house. Daisy lay in the grass enjoying the feel of the directly overhead mid-day sun. A large multi-colored butterfly haphazardly flew near her, but she was too tired to chase its crazy and elusive flight pattern, preferring to watch it dive and ascend. At times it relaxed on the ground, but curiously was compelled to exercise its wings as if it hadn't had its fill of that when elevated. Daisy wasn't sure, but she suspected that it was not yet time to go in the house. She usually made note of repeating patterns and though she was far from certain about drawing conclusions from a few random events her previous house incursions periodically happened after our walk. She grumbled and tried to bury herself in the soft grass, but was unable to sleep with her hunger pangs. In five minutes I had Daisy's food, water and room ready. I brought her in and we dozed together after she had gorged her food.

Michael and Jeanette lived a few doors away; a couple I liked who have many interests, including music, art and dogs. Whenever we passed by, if anyone was outside, I'd bring Daisy over. If it was Jeanette, Daisy would roll on her back and become the recipient of furious belly rubs. We always appreciated that as most people were content to pat her head a few times and smile.

After we knew them a few months Jeanette purchased a female German shepherd mix from a kid carrying it in a brown paper bag at the mall and named her Francesca. Initially Francesca, like my Willy, didn't like anyone except Daddy and occasionally Mommy. On numerous occasions she had charged into the street to bark at and intimidate passers-by. But, she liked one dog; Daisy. How could she not?

Jeanette got an idea. Though she and Michael wanted Francesca to be somewhat civil, they also wanted her to be protective, especially when walking at their remote, mountain, second home. Daisy and I were invited over to "socialize" Francesca.

This became a daily 5PM routine Daisy loved. She and Francesca would play like demons, growling at each other in the process. An onlooker might have easily concluded that they were witnessing a serious dog fight. But, they were just playing full tilt. Daisy and Francesca would take turns running after each other, collide and roll over entangled, get up and do it again, and again, and again. It was fun to watch the excited play and how it evolved. Daisy was the heavier of the two and as their games matured, she would try to create situations where she could use her weight to her advantage and Francesca looked for games where speed and agility were paramount.

Eventually Francesca did get socialized, almost too much, and both she and Daisy had a lot of fun in the process. Ideal. I'll always remember the two or three times Daisy thought that the rough play might have tipped over into a serious altercation. Each time, she came to where I was and stood behind me, not wanting immediate continuation. This was to be one of her hallmarks; to play as hard as she could, but not to fight.

In later years I detected that she had become famous as people at and around the Bosque whom I had never met called Daisy by name before petting her. She was deemed "perfect" by a Dalmatian breeder, who approached us when Daisy was ten, wanting to know where she came from and how I trained her. I wasn't able to be of much help as Daisy was a "rescue dog," but suggested that we rely more on co-operation than training. While it was nice to hear a professional seconding opinion that she was perfect, I already knew that from ten years of experience. But more importantly, I loved her with no reservations. I regularly told her; "I love you, Daisy. You're my magic puppy."

When I first moved to Corrales I heard about the wonders of the Bosque. I found out few people go there and most don't know where to enter. I plead guilty, but I did ask a number of times. It was initially only mere curiosity as I knew Willy wouldn't have been interested in it. He always liked going places that had at least some concrete pathways. Once he had learned that someplace was entirely dirt, he would refuse to walk there.

But, Daisy liked dirt and puddles, and we both had our fill of walking around the development. The roadways cover about two miles. But, what is this to a chock-full of energy, almost year old Dalmatian puppy, with a strong sense of playfulness? Some form of incarceration, most likely.

Luckily we met a couple who lived at the end of the development who knew the way. I can't recall their names and they moved away years ago. They would regularly greet us and offer Daisy some of the Golden Delicious apples which grew on their unfenced property. Perhaps this was where Daisy got her taste for the Evian temptation. We had a few apple trees in our backyard. Though not of the Golden Delicious variety, Daisy ate all of the fruit, fortunately not in one sitting.

Somehow we got to talking about the Bosque situation and they informed us that if we passed through the adjacent elm forest, cross busy Corrales Road, go down Academy Road, and make a right on the first ditch path we would be headed right for it. It sounded difficult to one miserable at directions, but I thought that as a team, Daisy and I could do anything. I will admit that a second and third thought crossed my mind. We could backtrack if it looked dangerous and that no one had ever been lost in the largely suburban Village of Corrales. I don't think that it is possible to get more than a thousand feet from the nearest house.

We said goodbye and Daisy and I entered the thick elm forest. There was a bit of a seldom used path which meandered through it that she followed, stopping here and there to sniff whatever got her interest. She wagged her tail, excited to break into new land. It didn't last very long as this forest was no more than ten acres, probably the land remaining when the builder stopped building at the outset of the last real estate slump. In addition to the locally disparaged elms, the land held a few apple trees. Despite receiving no water other than that which Mother Nature frugally doled out in the desert, they did very well.

Daisy and I would become regulars in this forest. While I optimistically took other signs to signify the return of the warm weather, the apple trees were a better harbinger. When their tiny white flowers announced apple blossom time, it was a surety that the cold mornings were over. Their petals fell on us as we brushed by, cheering us on, as we made our way to a new season.

We came to busy Corrales Road and I held her leash short and tight as Daisy had no fear of cars. She thought that they were just bringing more people and dogs who wanted to get out and play with her.

When we got a lull in traffic, I said; "Okay," and we ran across the street. We were now on the property of the Seventh Day Adventist Tax Free Enterprises Corporation, who prefer being referred to as the Seventh Day Adventist Church. The property lines the southern side of Academy Road, starting with the church itself, a school which was under construction at the time Daisy and I first walked through there, the old school and a large dirt parking lot at the rear, home to a book store, an exercise/massage emporium, health food retailer, warehouses, wood shop and furniture store. In subsequent years, after the new school was completed, the Reverends in Charge obtained village approval to convert the old school into condominiums for nice religious people of lesser means. It took a variance as there were no sewers in this part of Corrales, and was consequently zoned for one acre lots. After approval, the rights to construct/improve 16 units on the acre the old school occupied were immediately sold to a builder who proceeded to bust and renege on the contract. I am advised that the matter is still in the courts; poetic justice of some sort.

In the early years we would regularly see Elaine, a woman of about forty, walking alone. Like me, she too was a refugee from the New York area. Daisy instinctively liked her and would attempt to run to her, which I would allow, though at somewhat of a slower pace. Elaine liked Daisy and once told me; "It feels so good to have someone want to see you so badly." She started bringing peanut butter cookies to treat Daisy, and Elaine once mistakenly said that Daisy comes to her as she does because she liked the cookies. Daisy would have been excited to see her in any case, as she was prior to the cookie distribution.

Daisy and I avoided the work being done on the now lumpy field which would soon sprout a new school and followed Academy Road. At the end of it we came to the parking lot straight ahead and two parallel ditch paths surrounding a full ditch to our right. She instinctively went toward the water and I saw a metal signpost which said; "PROPERTY OF THE MRGCD. NO TRESPASSING." It actually said something else concocted by a verbose sign maker, which I can't recall, but it meant "No trespassing."

I said; "Uh oh," and Daisy turned back to me with appropriate concern. She always knew this sound meant; "I better wait."

I saw a woman approach, escorting a dog. I asked her about the sign, and she said; "Oh, they don't really mean it. They just want to keep cars off the road."

I wasn't sure that she was right, but in the future I would come to know that Corrales leads the nation in official appearing notices that they don't really mean.

I asked; "Is this the way to the Bosque?"

She said; "Yes. Just keep going straight. Cross Corrales Road. Go straight a bit more and you're there."

I thanked her and we were on our way. But, we didn't go absolutely straight. Daisy zigzagged over the flat, sandy terrain and crossed to the opposite side whenever we came to an iron bridge. In those days the MRGCD didn't mow the edges and we were surrounded by tall grass and shrubs. Other than our circuitous path, the walk was rather uneventful. Houses situated on an acre or two and a tree farm lined our sides.

On a subsequent walk down this same ditch path we encountered a group of kids playing, who we never saw again. Among them was a girl of about twelve years of age. She was particularly fascinated with Daisy's beauty and spirit. When we departed she told me that when she grew up she was going to get a dog just like Daisy. I didn't say it, but, I wish her luck as there are no other dogs just like Daisy.

Daisy would eat virtually any small animal cadaver she could get to. Initially this was not a huge problem as if something disagreed with her, most of the time nothing happened; and to a lesser extent she would either throw it up ten minutes later or sometimes get worms. I didn't willingly allow her to get to the carcasses, but with her super sense of smell she could find them in tall grass before I could see them. Truthfully, I probably could have gotten the bulk of the smelly treats away from her, which I did in later years when she developed digestive problems, but at this stage, if she got one I did nothing to prevent her from eating it, since it didn't hurt her and fearing that she would think that I denied her what she liked. I did concentrate on looking out for such hazards and if I spotted it before Daisy, I would keep her away from it. I also would have to remember where the dead were as Daisy had the ability to do the same, and would try to get them on the next walk. One time I saw a dead something in the ditch water before Daisy and held her back. It was a bloated black thing at the edge and I remembered its location for about a week. I don't know what it was. Initially, I thought it was a bat, but on subsequent passes by I saw no wings. Whatever it was, somewhere around the eighth day I forgot about it and Daisy went into the water and pulled it out. She ate the whole thing as I kept changing position in an attempt to get downwind from the fortuitously discovered repast. It smelled worse than being near an open septic tank, but Daisy devoured it and had no subsequent bad effects.

We again crossed Corrales Road, got on another ditch path, and kept going. At the end was a green, tubular metal gate with an opening to its left with logs on the ground designed to let in horses, dogs, people, and anything else that was nimbly on foot, but kept out vehicles. Daisy went under the gate and I, less than nimbly, passed over the logs.

We saw the Rio Grande for the first time on that sunny spring mid-morning. No wind made it on the warm side, especially for Daisy. She had kept cool by getting frequent drinks and dips in the filled ditches. She was careful in picking entry points, as at that time she thought that she would have to come back up the same way she went down.

As almost always was to be, we had entered the Bosque through Romero Road and climbed the graduated levee. At the summit we stopped and took in the surroundings. We could see miles in all directions; the trees, the fields, the water, the mountains across the river, four long straight paths and one irregular, curving one which descended to the river.

After enjoying the view, Daisy led me down to the river. I had to stop her halfway there as I spotted a very detailed, made-to-look-like pewter encasement. It was the sheath which held a Native American styled knife one can purchase many places, which a Native American probably never touched. But, I took it as a good omen; a welcome and an indication that we were not in a highly trafficked area. Why else would such a valuable item be sitting there? I pocketed it and Daisy continued toward the river.

I was to find out that at this time I was actually half right. While people and dogs strolled the other four paths, few went into the drop off near the river. I found that strange as it was obviously the most interesting part of the area. My opinion was vigorously seconded by Daisy. At the path's end Daisy jumped right into the river, took a bit of a wade, came out and shook off. She seemed to be curious why I didn't want to join her in the fun.

Daisy took a southern turn toward Albuquerque, and I tailed behind her on a winding path bordering the river. The rising sun was still over the Sangre De Cristos across the water, and sent down a beam which reflected on the water and seemed to follow us as we hurriedly passed through an area light on vegetation. After a few hundred feet the path turned inland. In subsequent years the Rio Grande was to change its course, producing another rather easy option, wherein if we turned left and passed through some eight foot Johnson grass, we could continue to follow the shoreline through a sandy, rocky and oft muddy, former river bed, initially un-vegetated, and subsequently displaying infrequent inconsequential bushes. We would usually walk it at the river's edge, Daisy splashing through the shallow water trying to make inroads into the shore. At the beach's end was an overly convenient re-entry into the woods, which required a two foot hop to access. Daisy did it easily and pulled me up. I wondered who or what created this portal, but never saw any clue providing tracks in the sand.

Daisy was again presented with a choice. She could bear right and quickly get back to the main path in the center of a wooded area, or bear left and access a rarely used winding path through a thick forest closer to the river which would require a lot of ducking on my part. The vast majority of the time she required me to duck. She wasn't being cruel. Very Daisy-edible squirrels lived in the area. As usual she had no difficulty in traversing the terrain. I had to slow her down at the turns and low tree branches. The canopies effectively filtered the light. Eventually any semblance of a path entirely ended and Daisy again was faced with choices. She could have turned back. I don't think she even considered that one. She could turn inland, hop a two foot sharp elevation and find out what was there or stay with the river and attempt to navigate a thorny cluster of bushes.

In the long run I think she was near 50-50, but I recall that the first choice was to leap before she looked. Initially this posed no greater problem than following the tall grass through a field littered with cottonwood logs. However when that ended we encountered a stand of five foot tall green reeds. I could see the woods not far behind them, normally indicative of an easy place to explore. The reeds often tricked us, at times leading to our greatest disputes. They grew thickly and softly at the outset, luring us in, but the veterans clustered in tight groups further on. They wound around each other like a chain link fence with the strength of a soft pretzel. We could slowly push through them and I would get a few insignificant scratches. Daisy's thick coat protected her. The problem was that I could see over the top and she couldn't. These petty obstacles grow in long thin groupings often following the path of an inland periodic stream which occurs during particularly heavy rainfall. In New Mexico I have never met anyone who knew what they were called, if anything, but in New Jersey they are known as driftways. For some reason she never confided, Daisy always wanted to follow the water or surface indentation, which would require us to walk the maximum distance in the annoying pretzel logic, whereas I preferred to take the shortest route out. In most instances this was all of five feet of a tedious trudge. But, Daisy saw things her own way and I was compelled to insist, sometimes using decibels which carried to the Native American side of the river and rang through the hollows of exurbia. Daisy would eventually follow me as I kicked and dragged through the living pretzels, but it always took a lot of convincing each step of the laborious way.

I hoped no one heard my repeated command at each step as Daisy would initially comply, but when she would see that gratification was not immediate, she would turn back to the driftway. I had to repeat myself regularly, a tedious chore enjoyed only by the low of IQ and salespeople. The magic word was ****. Daisy understood shades of gray. She knew that "No" meant "No," as long as there wasn't something of interest where she was headed. She knew that a louder "No, no, no, no, no" meant "No" the vast majority of the time, but she made occasional exceptions, most often when she detected something edible in her chosen direction. But, she knew "**** that" was serious business.

I accidentally discovered the effectiveness of this word. Usually I followed Daisy through the Bosque whichever way she preferred. It really made no difference which route or non-route we were on. I liked most of them and enjoyed seeing Daisy enjoy herself. However, I would lead her in another direction if her path required me to crawl through something. I felt guilty about limiting her potential and at least one day a week, in a paltry attempt at righteousness, I would follow her wherever it was possible. One such day she tried to go under a cluster of low branching Russian Olives. For the uninitiated the branches grow inch long spikes with the density of a knitting needle. My immediate reaction was to say; "**** that." It wasn't in a loud or angry voice. I believe it sounded more tired and matter of fact. Whatever, Daisy immediately turned back, came to my feet, and looked up into my face with wide brown eyes as if to say; "I'm sorry. I didn't know you felt that strongly about it." I discovered that whenever I said this magic word, sometimes when we were doing nothing other than walking side by side, she would stop and look at me with an expression that said; "What did I do? Tell me and I won't do it again." Daisy would look genuinely upset, so I learned to save the magic word for special treacherous occasions. I'm glad she was a New Mexican native. In New Jersey the word is too commonly used for it to have any magic. Being in New Mexico, we were enchanted.

After the big blind leap, subsequent pull and pretzel parting we were back in the woods on a trail. I stooped to hold, kiss her and tell her that I loved her just in case she had her doubts after the **** incident. Daisy didn't need much convincing and she was more interested in moving on.

We followed the trail through a wooded area where the cottonwoods were well spaced and afforded a clear view of the levee. We were a few hundred feet from the river and it was no longer in sight. After a while we encountered a spot with smaller Russian Olives and tall grass, I would later learn was the habitat of a coyote den. Daisy got off the trail and investigated all the strange scents. The thorny trees were far enough apart to let me follow her with a minimum of inconvenience. I said; "Who was there?" Rather than answering Daisy continued her investigation, probably in an attempt to answer the same question for herself.

A neighbor, who had lived here all her life, advised me that coyotes could be a danger to Daisy. It was important for her to tell me as she cared about the little, spotted girl's safety almost as much as I did. The neighbor told me a number of things, all of which I found to be true. She said that we lived in an area that was close enough to places where coyotes are shot on sight, that they didn't want to get anywhere near a human, and that if I kept Daisy on a leash that we would be all right. She advised that some people, who harbor chickens and other small animals, keep a dog Daisy's size as a deterrent to coyotes, and that they were only half right. Coyotes are creatures of opportunity. While in normal times they will avoid an altercation with a dog Daisy's size and seek easier prey, in times of desperation they will attack desperately. The coyotes know that an injured predator is a dead predator and they expect that if they attack a medium sized dog that one or more of them will be injured before they kill the supposed guard. But, when they're near dying of starvation, what the hell? This woman also told me of a game the desperate coyotes play to entice a dog into their clutches. One will present itself as a candidate for play. When the playful dog approaches, the rest of the coyotes spring from their hiding places and kill.

I think that we encountered this agenda three or four times over the ensuing years. However, each time Daisy diverted to the rough terrain of the lure I was five feet from her, attached by leash and chain. Since the coyote did not want to see any human, it always moved away to try again, with the same result, and ultimately gave up.

The closest we came to a potentially hazardous dispute with a coyote was in the same area. Hidden in the tall grass was a coyote mother with pups, lying under one of the Russian Olives. As Daisy approached her expected new friend, the coyote mother threateningly growled, and I pulled my overly friendly pup away. This proved to be the end of the potential conflict and we reluctantly went back toward home, no doubt with Daisy wondering why she was not allowed to say "Hi" to the newborn pups.

There was another tiny coyote which seemed to solitarily live in the environs of the Romero Road entrance to the Bosque. He would often leave his scent in the vicinity in circling patterns. Daisy would pick them up and follow until she realized that she was coming back to the same spot for the third time. Being able to see over the tall grass and shrubs I would occasionally spot the little coyote following us, apparently happy that he had again won his game of hide and seek. I don't know how long he would follow as there were many points at which I had no visibility. It is possible that he kept up the game as long as Daisy and I were there. Who else did he have to play with? As part of her chosen modus operandi, to minimize repetition, Daisy would always return to Romero Road on a different path from the way she had come. But, one day she stopped on a virtual dime and turned back. In a second or two we saw the little coyote, with his head to the ground, casually tracking us. When he looked up and saw us heading right for him, his eyes bugged out, and at top speed, he ran off into the brush. So much for the coyote "menace" in Corrales.

We re-entered the modicum of a path through the trees and ever increasing bushes. At this point we were far from any public entrances to the Bosque and the path was more of a rut produced by bicycle wheels. At various points the densely packed bushes lined curves, blinding us as to what might be only a few feet ahead. I worried about the possibility of a speeding biker overtaking us in their fervor. I tried to get in front to take the brunt of any possible impact. It wasn't particularly brave as I had seen a number of people, including me, hit by bicycles, and walk away almost unscathed. In addition a cycler could have approached from our rear. Daisy would have none of the lead change, skipped back in front, and trod on, more interested in what was out there to be seen than any impediment to her safety.

Only once did we come close to a catastrophe. It had rained overnight. I considered skipping the morning walk, but as this was the best part of my day, I followed our usual routine. With some degree of slipping and sliding, Daisy and I made it back out to the Thick Bushed Coyote Domain. From a blind, an energetic bicycle speedster jumped right in front of us. He jammed on his brake and came to a stop, his bicycle on its side and his torso in the mud, a few feet in front of us. The pregnant pause was broken by him saying; "How are you doing today?"

I responded; "Better than you," and fortunately for me he slightly laughed. We exchanged a few unrecalled pleasantries and each of us was again on their way.

We escaped the cover of the bedazzling bushes and continued through a lightly wooded forest of cottonwoods. I considered this one of the Corrales Bosque's prettier areas, fully realizing that my biased judgment might have been predicated on its similarity to the woodland I had walked in New Jersey with Willy, and its relative absence of littering human traffic. Daisy continued her mute dash, without registering an opinion until we got in sight of the big rock.

This was to become my marker of what constituted a truly long walk. The boulder was almost round and was at least three feet high and long. I don't recall seeing any other rocks of this size in the Bosque. I wondered if some ancient someone had placed it there to signify something. The topography changed precipitously.

Daisy must have had the same thoughts as when she got right next to the unmovable stone; she greeted it by lifting one of her hind legs as a salutation. While the land to our right remained a woodland, that to our left turned to a grassy field with an inkling of a path leading back toward the river.

It wasn't difficult to move at top speed through the debris free, soft grass and as a result we spent much too little time in the warm sun, before encountering a partially shaded woodland. This one contained a mixture of young Russian Olives, elms, willows, none yet weeping and few cottonwoods. Daisy picked up openings through the diversity and we were soon back at the river, where it was obvious that someone had cleared the bordering shrubbery to form a private sitting area. Daisy and I were sufficiently far out and off the beaten path for me to think that not many travelers made this stop. I looked back and thought I saw the scrawny signs of a trail which led straight toward a two story Southwestern styled house on the other side of the levee. I watched Daisy sniff every inch of the clearing, strongly indicating to me that someone or something had recently been there. Further reflection refined the thought to the visitors having been some **ones** , as some **things** are not capable of the vegetation destruction present, unless, among its many secrets, Corrales harbored highly localized locusts.

Daisy desperately needed a drink, but was confounded by the steep, three foot drop off to the water. She took small venturing steps at numerous places, but each time pulled back in the hope of finding one more graduated. I could tell that there was nothing like that in the immediate vicinity and that we would have no chance at finding one until we backed out of this enclave and re-approached the river from a different direction. This was the first time I told her what proved to be an oft repeated phrase. "You can do anything you want. You just don't know it." Either some of my words were not yet in her vocabulary or she didn't believe me, as she continued to pick around at the edge. I knew it would not be easy for her to get back out, but if she couldn't, it was warm enough that, if necessary, I could go in after her and help her climb. Of course, after that I would be stuck in the water, but I could utilize her chain leash to provide me the leverage necessary to get out. ....... Probably. ...... Over the ensuing years it became apparent that Daisy could always lift me to higher places than I would have been able to attain alone. When she sensed danger she always sought the high ground. At some point her thirst must have overtaken her prudence and she jumped. She seemed unhurried as she swam, waded and drank. Then she knew that she had to directly face her fear and try to elevate. Her first few attempts were failures and I could see the unease on her face. Then she almost made it, falling back as her front paws struggled to get a grip on the shore. However, on her next attempt I saw that she now had a plan. Rather than taking on the huge leap in one step she had broken it down into two. I noticed that the mud on her beautiful coat was now exceeded by the determination written on her face. She used her front paws to gouge out a step halfway up the slightly sloped bank and took a few jumps until she got her hind legs securely in it, took another jump and was back on dry land. She always was a very smart puppy.

Back on shore, Daisy proceeded to shake off, spraying me with river water and mud. She sat on her haunches, desirous of a mid-walk break. I sat next to her, put an arm around her and told her that I loved her and would always be with her among a few other things. We caught our breath as we listened to the water cascade over the rocks and watched the river flow.

Half of the time we took a different route, following the Rio Grande, which necessitated an initial tricky maneuver for me. Thorny bushes grew at the river's edge and severely limited use of the path; however I could see that they ended quickly. Daisy had no problem squiggling around, and making use of the few inches of land devoid of the inch long barbs, but I had to bring her to a halt to carefully do the same, at peril of stitches or a swim. Daisy instinctively understood and patiently waited for me on the other side. I'd usually choose to err on the land side, which resulted in a few scratches, but nothing serious.

We entered an area with no other signs of human life, and due to an indentation in the shoreline, was not visible from any other point this side of the river. After having spent the past five years in friendly Corrales, this struck me as weird and I looked for the hidden camera. The land was primarily comprised of tall grass interspersed with bent lines of the same grass parallel with the water, indicative of small animal expeditions. Infrequently, small patches of circular, bare sand stood out like ringworm, perhaps a place where the little ones congregated. Daisy sniffed at everything. I asked her; "Who or what was there?" As, would prove to be customary, she made no decipherable reply, no doubt thinking that the answer was so obvious, that I must have been joking.

Daisy drank from and dunked in the muddy Rio, which was only a foot below the recently emerged shore, inviting her wade-preferred entry. After passing through 500 feet of the quasi-path, with frequent incursions into the un-trampled tall grass, we ran into an obstacle Daisy was not interested in tackling; a discarded manmade pile of concrete and pressed wood building material, sprouting sharp and angry, three foot barberries from the decaying crevices.

We turned inland, hopped a small incline and entered an area I called "Baldy Acres." The flat, sandy land was refreshing in the cold and a sweatbox in summer. There were no shade producing, large trees; but rather well-spaced saplings which begged for water by holding out tiny, brittle limbs. Small clusters of shrubby growth struggled to make contact with relatives, and succeeded only in producing a myriad of crisscrossing sand paths between them. This was the home of a coyote pack and lazy broad winged hawks as the terrain left their targets no place to hide.

Daisy anxiously rushed through the many choices of scents available as proficiently as a deprived housewife in a discount department store the day after Christmas; briefly sniffing at each. She, too, made no purchases, but sampled everything. At the far edge of the killing field was a row of scrubby bushes with passageways between. Daisy picked one to her liking and pulled me along through a small area of tiny broken branches.

We were back on the main path and after a few hundred feet we were at our marker; the immovable boulder. Daisy kept going south, ignoring the soft grassy entryway to the cliffs above the river. We encountered an area different from the others we had thus far seen in that the type of vegetation present, and in most cases absent, changed every fifty feet. I had no name for it at the time, but now "Eclecticism Through Half-assed Destruction" comes to mind.

It appeared as if the area was bulldozed sometime within the last ten years. The largest pieces of foliage were ten foot bushes which hudddled in a series of small groups near the levee loving path at distances which precluded visits to or even sight of the others. Nothing obstructed me from seeing in all directions, while Daisy was blinded a minimum of times. In the very near future Daisy would eliminate this sector from her itinerary and spend more time dawdling in the other regions. But, early on, like most of us, she wanted to see whatever there was to see.

The lack of growth afforded us a constant view of the levee to our right and a huge, scrubby land mass to our left, presumably leading to the invisible river, which Daisy could have chosen to enter at most any point. She kept on, perhaps waiting for something more inviting. She may have grown tired, impatient or both as at one physical point, not particularly any more lush than the rest she turned left with apparent faith that the obscured river was waiting somewhere out there.

We discovered that this particular expanse was the deepest part of the Bosque. The almost barren area's sand and rock floor made me think the region was recently under the Rio Grande, but that something caused the water to depart. While I felt as if I had entered the Twilight Zone, Daisy seemed curious rather than apprehensive. It was near the peak temperature of the day as the sun showed no mercy to the curious long distance travelers. I stopped her to remove my sweatshirt while she waited and warmed in her permanent coat. I saw a few hills of quickly moving carpenter ants and wondered what they were pointlessly trying to construct or destroy with no hard wood in the vicinity.

We went over a little rise, saw the river, and commenced our gradual descent to it. It seemed that the Native American land on the other side was only a stone's throw away. Daisy pulled me forward, anxious for a drink and dunk. However to get there we first had to pass through a beach strewn with debris. Nourishment was still about 200 feet from us and the size of the land mass between us and it amazed me as we had already been walking toward it for at least 800 feet. We zigzagged around the remains of broken children's tricycles and slides, outdated and worn out automobile parts, parts of shattered trees, forgotten empty wallets, obsolete items I could not identify, and dead fish. All of the once-sought-after essential items which were once hidden by the sea now had reappeared, courtesy of the perennially moving and arbitrary current. The fickle sea had dispassionately produced a stoically static, excavated graveyard, fruitlessly praying for Jesus or a physician. Daisy did something out of character. For some reason, perhaps out of respect, she chose not to investigate or desecrate any of the damaged earthly remains.

Instead she led me directly to the receded water, which was now far out from its original position. Daisy splashed in it and drank. I again followed the compelling and necessary lead provided by my well-loved, spotted puppy. We walked along the river's edge, she in the water and me on the sand, with Daisy regularly looking behind herself to give me a disconcerting expression which I interpreted as saying; "What prevents you from joining me?"

I know that I answered her, though I can't recall the precise words, as they were only falsely practical justifications of my advance degreed, down-to-earth rationalizations of the contemporary and therefore inherently temporary "facts" apparent. These should-be-textbook isolated fiends insistently found a way to invade my mind, much as the real, dismembering explosives which mined the Ho Chi Minh Trail many years prior, planted to the dismay of peace loving horticulturalists, burrrowing an infernal path, when I was still young and optimistic. As Don Quixote, centuries prior, the suckers courageously chose to play against the odds, in hope of **the** big score, while the wise grind out the nickels and dimes.

My brave black and white needed no confirmation of her obviously correct perceptions and conclusions. She obviously and rightly concluded that the mental midget to whom fate had attached her was not yet ready to risk an unvarnished soaking.

Magnanimously, Daisy showed no disdain to the dysfunctional product of the American social and educational system. She had known him sufficiently well to conclude that he was a well-meaning, but handicapped plodder, who could rarely maintain her pace. Though he could judiciously argue to the death that he had escaped the self-serving traps of all the politically and financially prompted ideological spins, which sternly and relentlessly restricted the potential of all existence, he was hampered by an educationally induced, yet irrational distrust of the simplicity and humility of the life-giving and replenishing water. If not quite that, she thought I was unable to swim.

I followed her along the river's edge; she splashing, and me absurdly going out of my way to avoid the perils of less than an inch of H2O. Just as certain breeds of dog are prone to certain diseases, humans have certain weaknesses, currently imagined to be dependent on their DNA. We ignore the potential of what is yet to be discovered, understandably, because our logically trained and ten percent utilized brains cannot fathom the future with anything other than the expectation of a ridicule inducing conjecture. Daisy displayed no post-modern self-consciousness, and seemed quite proud to openly strut what she inherently knew; **trust**. All those privileged to have met her were the better for it.

Daisy led me along the edge until we were confronted with another thick forest of cottonwoods. I strongly suspect that she could have easily passed through, but either in consideration of me or her hunger, she turned back, apparently choosing the density of civilization.

As she would always do, she walked back home on a different route than that which she had left it. The diversities may sound inconsequential in an area which was generally not more than 500 feet in depth, but the variety we found in that small cage was astounding and always kept our interest. Sometimes we would play a game which was more challenging than one uninitiated might imagine. We would attempt to make it back to Romero Road without using any path. Daisy understood the concept without any explanation. It necessitated some fatigued circling and back-tracking, but we made it a few times. We probably **always** would have, except that during the majority of attempts she would see another dog on the safe path, and divert to him or her. For Daisy, saying "Hello" to a potentially new or proven old friend was more important to her than any game.

We'd eventually get back home, very tired, hot and hungry. We'd eat and sleep cuddling, dreaming of an infinite supply of tomorrows.

### Random Meandering Life

On our daily trips we sometimes headed north and would have to cross a flat ten acre drain field filled with small scrubby bushes which the Middle Rio Grande Conservation District (MRGCD) mowed once or twice a year. It was about a mile from our public entrance to the Bosque on Romero Road and a couple of miles from the next public entrance on an unnamed road on the border of Rio Rancho. Few would be there, probably due to the necessity of having to undertake a journey requiring more than a few steps, as well as the fact that the going started to get particularly tough there.

I'd always talk to her during our trips, of necessity sometimes saying; "No, no, no, no," when she indicated an interest in going toward something which I deemed to be a danger to her, which she substantially ignored. Most often I would tell her stories. She seemed to look back at me whenever I was silent as if to say; "Tell me a story," or "What's wrong?" I tried and enjoyed the effort to produce soothing sounds that I hoped were not repetitious, banal "Musaak." After the early days of telling her about what I knew of her, the wonders of New Jersey, Willy, her spiritual father, and various other potpourris gleaned from the few books that I had read, my artistic drought led me to using alliteration to expand her name. It was Nabokov inspired and woefully out of style, though neither of us cared much about being considered old fashioned. I called her Daisy. I called her Daisy Dog. I called her Daisy Dalmatian Dog. I called her Daisy Delightful Dalmatian Dog. I called her Daisy Desirable, Enchanting and Delightful Dalmatian Dog, at which point I decided to revert to just plain Daisy. The archaic, antiquated, antediluvian, asinine, anthological alliteration stream proved too bulky for either of us to remember and I could not locate a suitable synonym for enchanting which began with the letter "D." So, I reverted to conjuring fables which made no sense on the surface. Daisy liked the intonation and I liked the simple ease infinity offered.

The bushes on the field itself grew plants which had briars which would stick like Velcro. It wasn't particularly bothersome, though sometimes I would stop and get them off the two of us. There was another way around the field, which was to take the levee path. However, this required going down a steep decline and then climbing back up, to get around a concrete drain channel. It was easy for Daisy, but much less so for me. On the downslope I would be at full speed by the time my feet hit level ground, and on the upside, I doubt if I would have made it without her assistance in pulling me. The drain channel looked like a huge handball court with shallow water and sometimes had mud at the base; sometimes thick mud. The prize for successfully traversing was to enter another wooded area in which the unused paths were blocked by broken tree branches.

With some difficulty we got through or around the obstacles. We followed a path made by mole hills and a few hundred feet into the woods, on the river's edge was the prettiest part of the Bosque I had ever seen. Mature, hundred foot, cottonwoods reigned supreme and were well spaced as if someone had planned the site many years ago. We'd often linger there as Daisy would investigate all the scents made by the resident animals, relatively undisturbed by mankind. The views were fabulous; the trees, the mountain and the river. The quiet provided no distractions from the natural. And as Daisy slowed down to inspect everything, I would catch my breath.

When Daisy was about four the MRGCD decided to send in the plows and re-contour the drain field, ostensibly for better flood control. They made gullies which took in water from the river when it ran high. Not particularly relevant to our story, but worth mentioning, was that after the first significant rainfall, the houses in the area flooded for the first time and the MRGCD subsequently re-flattened the area. At the same time, they made a feeble attempt to isolate the area, and under the guise of working on the drain field, they surreptitiously bulldozed twenty to thirty foot wide paths through our favorite woodland, "so that a fire truck can get through," destroying many of the mature cottonwoods and brush in what now was formerly my preferred spot. However, none of the MRGCD employees or their sub-contractors would be working on Sundays that frigid winter. They had cordoned off the area with plastic tape strung across the lucky surviving trees. Daisy and I would break through it with no effort, go in and investigate.

I was shocked. The devastation was worse than I had envisioned. "Pete's," a local landscaper got a lifetime supply of wood chips, all of which was gathered from the recently living, while the very burnable dead retained their places of honor.

I told some self-declared Bosque lovers what was going on, but they chose to not believe. Perhaps not surprisingly, after the damage was done, more dog walkers went to the area, proving the banal adage that there truly is no accounting for taste; nor respect for nature.

Prior to this "improvement" project we'd walk alone through the difficult passageways and non-passageways. Sometime Daisy would sense that something unseen was near and pull up sniffing at the air. It was creepy as there had been occasional reports of mountain lions in the area. I'd tell her; "Okay, I'll get in front," and lead her through the aromatic part. These were the only times I was allowed to get in front when we were in the wild. In these cases my regular talk to Daisy took on a reassuring note. When the mood struck me, my chatter would become defiant and I would tell her that her spiritual father, Willy, was protecting us. Truthfully, I needed the reassurance myself. I would say that Willy would never let anything happen to us; as, in addition to food, we were the only things he liked on this planet. I rightfully believed this as the mountain lions found other prey. It was also reinforced by a dream I had shortly after Willy was gone. In it he came excitedly to me and led me to our back yard. At the far right corner was a basket with five squiggling white puppies. He told me that these were his babies. Dalmatians are born without their spots. Throughout his life Willy never liked anyone other than me, but as he aged, for some reason, I got the feeling that if he had it to do all over again, he would have made more friends. This was corrected to an extreme in his daughter.

One almost warm morning we were walking back and Daisy wanted to go through the field which, at that time, was host to gullies full of water. We tried to find a dry route through the area, but were stymied. We were tired and were left with the choice of significantly back-tracking or going through one of the full gullies. For her the choice must have been an easy one, as she had already been in the river. She always liked immersing herself whenever the temperature was above forty, though I wouldn't join her until it reached seventy-five or so.

This day I followed her lead and started through a gully I expected to be shallow. Just this one and we would again be on dry land the five mile remainder to the house. We went in and soon the water was over my head, which never had happened in the river itself. The muddy bottom made it difficult for me to move and I think I might have drowned is she didn't pull me out. She swam to the opposite shore, got up on the dry land and I was able to get leverage from her to climb out. That day Daisy became a bona fide life-saving hero, and I don't think she knew it.

I shivered from the cold the rest of the way home. Halfway there I met a woman I knew; a fellow dog walker. After having seen me soaked she asked; "What happened to you?" and I told her of our adventure. She then told me to "be careful." I made no reply. Daisy and I never were careful. That's why we had so many memorable days.

On one particularly ambitious and warm morning we went north, through everything we had previously been near and gotten to. Daisy must have been at the peak of her abilities as she crisscrossed throughout the trip, making sure that she hadn't missed a thing. She even investigated the long, straight and boring "Clear Ditch" path, though in those days it was not mowed, and the long, grassy growth was home to many little animals and strange, flying insects with iridescent red, blue or green bodies. Farms dominated the other side of the water; some horse farms, some cattle farms, and one of the tree farm variety, if that is not an oxymoron. A woman on one of the horse farms called out to us; "I left one of those in California." I remained silent as all I could think was; "Idiot." We were to shortly come to a gate with a sign which read; "Rio Rancho Bosque Preserve."

Daisy and I had been this far out previously and would also be there many more times. But, on each other occasion we were or would be near the river. There too, would be an identical gate and sign, but after seeing a small dirt parking area, there was basically a continuation of the Bosque. The "Clear Ditch" side was very different. It hosted a large dirt parking area, a children's playground, houses, and the Rio Rancho waste treatment facility. After sniffing around the other areas, Daisy wanted to investigate the paved parking lot of the huge building with the silver façade, which could best be described by what it resembled; millions of steam-rollered, metal garbage cans glued to embarrassed and hidden frames and beams of unknown origin. We had not seen a human since we had gone around the "Rio Rancho Bosque Preserve" gate and I wasn't surprised. Further reflection suggests that we didn't see any animals either. There was probably an insect or two, but I'm not certain.

Daisy wanted to check out the strange structure and I needed some persuading. She must have thought; "I haven't come this far to miss anything this big and smelly," and she proceeded to insistently pull me toward it. I hoped no one was sloppy with yesterday's work.

No one was, but I held Daisy back when she tried to enter the building. I supposed she thought it fair to acquiesce at this point after having gotten her way the last time. We walked on, me hoping that no one would point a gun at us and accuse us of being investigatory terrorists.

Our next sight was even more incredible and mercifully devoid of any odor. It was a huge, reddish rock, perhaps a mini-mesa, with instructional signs, warning signs and rope hand rails all over it. I took as much meaning from them as Daisy did. With her in front, pulling me up inclines which I couldn't have handled myself, we started to climb it. In future years I would refer to this rock as the Rio Rancho Mesa and was never corrected. Most feigned full knowledge with resolute nodding heads, but I doubt if any of them ever actually saw it.

We followed something of a path which wound around the mesa, often seeing the edges crumble away and fall down the steep side, a very disconcerting visual for one who gets dizzy at the roof's edge of a two story house. I hoped that we wouldn't encounter anyone else, especially someone with a dog, as the skinny path necessitated single file walking. This would have been difficult to negotiate with a friendly, willful puppy. Luckily, we didn't.

I don't remember if we made it to the top, but given Daisy's adventurous nature and her zeal, if there was any way to do it, we'd have been there. I more remember the trip back down. Daisy found another path, which was steeper than the first. While I may have been able to control my fear of heights on the way up by my usual focus on her, coming down, that same focus brought in the backdrop of the ground well below.

Daisy seemed to pick up speed as we descended. It would have been difficult not to have. So did I. When she abruptly stopped at ground level, to avoid running into her, I had to jump over her. Her expression was one of surprise and curiosity. She didn't know that I was well practiced in the art of dog jumping from my days with Willy, though I probably could have used honing of this skill.

Willy, like Daisy, had a knack for knowing whether or not he had my undivided attention. He usually did, but sometimes when he stopped or slowed down, I would take in the scenery. The first time he noticed this he took off running with me running behind him. He stopped on a dime, and rather than risk plowing into him, I jumped over him and came to a stop on the ground, still holding onto his chain without pulling him. While we were on eye to eye level, his expression seemed to say; "Whoooo. That was fun." I'm sure that I was right as subsequent to that, his repertoire regularly included "Run, Stop and Watch Ed Jump."

As the water supply of the Clear Ditch ended two miles back, Daisy and I moved in the direction of the river, probably both due to her thirst and the time we had already been out. This was to be our longest walk; five hours and fifteen minutes, garage door to garage door.

We got to the Rio through a sparsely vegetated, beachy spot below some houses with a full river view. The land exhibited evidence of having received some human maintenance, unlike any other part of the Bosque we had seen. When we reached the water Daisy went right in and took an extended drink and swim. The water was surprisingly deep just offshore as I could see that her feet were not touching bottom.

She headed south, toward Romero Road, following the shoreline, for at least three reasons I could think of. She wanted to be near her water source. The sun was getting high in the sky on that summer day. She wanted to take a different route back. And she didn't want to wind around established paths or risk obstacles on the non-paths. She was in for a surprise.

We followed coyote trails, which were common at the shoreline in much of the Bosque that we had seen. We sometimes had to veer inland a bit at places where a low branching tree grew right at the edge. We both avoided dehydration by drinking from the river and things went fine until we encountered a prickly Russian Olive tree in our way.

To make matters worse, its brothers and sisters formed a grove all the way back to the Clear Ditch. Daisy's thick coat made her rather oblivious to the barbs. But, for me, especially wearing light summer clothes, they meant stitches. I stopped her and thought; mostly productive things like; "Oh, ****." But, I did get an idea. We were experienced river walkers and island hoppers; so we could get around the trees through the Rio Grande.

I led her into the water. The current was with us. However, Daisy was, of necessity, swimming ahead of me, and I was getting into deeper water with each step. When it reached my neck I decided that we'd better back out and head for the Clear Ditch. Now, we had to go against the current while I had difficulty walking and at the same time had to use her loose fitting collar and chain to pull my baby back. While this might not impress Ernest Hemingway, I was damn scared. I pictured Daisy coming out of her collar and floating down the river to somewhere I'd never find her. But, slowly we made it back to where we entered and followed the line of trees to the Clear Ditch. I could tell by the look in her eyes, that Daisy was also scared while we were in the deep water. But, now she kept looking up at me, as if to say; "What? What's this all about? Why do we have to go this far out of our way?" I stopped her, knelt down and gave her gigantic cuddles and a few kisses, all the time thinking that we had just survived a potential disaster. It reminded me how much I adored her.

I don't recall the rest of the route taken. I think we followed the straight and therefore shortest path along the flowing Clear Ditch for some time. Then, when we approached very familiar territory, a bit north of the drain field, we returned to the Rio. I know that I would have liked to, as in emergencies, I would drink from the river, but always balked at ditch water. This beautiful, black and white, graceful athlete probably led the way. Ninety percent of the time she did. I was always the better off for it and, most importantly, I loved her.

At two years of age Daisy was absolutely gorgeous. Her predominately white coat was the softest and most radiant I and many others had ever seen. Even on a moonless night I could easily see her in the back yard. The black spots on her body were circular and well-spaced, excepting a cluster of four near her hindquarters and a doublet near the center. Her head was almost entirely white with five tiny dots here and there. Her snout was speckled with a series of small dots, ending at her black nose. She stood on long legs about two feet high, was about three feet long, including head, and weighed 60 pounds and was on the increase. I never took any of these measurements and am only relying on memory to estimate them. Her ears were mostly black if viewed from the front and she had big, expressive brown eyes. People would regularly tell me how beautiful she was and I would reply; "Inside and out. Daisy and I thank you." Of most importance I got to cuddle and sleep with her every night.

At the age of five she reached 78 pounds. She was still absolutely gorgeous, at her peak and putting in her long walks, pulling me much of the way. That's the equivalent of a human running with an un-wheeled 300 pound cart tied to their back, dragging at the ground. I would like to see any human do that for 20 minutes, much less three and one half hours. She was in excellent shape, felt well and so did I. Her chest muscles became so huge; she was more than once likened to a sled dog.

I think most humans are most comfortable when they can characterize things. They seem much more at ease with a one or two word simplification than having to take the trouble to describe any nuances. Unfortunately for those so limited, Daisy didn't fit into any un-complicated classification. Her physical **and** mental attributes defied what the American Kennel Club unequivocally advised about Dalmatians. However, I believe that it was this no-brain need for simplification which led to unsolicited commentaries in her middle years. The majority still called her soft and beautiful, as they stroked her coat, often commenting on the velvety nature it had. I would point out that it was also a very warm covering, and when combined with its beauty, was the obvious reason why Cruella DeVille lusted after them. But a few interjected terms like possible Lab mix, possible Heeler mix, and a small contingent of grumps actually had the nerve to call her fat. She peaked at 78 pounds.

Since she was a stray when I met Daisy, I did not know her heritage. Since she had displayed the sweet temperament and minor physical characteristics of a Lab I put some credence in that possibility. She had filled out more than a Dalmatian and the shape of her head was a bit less angular. It didn't matter to me what she was. I knew what she was. She was Daisy, the greatest dog anyone ever had and I loved her; end of story. However, as a point of order, I'd like to make it clear that she was pure Dalmatian. I found this out from a vet when Daisy was ten. I mentioned to him the possibility of her being part Lab and he said; "Oh, no." He went on to tell me that when he was in vet school he had a Dalmatian who looked quite like Daisy. He pointed out that most people and reference sources only speak of the more populous, generally considered, Croatian strain; while Daisy and the vet's Dalmatian were of the lesser known English strain; generally heavier with a rounder, prettier head.

I almost regret that I was compelled to go into all of this, as I always thought that Daisy is Daisy, that she is perfect, and that I love her. I guess the insignificant existence of the cretins who called her fat succeeded in achieving their loftiest lifelong goal; by becoming a petty annoyance and getting under my skin. Daisy never showed any such animosity and went about her merry way.

After some number of early Bosque walks, which in Daisy's youth and middle years, averaged three to three and one-half hours, a few five, my body ached all over, especially my knees. It accidentally became a routine that every morning I would tell her; "I don't think I'm going to be able to make it today." A bit later I would think; "She's so co-operative. We can always turn back if necessary." We would then start our journey. My job was always to protect her from danger; edible carcasses, moving cars, loose dogs and ominous appearing, probable humans. After a number of days doing this, I noticed a consistent pattern. When I was with her my aches and pains disappeared. It had to have been that by concentrating on Daisy I forgot about myself. So through focusing on her, we **both** benefitted. Previously, my cardiovascular readings were marginally bad, but after a few years of walking with her daily, they turned to **excellent**. Though I didn't vocalize it, some particularly tiring mornings I would think; "I'm doing you quite a favor, girl." **Wrong**. We did each other one.

During Daisy's ninth summer we saw the results of the infamous Corrales Bosque fire. The summer had been unusually hot and dry, though it would prove to be outdone by the one coming. The twenty foot indented gate on Romero road had been closed for some time, presumably because this was a fire deterrent or an aid in finding and putting out one. On what was to be fire day I parked on the other side of Corrales Road. At age seven, when her walking abilities started to wane, Daisy went right into the previously feared car, as she wanted to use all her remaining capability at the Bosque, her favorite place, not the ditch paths. Walks dropped to two hours after she tore an ACL muscle. Daisy and I walked the .3 or.4 of a mile down the boring and "closed" ditch path to the Bosque entry gate. She made numerous stops in the full ditch to remain cool and hydrated. We had an uneventful woods and river walk which I really can't recall, except to say that during the last few weeks the Romero Road part of the Bosque was plagued with government employees on a daily basis, and that day was no exception. More than ever before in our prior eight years of visits, those on the public dole demonstrated a need to congregate there before 9AM and still maintain a presence when Daisy and I left around 11. Not only were we greeted by representatives from the ever present MRGCD and the previously sporadically attending Corrales Departments of Police, Fire and Animal Control, but we also saw representatives from the New Mexico State Police, a NM State fire investigatory unit, a Rio Rancho Police chaplain, a duo of undisclosed-ambition-men utilizing a federally licensed car, a representative of NM Fish and Game, and even an overzealous person driving a truck emblazoned with "Flood Control," whose internet map must have been off by a thousand miles. None of them questioned why we were on a "closed" road. Daisy was happy to see all the old and potentially new friends. I was my New Jersey bred wary. We walked, swam and watched pick-up truck occupants scour the area from their plushy plastic pew vantage points and went home.

Daisy's nose had always been predisposed toward smoke and fire. On many of our walks, long before anything was apparent to me, she detected smoky blazes and always headed in its direction. I thought that this must have been the reason Dalmatians were the original fire dogs, but have found no scientific confirmation of this anecdotal fact anywhere, inducing me to further distrust the veracity of science. In all the cases, except one, I can recall the incendiary suspicion was the result of someone burning leaves or garbage on their own property adjacent to the Bosque and I suppressed her investigation. On the other occasion Daisy led me right to a three by ten fire in a dead cottonwood branch alongside the river. The flames were about four feet high and I led her back to Romero Road to find help. I carried no cell phone for a variety of reasons and sought someone who did. The parking lot was empty and the usual yard-work-loving, Romero Road denizens had apparently come to appreciate the virtues of "The Invisible Man;" and the unwritten Corrales law which requires residents to be around at all times, except when they might do something useful. I knocked at a few doors to no avail. A few minutes later I saw a man at the end of the road, standing next to a black, recent model Cadillac or Chrysler. I had never seen him before, but approached, told him the story and asked if he would call 911. He balked as he saw no flames. My persistence finally convinced him to make the call, during which he disparagingly said; "This guy told me, etc., etc." as if he wanted to distance himself from the absurd, imperceptible notion. Corrales' diligent Fire Department must have been on other maneuvers as the Police Department shortly arrived, and after asking me the location, put it out by shoveling dirt on it. I would come to learn that three quarters of the dog walkers Daisy and I regularly encountered had a similar experience. The fires which had been caught when they were still small now had less restricted reign, because of the reticence of civilians to traverse government "closed" Romero Road.

At that point I had lived in Corrales for fourteen years and Daisy nine plus. In that time we were not made aware of a Bosque fire of any substance, and neither had any associates who were here longer.

At 3:30 that afternoon I looked out a house window and saw more smoke than I had in the total of my previous 62 years. To make matters worse it wasn't very far away. The government protected Bosque was ablaze. As there was no fire break between our house and it my first thoughts were how to get the animals out of here. As I walked in circles for fifteen minutes, and nervously tried to locate carrying cases, the flames subsided, thanks to the bucket carrying federal helicopters. Despite the strong smoke odor permeating the area, Daisy slept through the whole thing. She must have known that it was not coming this way. She was a very smart dog.

I was to later learn that a Corrales Village employee had admitted to starting the conflagration. Ten acres had burned in the Corrales Bosque and 300 across the river on Native American land. State investigators insisted that it started on the Corrales side. Information ceased to flow when liability issues arose.

Daisy and I motored to Romero Road the following morning. We parked on public land near it and when we got to the levee we saw that the fire was still smoldering. I kept her back from our usual path to the river as the trees and brush near the dirt trail were blackened. I was afraid that my curious puppy might stick her nose into something hot. I tried to lead her down the levee path, but she displayed her customary disdain for the unadventurous and sat. She periodically rose to again try going her own way, but, unlike some past experiences with dead and tasty, small animals, I remembered what we had to avoid; the color coding a big help.

Daisy slowly perused the area and settled for a drink and dunk in the "Clear Ditch," on the other side of the levee. We sat near her place of entry in the sun. Shortly, State fire officials showed up and told us not to go in there, falling short of defining where there was. They went to work attaching "CRIME SCENE DO NOT ENTER" yellow tape to whatever was left to hold it.

While the purpose of the tape should have been obvious to all, I considered it insensitive to have only used the English language in a heavily bi-lingual state. I considered it an absolutely egregious omission not to have also displayed such important instructions in canine dialect.

Daisy showed her hurt feelings by pretending that she took no notice of the ethnocentrically Anglo instructions and kept attempting to get into the wasted woodland. She came close on a few occasions, to the continually elevating consternation of the man who claimed to be the chief investigator. As we had committed no crime, we considered that very unprofessional behavior from a public servant, as we crossed none of his barriers. Whenever we got within earshot of the man in charge of installing the yellow plastic boundary, I tried to tell him of the strange people, omitting the plethora of regime personnel, which we had recently come across in the area, hoping that it might provide a clue. Before I could fully communicate any of my eye witness observations, I was repeatedly told to get out. Eventually we did.

After the fire investigators cleared the Bosque for human and animal traffic, Daisy and I re-entered the piece of land devastated by the government pretense of management. We had sadly and gradually become accustomed to the ravages of clearing. It was said to be necessary for fire prevention and control; while all the dead wood which had made a permanent home on the ground continued to lie, as healthy trees were bulldozed. The zombie dead were apparently deemed not to be burnable material. Their immunity to MRGCD purview was no doubt enhanced by their prone position, which ordained that they could not be further flattened or easily chain sawed. Their removal would have necessitated an overt personal physical effort from a government employee. Ostensibly, this activity, which might require a G-7 to get more than ten feet from his state owned pickup, is not listed in the schedule of G-7 duties. Their possible priority to protect state property seems commendable, if it were not the case that the recently living trees were also wards of the same state.

Nonetheless, this is a state in which no one complains; except me. If everyone tells a person that "The Land of Enchantment" is above reproach, that person will either soon agree or come to doubt their own thoughts on the matter. The system works. To express an opinion suggesting that New Mexico is not Eden quickly results in the conversation provoking line of; "If you don't like it, then leave." My soft and furry companion was born in New Mexico. This is irrefutable proof that the place is Eden, albeit an Eden with an infinite supply of broken and burned branches.

Daisy indicated no particular feeling when she entered the charred remains of the forest. I thought that she would have been disappointed and wondered what she thought. It was eerily quiet when she led me through the scorched earth. The birds, insects and the little playful coyote either had re-located or had made the place their permanent resting place. The blackened, lower portions of the cottonwoods stood like dark spectres seeking their murderer. This was once an area popular with bird watchers, many of whom utilized paths which Daisy and I had established during her youthful romps.

She easily jaunted through the almost obstacle free terrain, tugging at the leash as if there were someplace she had to get to quickly. As I had always done, I told her; "Slow down. We've got all day. This is New Mexico, where nothing moves. It will be there when you get there." Daisy heeded that advice as much as she always did and continued to pull me.

She led me down a few challenging drop offs to a spot we used to visit regularly. Its appearance had changed from a summer green, treed, bushy and hidden oasis which, to the best of my knowledge, only Daisy and I ever found, to an open and blackened relic with foot entangling, plant carcasses at ground level. Daisy insistently kept on leading me. I had to slow her down as I kept tripping over the remains of what once was. We eventually got to the river and she jumped in. She had found that which was most important to her was invulnerable to the fire. The ever flowing, life giving water of the Rio Grande River was still there. Everything was all right.

One of my fondest memories of Daisy is of something that she did not do. She never broached the subject of money. While my experience with human engendered topics of interest regularly and inevitably took the course of the dismal science, my playful little girl always retained a disinterest in greenbacks, with the exception of the grass she munched all her life. She never succumbed to the unnatural considerations of the market value and relative status of her location and room. Someday, I intend to get her thoughts about the necessity of the $25,000 bankroll which was required to keep Drew, one of our well-loved animals, alive. If anybody has found a way to balance the seemingly disparate thoughts, she's the one.

Daisy has not yet given me her thoughts about Drew. I know that she liked him and would go out of her way to say "Hi," when their paths crossed. Drew, understandably, shied away. My big, brown eyed pup met Drew periodically when we made one of our 30,000+ trips down the hall to the back door. Drew had something in common with Daisy as he, too was black and white, though he differed from her in that he was born a cat. Diane adopted Drew prior to him having reached his first year. A local animal rescue facility had saved him from an early demise, which was prompted by the foreclosure and personal bankruptcy of some former Corrales denizens. They left their animals behind, which included a number of hungry dogs and cats. The dogs ate Drew's brothers and sisters, while he watched. His outstanding jumping ability saved him, as he was able to get on top of a fence post. As a kitten Drew could leap from the floor to the top of our refrigerator.

It seemed obvious to me that Drew missed his family, as a few months later Diane took in kittens we named Teddy and Lucy, and Drew followed them around like a mama cat. Teddy was all black and had no tail, while Lucy was a traditional tabby. They were cousins born a week apart and Diane brought them home at a very early age. Teddy got his name because at first he couldn't run well and lumbered like a bear; hence Teddy.

In the process of being kittens, they explored the house, and sometimes got into difficult situations. Drew was always on the job and if he couldn't handle things, he'd come and get me. One day I sat on the futon watching TV. Drew came into the room and motioned for me to follow him, just like Lassie. I did and found Teddy stuck high in the ficus tree, not knowing how to get down. Order was restored when I put him back on solid ground.

Drew, Teddy and Lucy were always together until Drew was diagnosed with cancer at the age of six. The chemotherapy treatments did not sit well with him. He sat alone and when Teddy or Lucy would come near, he'd chase them away. He died earlier than any cat Diane and I ever had. It seems unforgivably cruel.

One morning, coming back from a not unusual stick, dirt and mud accumulating adventure with Daisy, a garbage man working on Academy Road called out; "Where have you been?" His tone of voice communicated the Tidy-Bowl-expectations of a manicured, suburban community.

We no doubt must have been covered in Bosque mementoes; things with which we had no concern, having long ago established immunities. I was tempted to say; "If you don't know, I couldn't possibly tell you," but held back in fear of a follow-up, tidy inquiry. I don't remember Daisy's response, if any. I called out; "The river," and we kept moving toward home.

Some summer mornings we were on the road an hour before dawn. Daisy seemed to take it in stride, and I convinced myself that I didn't have to know precisely where I was walking until we were out of the development. I thought it would be a good idea as Daisy labored in the heat. She often turned back an hour after sunrise. I also thought it might provide a new challenge on well-travelled ground.

The pervasive darkness resulted in my stumbles and slides, while Daisy seemed to understand my difficulties. She trotted more slowly than usual and came to a full stop when she saw headlights. I worried about the one sitting behind the headlights, hoping that they were paying full attention. I thought it likely that one driving this time of the morning was either a doctor off to early surgery, an all-night convenience store habitué, a drunk, or a combination of the three. Generally, there were sufficient, mature trees for cover, and where there weren't I'd position myself between Daisy and the oncoming vehicle. I found it amazing how many drivers were compelled to honk their horns at us, probably as a greeting, when it seemed obvious that we couldn't tell who they were in the cool blackness. Maybe they wanted their sociability to be anonymous, some stupid mind game with no point.

Daisy's mind was fine when it wasn't registering artificial lights, doing forty. With sounds magnified in the stillness, a dog barking sounded like an imminent attack; an SUV sounded like a tank and our footsteps seemed sufficient to wake the dead. We often thought that we glimpsed a few zombies creeping in the sinister shadows.

By the time we exited the relatively safe terrain of the development, we could see well enough to be more comfortable. An uncanny number of times, as soon as we got to the river, we witnessed a magnificent sunrise illuminating the houses on the hill, upriver in Rio Rancho.

Daisy's sweet disposition had no antecedents that I knew of. In my curious youth I had read books and saw films about Gandhi, Lassie, the Velveteen Rabbit, and countless other heroes and heroines who seemed to have a spirit capable of rising above it all. They didn't disappear until I had aged a bit. Daisy gave no outward indication that she had sprung from so lofty a perch, but her actions showed an inherent understanding of the things that made my world worth living in, at least while in the presence of one so kindly and forgiving. She never had the inclination to fight, even when attacked. I used to tell her that any bullying nonsense would end if she just used her physical abilities to kick one ass. She didn't agree with me, though the difference in opinion lay somewhere in what was not obvious to me in my unintentionally biased and corrupted words.

My brave and loving girl showed her most pronounced similarity to Sunshine, a cat from Diane's and my distant past. He was named in honor of the Merry Pranksters, an early 1960's group of people who did not give the least bit of a **** for the constricting norms of McCarthy inspired, effective lies.

Sunshine came into our lives along with his bigger brother, Tippy, in 1985. Someone had dumped them in a paper bag in front of a pet store in Allentown, Pennsylvania. Diane, who was visiting her mother there, saw them and was entranced. Tippy was an extremely big gray and white cat with six toes on each paw and the start of a seventh on one other. When he was skinny he weighed eighteen pounds and registered twenty-nine in his portly dotage. Sunshine was huge by all standards other than that of his brother, and was mostly orange with white stripes.

Diane brought me to see them questioning which one we should take. I thought that they should not be broken up and we purchased both of them. Sunshine was a pre-cursor to Daisy, in that he wasn't afraid of anything, played a lot, yet had no concept of fighting. He viewed all as friends. When they were kittens Sunshine led Tippy on explorations of our old farmhouse in New Jersey, Sunshine boldly in front and Tippy slinking and warily slouching behind. In time I would come to see that Sunshine's bravery was not a manifestation of any phony, steroid induced macho, but a sequestered and thereby innocent belief that; "I wouldn't want to hurt anyone. So, why would anyone want to hurt me?" It sounded good to me and worked for him in his house sheltered life. Whenever I went anywhere, Sunshine greeted me at the front door when I returned.

Tippy apparently had his reservations about his brother's conclusions and acted accordingly, though he too never had a physical fight. This precept was to stay with them their entire lives, until they died one month apart at the approximate age of sixteen. In life, Tippy's sheer size resulted in him being deferred to as the king cat. A month after we got the brothers, Diane brought home a small, short legged, long gray and white haired kitten we named Puff-Puff. He was the most un-athletic cat I had ever seen. He was playful and pretty, but he was unable to leap from the floor to a kitchen counter. The three would prove to be the nucleus of a family of cats, at one time totaling eight. This was the result of taking in obviously domesticated cats which were abandoned by fickle owners. The people presumably "wanted to give them a chance," in a large wilderness park named Voorhees, located in Lebanon Township, NJ. Diane and I walked there on Sundays, and while we left home as a couple, we occasionally came back a trio.

At least twice a year Daisy and I were stopped by people who had advice as to how she should properly walk on a leash. Not one ever first asked if we were dissatisfied with the manner in which we were naturally doing it. One such time a very short man accompanied by a normal sized female came out of a housing development which bordered one of the ditch paths Daisy and I used to take to the Bosque. He announced that without any doubt, he knew the right way to do it. He reached for Daisy's leash, and being rather startled at the audacious intrusion, I handed it to him. Daisy took off running at top speed dragging Shorty behind her. She stopped about 100 feet away when she saw that she was getting too far away from me. I walked to them, and Shorty returned the leash without offering any more advice.

Gunther is a four year old orange and white cat who is currently with us. When Daisy goes down the hallway on her way to the backyard or her morning walk, Gunther "hides" behind a step down into our living room. I always see his pinned back ears and wide eyes and so does Daisy. She always sniffs him until he gets intimidated by her size or tired of being sniffed.

When Gunther halfheartedly tries to get away, Daisy would follow him, in an attempt to solidify their friendship. Sometimes Gunther would further retreat, in which case I would hold Daisy back and lead her to the back door. A few times Gunther got frustrated, lifted a paw, and bopped Daisy on the nose, at which point she would run to the back door of her own volition.

One of our less frequent walks was through a "beach" situated north of the drain field at the Bosque. This land mass had to have been established in Daisy's early years. As it was in a bit of an out-of-the-way area and access required the luck or knowledge of recognizing which trees to go between in a densely wooded section, few people went there. We never saw any, and the only footprints we ever found were that of birds, squirrels, and an occasional horse. I liked the privacy and Daisy disliked the privacy and lack of shade. In warm weather I sometimes would have to lead her to it and she would humor me. Upon arrival she would usually splash through the water's edge to stay cool. She did not like temperatures above 78 degrees, but she was a very co-operative dog.

The beach had a unique view. Because the land to our south was indented from it and curving, we could see downriver for miles. I could see the spot at which Romero Road, sort of, hit the river; and beyond it to another much smaller beach we often walked when we started out with a southern turn. I don't think Daisy mentally dwelled so far ahead. She seemed content to stay cool in the Rio and trying to find something the least bit interesting in sand.

Though it wasn't technically in the sand, Daisy did find a few things near the sand in the water. I can't recall the precise time of summer, but every year there was a period during which the fish were literally jumping. Even when we didn't see the leap, we'd hear their splash made upon re-entry. Daisy and I could often see them rollicking just below the surface. One time she waded out a little further than usual and caught one in her mouth. She brought the squiggling flyer back to shore and checked it out for food potential. To my surprise she didn't like it. It might have been the only potentially edible thing that she didn't. When it was obvious that the investigation was over and that Daisy still had absolutely no interest in eating the fish, I threw the incessantly squirming fish back into the Rio. I have no idea if he or she made it, but I'm sure Daisy and I hoped so.

One of Daisy's gentleman callers was a sizable, long haired, mixed breed dog named George. He was six years her senior and was brought over by a couple I had do sporadic yard work for me. He was the survivor of having been hit by a car and he would eat every treat I offered him.

Until her middle years, when dietary considerations overruled it, I gave Daisy a bone every day, when she returned to her room after our walk. She usually didn't finish them and when the aggregation got large I would put them in a box, which sat on the portal in our back yard.

Generally, Daisy would continue to ignore them until George came over and made it his business to bury them all. She didn't mind him fooling with her stuff and would follow him around as he did his job.

I found it surprising that after George buried them, Daisy's interest in the bones would be re-kindled. She would spend the next few weeks hunting for them, and when found, eat them.

The bulbous gray clouds motionlessly hovered and filled the morning sky, reflecting an unnoticeably imperfect image of New Mexico's gawking dead. Any semblance of blue had hidden, far away from the static monotony of the well-armed occupation force. The traitorous white linings attempted to offer hope of a respite and served only to fool those who had not previously seen the scam. No rain was to come as the powers that be had not seen any personal interest in refreshing brittle and starving remnants of the long departed summer heat. On the frozen ground, solemn and patient buzzards shivered near their front doors waiting for a sign of a carcass containing warm blood. It was the unabashed winter in the melancholy terrain which enchants some eastern drifters on their ill-directed way to the coastal promised land.

My energetic, four year old Dalmatian girl saw things differently. With her wide brown eyes focused on the ground immediately ahead of her, Daisy pulled me out of the development, and all the way down Academy Road. We crossed the partially paved parking lot which facilitated the Seventh Day Adventist commercial enterprises, ran down a steep hill, unintentionally on my part, and were on the back ditch path, which parallels Loma Larga.

Being sometime in the month of December, it was still too early and cold for less energetic hikers. The ditch held no water, having been drained for the season in early November. Trapped tumbleweed bunched near the pipes under the iron bridges. I hurried behind Daisy down the frozen path. Its best topographical attribute was the underfoot solidity provided by the frozen muddy portions. Its best aspect had nothing to do with itself; it was the fact that Daisy and I were together on it. Daisy showed interest in the barren path, as she always showed interest in everything. She hastily inspected rabbit crossovers at the edge of the dry gouge and rabbit places of gathering in what remained of the brush at the side of the path. I know that the below freezing temperature was no hindrance to her, so I concluded that she was anxious to get to the place that made her most happy. The water at this time of year, was only available from the source, the Rio Grande.

A few mornings we did see others on this route. There was the male jogger, who would extend the hand he had on Daisy's side. Daisy would leap toward it. It looked something like a standard high five mixed with a revolutionary high nose.

There was Ron, with his aging Golden Retriever, Donald, who would only go approximately 500 feet on the ditch, before turning back and returning to their house right off the ditch path. Ron and Donald didn't mind standing still and talking, though, and I eventually knew his life story. Daisy had difficulty getting Donald started. He was rather reserved, so Daisy contented herself by brushing up against him.

There were occasional others who we never really knew well. There was a large housing development off Loma Larga Road and dog walkers who lived there almost always stayed on their side of the ditch, opposite us. Most never went as far as the Bosque. I think many of them coincided their walk with the time that Daisy was there. My happy little girl had a knack for making other people smile and they did exactly that. When Daisy saw them she would go to the edge of the ditch, wag her tail furiously and look at them. The people and the dogs seemed to enjoy being a source of enthusiasm.

There was one woman I don't remember at all. We didn't cross paths regularly, but whenever we did, Daisy and her sizable, stocky looking dog seemed to show a big interest in each other. We were always on opposite sides of the ditch and this precluded closer contact. This went on for a while until one day we finally crisscrossed near a bridge. I double checked to make sure it was all right and the woman indicated that it was. Daisy rushed half way across the bridge, but then slowed down. Her previous long distance view didn't tell her that this was a **very** big dog. Each step she took made her more aware of that. When Daisy neared, the other dog slammed both of his front paws on the ground and loudly woofed. Daisy ran back to her original side of the ditch, almost knocking me into it as she squeezed by on the narrow bridge. The woman laughed and said; "He just means that he wants to play. He always does that." But, for one of the few times in her life, Daisy chose to display caution.

After walking part of the ditch with the Loma Largans, we'd make a sharp right on another, which would bring us to Romero Road and the Bosque. This road wasn't very long and I don't think that we ever encountered anyone on it. On occasion we did see people and their dogs come out of their houses which lined it, but they always seemed to dawdle in their yards until my "wild one" and I cleared out. Their loss.

Especially when the ditches were drained, by the time we had gotten this far, Daisy would be going as fast as my legs could move to get to the Bosque. I'm sure that she had worked up a great thirst and needed a drink from the Rio. If the temperature exceeded forty by the time we got there, she'd also take a dunk; a full body immersion that I hoped she wouldn't shake off on me until we were back to 75 in April.

Daisy regularly did things I found amusing. I would see her with a curious look and say; "What are you thinking?" and sometimes I thought I had a good guess. The first time she noticed that walking close to the edge of the ditch bank caused some dirt to come loose and splash into the water she seemed mystified. She stared at the water wondering; "What just jumped in there? I didn't see it." She would keep her vigil until boredom set in, hoping to get a glimpse of the culprit. She never did.

New Mexico styled cold weather never bothered her in the least and the ditch banks held many things Daisy deemed worthy of further investigation. In later years the ditch banks were often devoid of vegetation. They always had the ability to act as a wind tunnel if the gusts were coming from the appropriate direction. In these circumstances, sometimes twenty degrees and a wind-chill well below that, whenever she stopped to scrutinize something, I would give her a tug and say; "Come on, Daisy. Let's keep moving at least a little bit." She always responded the first two times I did this, but invariably, on the third tug I would be halted in my tracks. I'd turn around and see Daisy sitting on her haunches with an expression that said; "Don't you dare pull me."

Initially, I never checked the temperature before leaving in the winter mornings. Usually, my hands and feet were numb by the time we got back, but the only problem that presented was my difficulty in using a mechanical can opener to open Daisy's food can. One time it seemed strange that absolutely no one else was out. It was breezy and when we finally did see someone they yelled out; "Are you some kind of a nut? It's minus three degrees." I was somewhat complimented and think Daisy was too, and we kept on. When we got to the river I noticed that not only were my hands and feet frozen, but that I had lost sensation up to the knee.

I cut her Bosque exploration short and led her back home. She periodically stopped and looked at me as if to say; "What's the problem?"

I'd answer her with a firm; "No, no, no, no. We gotta git."

She was co-operative and also confused. We got home all right and I took a particularly long time to open her food can. We warmed back up as we napped together. There were times when I'd think that we were not going to make it. But, we always did. She was a very smart dog.

During the second summer of our Bosque excursions, Daisy silently, but with the competent uses of easily decipherable facial expressions, convinced me to join her in the Rio Grande. She took her usual dip at the end of the first available path to the river, after entering on Romero Road. Maybe it was abnormally warm that day or maybe we had gotten out late, but as she waded in the shallows eyeing me, I felt compelled to join her. I entered and we proceeded to investigate the islands. The initial shock of the cold soon wore off, just as quickly as it did when I went into the public pool as a kid. Sometimes I led her and sometimes she led me. If there was any logic to the captainship, it was likely to have been a function of that day's spirit of adventure mixed with our mutual reticence to get in water over our heads. Upon seeing her drenched, people often asked me if she liked to swim. I'd answer that; "She likes to wade," as I had noticed the look in her bulging brown eyes when her immersed feet no longer touched something solid.

After the daily, initial jolt of cold subsided, we fought the river current to get to every island on our side of the Rio Grande. Once in a while Daisy wistfully looked at the other half of the river, but I always held her back. I had been informed by someone who should have known, that the river has at least one channel; a severe drop off where the water flows deeply and quickly. Since we had encountered no such thing on "our" side, I made the logical and safe conclusion that it must be somewhere on the other.

We hopped from island to island, finding that all but one were easily reachable during the warm weather, low river level policy of the MRGCD. The islands offered only a few surprises which we never found on the mainland; old wallets, clothing and dead fish. However, I enjoyed them as they afforded a solitude not available on the continent in Daisy's middle years. She probably did not share this thought, and most likely would have said that she liked the islands because it gave her a better opportunity to stay cool and wet. However, she never found a way to make her feelings clear. On a few particularly hot days, when we were walking back home, people crossing our path mentioned the overbearing heat. However, due to our saturation, we didn't feel it. We were walking swamp coolers; an inexpensive and popular adaptation to air conditioning prevalent in the Southwest.

Most often Daisy would first lead me to a long and small, half sand island directly in front of her everyday "stop and wade" in the Rio Grande. She'd scrutinize the vegetated back half, return to the front, and gaze at shore. She was keeping her eye out for a friend, old or new. On the few occasions when she found one, she'd return to the mainland to say "Hi." On the majority of days we'd wait there ten minutes, re-explore the back half, and then go from island to island.

Some were tangled and overgrown, evincing many years of existence, and some were sandy newborns, devoid of any impediments to free movement. One was technically a peninsula, attached at one end to the drain field, so loved and plowed by the MRGCG. It was on this peninsula that we had our only encounter with a homeless person. Most people I have met find this incredulous, as the prevalent wisdom espoused by the Corraleans who never have gone to the Bosque, is that the place is a haven for all sorts of dangerous undesirables, including those living as Lewis and Clark; their choice in the matter a subject worthy of volumes. We only got to see this guy's head, as the three or four times Daisy and I got near him, he was still zipped into his sleeping bag. I always held her back from licking his protruding face, not out of any particular concern for her well-being, but merely because I considered it rude.

The first time we saw him he was sleeping. He opened his eyes and squinted into the rising sun, with an expression which said; "You must be crazy to be up this early." On the next few meetings his silent posture may have been identical to the first, but I read him as saying; "You, again!" He then moved to a further out island which Daisy and I did not frequent, presumably without the benefit of Mick Jagger's money.

Our island summer days lasted until Daisy's eighth year, when she began to show signs of age. I suppose that we could have continued for a while, but I became as disgustingly cautious as a pre-1970 banker. Daisy had her first serious illness-injury the prior year when she tore a muscle near the top of her right hind leg. Surgery and four months of recuperation was in order. After that her walks dropped from a three and one half hour average to two.

It was at this time that she testified to her diminishing abilities by voluntarily hopping into the back seat of the previously dreaded car. Though very logical to her, her choice was surprising to me. She wanted to forego the hour long ditch path and road walk to start at her favorite place; the almost unmaintained Bosque. Her walking pattern also changed. Whereas in unfettered youth she would walk as far as she could, either north or south, now she began to go a bit south, double back and go a bit north, or vice-versa. I think that she wanted to be relatively close to the car in case her leg started to hurt. She was a very smart dog.

Daisy's very first canine playmate was a sizable, short haired, tan mix named Angela. She was with one of her human companions named Susan on the grounds of the Seventh Day Adventist Tax Free Enterprises front church. Susan was much crankier that day than I ever subsequently saw her. We nodded to each other and she asked; "Do you know how to get to the Bosque through there?" pointing across the street, in the direction of the development where Daisy and I lived.

"Not without trespassing."

"Well, I'm in the mood for a little trespassing."

I asked her why she didn't go the way Daisy and I had just gone. Susan informed me that there were too many creeps there. At this early stage Daisy and I had not yet had the pleasure. We got to talking about our puppies and Susan told me that Angela, who was two at the time, had so much energy, .................," a phrase I can't recall.

I told her; "Daisy, too," and we let them play in the unoccupied, paved lot. Soon we would never again see the lot empty. Frequently the good, church-going occupants sat behind tables hawking anything from close-out T-shirts to discount, group, Florida vacation plans. In less than five minutes, apparently exhausted from the romp, Angela hid in the bushes at the base of the church front. My Daisy could out play anyone. Over the ensuing nine years we would infrequently see Susan and Angela on the creepy ditch path, but she would always say that she didn't recall the cantankerous aspect of our first conversation.

Early on I bought Daisy every type of toy carried by local pet shops. I'd give her a new one every day or every other day. She often ripped the doll-like ones apart to get to the inner part which made various sounds. One I got for her was a little gorilla, and when you squeezed his belly he would make a sound like what a gorilla might sound like, if one knew gorilla language. Daisy was very afraid of him. I'd pick the toy up and activate the sound, but she wanted no part of it. I don't remember when it happened, but I think within a week, Daisy got unafraid and ripped him apart too.

Her favorite doll was soundless. It could speak, but generally chose not to. It was a predominately gray, black and white koala bear. After a familial neatness binge in Daisy's middle years resulted in all of her toys being sequestered in iron magazine holders, the only one she pulled back out was him. Daisy kept her koala near her on her blanketed mattress always.

**Shane- Daisy's first love**. In our earliest days at the Bosque, it seemed that we had the place to ourselves for the most part. Most walkers, dog and otherwise, contented themselves to tread the high levee path or the ditch paths one hundred feet away and technically not a part of the Bosque. A small contingent expressed fear of going into the partially hidden aggregation of trees, bushes, tall grass, bees, coyotes and Freddie Kruger. The few times Daisy tried the ditch path routes, she quickly transferred back to the wild, wooded, generally five hundred foot wide drop off to the Rio Grande. I think she found the perfectly straight, vegetation free, sand, clay and rock paths too monotonous, as well as inadequately shaded. Daisy and I did use them a few times when we had gone a little too far and wanted to take the shortest, straight line route back home.

I can't recall exactly when it happened, but probably within three months of our first walk on the wild side, we were impressed to see the perils of the untamed navigated by a tiny, brave woman we would come to know as Nancy, who held onto two small, leashed dogs, named Victor and Shane.

Shane was an extremely silly, seven year old pug mix, and Nancy's favorite. Daisy wanted to run right over and I held her back. Up until then, I don't remember her interacting with a very small dog, and I was cautiously fearful that she might confuse them with the delicacies of rabbit and squirrel. Though I would later find out that cuisine considerations were not of paramount importance, at this time Daisy would chase cats, and I had seen cats bigger than Shane and Victor put together.

Nancy was quite a dog expert and apparently saw in Daisy's nature that she wouldn't think of attacking. Eventually, we all met and whenever Daisy saw the trio she would wag her tail like a helicopter and pull me to them, sometimes doing it so well that I slid on my butt trying to somewhat restrain her.

Out of breath, I once told Nancy that Daisy went crazy every time he saw her.

Nancy said; "It's not me. It's Shane," and sure enough it was. Daisy would be just as excited every time she saw Shane, until he died at age eleven. We would often follow the trio into the parking area. As Nancy would drive away, she would open the back window, and Shane would stick his head out of it, tongue hanging out with a wild grin on his face. Daisy and I would watch and smile, anxious to see them again.

Only once did Daisy growl at me. While quickly our routine became that she would come inside after our walk, initially she stayed outside. I saw that she thought that if she was going to be alone, she'd prefer to do it in her room. During that early time I had someone install a doggy entrance on the door leading into the triangular room. Prior to that Daisy used the pillow in that room, but I had to leave the door partially open for her to access it, decreasing the heat in cold weather.

When she saw the doggy entrance for the first time she refused to go near it. I tried to push her toward it, but she strongly balked. In the hope of showing her that it was safe and useful, I got on my hands and knees and went through it. I came back out the same way and Daisy started barking in my face. She was serious. I wrote the entrance off as a bad investment. She would never again stay in the triangular room, though she was willing to pass through it on our way out. She had no other choice. From then on she preferred the ground to the pillow inside.

One day I told this story to Nancy, testing her expertise at dog behavior. I asked her; "What could Daisy have possibly been thinking?"

Without hesitation, in a voice out of a cartoon, Nancy said; "He's doing something crazy. What is he going to do next? Stop it."

When I followed up with a question about why Daisy now avoids the triangular room, Nancy used the same voice to say; "Oooooh, something bad happened there," and I laughed at her sound and her insight.

One particularly hot summer Nancy recommended that I get a dog wading pool for my backyard. I got one and filled it with water. It was blue, made of plastic, circular, and about two feet across. Daisy investigated it. She must have thought that it was weird, sitting there in an unnatural position, a contradiction to the bricks making up the portal, upon which it sat, in the area so close to home. She must have concluded that it was a massive water dish, as the only use Daisy had for it was to take a drink. She never put her body into the artificial monstrosity which welcomed her for two summers. My little spotted girl chose to ignore the potential of plastic.

Often, when I had taken Daisy into the backyard, Diane would come out to say hello to her. Most of the time Daisy would break from the grass she was eating, the cricket she was trying to catch, or the smell which seemed as if it didn't belong there, to trot over to Diane, who would call her by saying; "Cougar," in a Monty Python screech voice. The diversion would lead to some pets and an evaluation of Daisy's perceived physical abilities, relative to those at her peak. Daisy customarily reacted to the whole assessment by sitting under the Chaste Bush, like a Miss America contestant who was uninterested in the contest.

Daisy seemed oblivious to the territorial concerns of man and beast; the latter word a misnomer for those who do not pay the least bit of attention to the trifling concerns of the established order. While the eminent domain considerations of the petit bourgeois were often foisted upon her, she had an inability to fathom the attempted encroachments of those insecure and overly protective of their perceived and fleeting place in the world. Daisy saw no boundaries; seeing the world as an infinite harbor of potential, which, she obviously thought, should have been reached by all long ago.

At times, she showed her misunderstanding of the status quo. Upon seeing something which seemed entirely mean or entirely self-serving, she would stop and look at me, no doubt thinking that I could clear things up for her. While I had lived long enough, and consequently had the ability to explain why the self-defeating stupidity was in existence, I could never state, in a language she or I, for that matter, could understand, why it was that way. Daisy trusted me to know what to avoid; most of the time; the innocent baby counseled by the ancient and world weary protector. She was a flower child from the forgotten, misunderstood and reviled 1960's, willing to personally defy at great personal risk the dictum of the Marquis De Sade which warned; "No good deed goes unpunished." To those who doubted her good intentions, I merely say that you didn't know her, never will, and that was your loss. Like a shooting star, Daisy transcended the incorrectly predictable order of the supposedly rational cosmos.

"Far ******* out," the Reaganomically cursed populace of 2013 sarcastically intoned; just another stoned out diatribe of one weaned on hallucinogenics. I say suffer in your thwarted dreams for a killer swimming pool. Without such an envy inspiring symbol of status, and even being domiciled in the desert, Daisy and I had access to all the water we required.

Daisy had to have had some Marxian notion about an equitable division of labor. Where we walked in the "wild" as well as in our back yard, her paws would regularly pick up some impediment to her continuation. They came in many varieties, the most treacherous of them being goat's heads. For those who haven't had the pleasure of living in the Southwest, goat's heads are the plentiful seed thrown off by a ground hugging weed endemic to the area. They are hard and have a needle-like protrusion, much like a thumbtack, which is capable of flattening the tire of a riding mower.

Whenever Daisy got one in a paw she stopped moving. If it was in one of her back paws she would use her teeth to carefully extract it. However, if it was lodged in one of her front paws it was my job. It was much less perilous for me. I didn't mind the task, but always wondered why she was so self-sufficient regarding her posterior appendages.

The last returning portion of our walks always took a different route from that with which we had left home. While we always exited the development through the woods at the end of Manzano Road, Daisy always preferred to make her grand comeback only utilizing Camino De Lucia. This made it a slightly longer trip and necessitated an increased jaunt on Corrales Road, the main thoroughfare.

When Daisy was young a Spanish couple lived on the southern corner with their disagreeable dog. The woman was often outside and she would always say "Hello" to Daisy by stooping over and petting my Dalmatian's head, while using baby talk. After a while she voiced an idea. She wondered if Daisy could come over and play with her dog, in the hope of socializing it. Being a courteous, thoughtful person, the woman had the two dogs introduced while a wire fence separated them. Her caution proved to be a necessary safeguard, as ten seconds after sniffing each other through the fence, her dog always went ballistic. We tried the introduction three or four times, always with the same result. After each failure she would yell at her cantankerous canine, saying; "What's wrong with you? That's Daisy."

Oso lived across the road and a bit further down it from the Spanish woman. While I never saw the humans with whom he lived, I sometimes saw his doggy playmate. Oso was large and had a shaggy, white coat, which made him appear even larger. He'd run the fence which separated us as we passed. He seemed friendly to me and Daisy would get close, but never close enough to risk a nose bite through the wire.

Sometimes I'd pick up a lost tennis ball during our walk and throw it to Oso. He always got it and brought it back to the fence. Daisy might have been jealous, though she had a plentiful supply of tennis balls in our back yard. One of the employees of Corrales Animal Control informed me that Oso had run away three times. He had brought him back on each occasion. Maybe Oso was just looking for someone to play with.

Mike and Annie lived further down Camino De Lucia. Though they always had smallish, somewhat sequestered dogs, the highlight of their property was a group of burros. Pablo, named after Picasso, was always the center of attention. He'd bray, run around and come to the fence looking for people with apples. He was also smart and adventurous. When Mike and Annie had workmen there, Pablo would hang around by the gate, and if one of them was lax in closing it, Pablo would make a break for parts unknown. He'd explore part of the neighborhood and often settle in the shade and imagined privacy of a dirt road behind my house. But I would screw up his plan and squeal on him.

Mike and Annie were old hippies who operated an eating establishment from where they also sold original paintings by local artists, in many cases being the buyer of last resort. Though they both liked Daisy and gave her rough pets, which Daisy loved, whenever they saw her, I think that for Mike the feeling was something special. He seemed to regularly just happen to be coming out of his house when we approached. He always crouched down and squeezed Daisy all over. Mike was the first to tell me that as a result of pulling me all over, Daisy's chest muscles were like that of a sled dog.

Sometimes, when no one else was there, Daisy and I would stand at the corral fence to watch Pablo put on his song and dance routine. One particularly energetic morning, Pablo ran the corral like a maniac. Daisy and I watched him, but in watching him I lost concentration on Daisy. She decided to join Pablo in his spree and pulled me right over. I was fine and Daisy continued to run the fence with Pablo, me right behind.

Mike died in Daisy's fifth year. Annie no longer came out to see my pup. She shortly moved back east. Pablo was relocated to somewhere else in Corrales. Every day, Daisy dawdled at the corral fence, waiting for her friends, but gave up after a few months.

Daisy always wore a collar attached to a leash when we were outside. A few people asked why I didn't let her run free. I gave them various answers depending on what popped into my mind at that moment. Keeping her safe from cars, coyotes, bad edible things, whatever was in plain view.

Daisy demonstrated her feelings on the matter on numerous occasions. The zeal with which she pulled me resulted in her ripping through eight collars. I carried a spare. Each time it happened she stopped in her tracks and turned back to me as she knew something was wrong. She and I both understood that it was a practical symbol of our attachment.

Near Daisy's tenth birthday, as we were sitting at the Bosque, we met William and Arthur. It was still not yet officially summer, but you could have fooled anyone who went outside. The actual, calendar measured summer yet to come was to prove to be by far the hottest in Daisy's New Mexican lifetime. The Rio Grande came close to going dry. After an hour's food hunt, swims and squat, we sat at the top of the levee in the shade of a cottonwood. She no longer fancied the marathon walks, and little by little, curtailed them, though she still had her days. She was in no rush to get home as she still enjoyed the sights and smells of the "wild" outdoors even though her locomotion wasn't that of a puppy. Moreover she had the right vantage point to locate old and new friends. While I missed the old days, I was rapidly approaching 64 years of age, and for the last two had been getting the first signs of meaningful limitations. It seemed right that she and I were growing old together after jointly having regularly experienced adventures few Corrales dog walkers had ever attempted. This ensured that we would always have our memories. On this day, like many others, I stroked her head and back, saying time worn things like; "I love my little Daisy" and "You're my magic puppy."

We didn't see William and Arthur until they exited the woods five feet behind us. We creaked to our feet and turned. Arthur, the seven year old retriever was off leash, but ambled over somewhat cautiously. In traditional Daisy fashion, she impatiently went to him and they immediately became good friends. William introduced his companion and himself and so did we. William made a special note of petting Daisy, as he always would. He described Arthur, who was named after the king, as goofy, and I petted him. William said that the characterization was not meant to be disparaging; that Arthur was just ......... goofy. We were to meet many more times that season; one time walking and talking so intently, that Daisy and I lost track of the distance we had travelled and I barely made it back, having to stop and catch my breath on more than one occasion. Daisy didn't complain as long as she could get frequent stops in the water. Daisy and I visited with William and Arthur, which gave her the opportunity to see a friend in the confines of a backyard, a glimpse into what was to become her more sedate future.

While Daisy had no fear of cars, horses, water, other dogs or people, there were two things which she was afraid of; balloons, which she saw as fire breathing dragons, and the sound of a locomotive, which I called The Choo Choo monster.

Every year, during the first weeks of October, Albuquerque hosts the International Balloon Fiesta. Presumably, it is scheduled at that time as visitors consider that period as ideal central New Mexican weather, with the hottest days of summer over and the harsh winter still a ways off. However, there is an inevitable dispute with any judgmental statement and this was always a time when Daisy would have preferred to have been vacationing in Tora Bora, Afghanistan.

If the balloons were already in the sky when we entered the driveway, Daisy didn't want to go in their direction and would attempt to return to the back yard, until things blew over. However, I knew that if I could get her to go approximately 100 feet on our curved street, that the balloons would no longer be in her face, and they would gradually disappear to her left.

This posed no real problem, despite the "Uh oh" look on Daisy's face. We'd get to the Bosque as usual, but so would many of the dragons. Many liked to dip down and get as close to the Rio as possible, giving Daisy an up close look and a magnified "whoosh" sound as they fired their helium. Daisy was a smart dog. She'd get under the cover of a grove of cottonwoods to wait out the assault, while keeping a watchful eye on the multi-colored and multi-shaped monsters.

Sometimes I had difficulty in getting her back home as the skies would be filled, and Daisy would not walk in the direction occupied by the beasts. We'd wait them out as they didn't have the ability to last as long as we did.

### Old Age and Emergency

A horrible thing happened last week. Daisy woke me around 11PM and when I put on the light I saw that our blankets, as well as the floor and parts of the wall were covered with blood. She had thrown up enough red fluid and jello-like material in one spot to fill two ice tea pitchers. Blood kept dripping from her nose and she was frantically going to the door, her eyes on me, as if to say; "You've got to get me to the vet right now."

I dressed and got her to a 24 hour emergency facility in Albuquerque. While this was an improvement because they had the ability to keep her alive by giving transfusions, if necessary, no one had the ability to stop the bleeding. We would have to wait for the arrival of the internist on Tuesday, roughly 30 hours hence. Daisy survived the wait. The specifics of the vet's original complicated possibilities and the subsequent revised complicated likelihoods ranged from dire straits to minor problem. Tumor had the highest degree of probability.

After two surgeries and tests done over a week period the dire early indications changed to a best possible case scenario. It then again became dire. Then it became very manageable. Then the cycle repeated two more times. It was extremely problematic. I couldn't help thinking about the chance of Daisy's imminent death and my oft stated promise to her that; "When you go, I'm going with you." I recalled a song line; "Don't take my heart away from me."

The news again turned positive. Today, I'm looking forward to the day when Daisy and I walk again. It won't anymore be in the "wild" of Corrales' five hundred foot deep Bosque, but it really doesn't matter to me. My local vet, Dr. Ramirez, directed me to a spot right outside of town where there is a sizable garden tended by the city, with three to eight foot bushes and even **concrete paths**.

I am not certain of Daisy's feelings on the matter, but I think she'll like the new place a lot. The amount of walking that she does has dropped gradually, but consistently, over the past three years. She has been spending more and more time sitting near the parking area waiting to say "Hi" to old and new friends. I've driven by the garden a number of times and always see more parked cars than I ever saw at one time on Romero Road. I think she'll be happy with it and chastise me for not bringing her there sooner. Daisy is always happy.

As at the beginning, winter is making its impatience known. New Mexico has a harsh and unpredictable climate. Over the last three days the trees and vines have changed into their cold weather jackets of oranges, reds, yellows and browns. The sun does little to provide light, despite an only partially clouded sky. I have despised seeing Daisy grow old, but have not been presented with a suitable alternative. Instead of that initial puppy burst down the driveway, in recent times she has dawdled and looked back at me as if to say; "Do we really have to go?" Reluctantly, I have told her; "Yes," in the hope that her adrenalin would take over after surviving the initial duress.

I brought Daisy home from the emergency facility, advised that the cause of the bleeding was unknown, but that they had stopped it with cauterization. But after four hopeful days and nights of limited activity, Daisy again began to profusely bleed from the nose. I brought her back to the emergency facility in the middle of the night. I was to be informed the next day that she had been bleeding those days and nights I considered hopeful. It was merely a matter of her swallowing it, rather than having it come out her nose.

Daisy is still at the Emergency Vet facility, and the news has returned to not good. An experienced specialist is at a loss. She can find no reason why Daisy continues to bleed from her nose. She told me that she and her colleagues have never seen anything like this. This Southwestern styled house is even more quiet, bleak and chilly than in usual gloomy days. I miss her terribly. Some calmly defiant lines from a previously unremembered old song, which were evaluative of the silent ghost in charge, made their long forgotten presence known; "You don't possess me; don't impress me; just upset my mind." Of course Daisy has always possessed me and impressed me. I wish she made the rules or the anarchy.

I remember the days when Daisy was the undisputed Queen of the Corrales Bosque with a goodhearted energy which knew no bounds. We covered all the ground, and some of the water, between Albuquerque and Rio Rancho and then some. It seems recent until I do the math. I tried to spend every possible moment tagging along and watching her explore all the things she found interesting, often wondering if I would make it. I knew that I was too old for her when we met, but found it impossible to turn away from the sweetest creature on earth.

Sometimes something undetected by me would scare her and she would look back at me, possibly just to see that I was still there. This time I am the one who is scared, but when I turn around she is not there. I recall the first time she looked back for reassurance. As with subsequent episodes I assured her that she'd be all right and that I would be with her forever. From the start I realized that I was condemning myself to, at some point, going on without her. At the time, it seemed that it was reassuring for her, and not very frightful to me, as, when Daisy was young, I unconsciously thought that we had an eternity. Today it became obvious that eternity is just another finite eight letter word, "defined" into existence by abstract mathematicians and preached in the dogma of theoretical theologians.

Since she's been gone I haven't slept well. I've been getting out the trash before sunrise, secretly expecting or hoping that Daisy will come running as she once did. I am making an effort to spend more time with Teddy. He's an 11 year old black cat born without a tail. He's been noticeably distraught since his lifelong companion and cousin, Lucy, suddenly died of kidney failure last month. She was a **very** fat Tabby who played ferociously as a kitten, but quit after one of her front paws got caught in a closing door. She and Teddy had been together all their lives. He and I have identical problems and we commiserate together. He cries as he searches the house for her. I do the same. He doesn't understand death. Neither do I. His anxiety level increases when the sun goes down. So does mine.

I entered the room Daisy and I once shared. I thought of the people who once sought us out to get a quick fix of her beauty. They are no longer around, either because their dogs, the friends we first knew, are no longer of this calloused and arbitrary earth, or because they were only capable of a simulated friendship when Daisy was in prime health. I have found that this is the way of every human I have met. When I contracted a brain tumor at the age of 39, the removal of which left me with facial paralysis, a paltry income and memory problems, all my former friends and loved ones departed. I was blessed with the company of Willy and Daisy, and that was more than enough, but now I fear the end of the enchanted time. Willy has been gone ten years and I am afraid that Daisy will soon join him. I can't stand being here alone. My beautiful girl didn't see my deformity or inadequacy. All humans look the same to her. Daisy saw my heart, which is all that matters, no matter how much the tedious critics may deride. And, every day I saw her gigantic, loving heart, which she bravely and openly displayed all her life.

While it is easier and more understandable to those lacking emotion for me to speak of adventures that Daisy and I once had, the time I miss Daisy the most is when I enter this cold barren room we used to share. As long as I can remember, she was always there, waiting for me to finish whatever inconsequential duty caused the delay. When I would finally enter, I'd curl up close to her. The "elephant man" was someone she did not disdain. She'd get extremely close and together we would drift off to a world of sweet dreams where everything was all right; everything was perfect. We didn't need anything more. But, tonight, I picture Daisy in her bloody cage of solitary confinement as I enter this room which has become a prison for me. It can't end this way; it just can't.

As my head hits our pillow, a song from "Showboat" plays in my head.

Dere's an ol' man called de Mississippi.

Dat's de ol' man dat I'd like to be!  
What does he care if de world's got troubles?  
What does he care if de land ain't free?

Ol' man river,  
Dat ol' man river.  
He mus' know sumpin',  
But don't say nuthin'.  
He jes' keeps rollin'.  
He keeps on rollin' along.

He don' plant taters.  
He don't plant cotton.  
An' dem dat plants 'em  
is soon forgotten.  
But ol' man river,  
He jes keeps rollin' along.

You an' me, we sweat an' strain.  
Body all achin' an' rack'd wid pain.  
Tote dat barge!  
Lif' dat bale!  
Git a little drunk  
An' you land in jail.

Ah gits weary  
An' sick of tryin'.  
Ah'm tired of livin'  
An' skeered of dyin'.  
But ol' man river,  
He jes' keeps rolling' along.

We folks work on de Mississippi.  
We folks work while de masters play,  
Pullin' dose boats from de dawn to sunset,  
Gittin' no rest till de judgement day.

Don't look up  
An' don't look down.  
You don' dast make  
De master frown.  
Bend your knees  
An' bow your head.  
An' pull date rope  
Until you' dead.

Let me go 'way from the Mississippi.  
Let me go 'way from de master boss.  
Show me dat stream called de river Jordan.  
Dat's de ol' stream dat I long to cross.

O' man river.  
Dat ol' man river.  
He mus' know sumpin',  
But don't say nuthin'.  
He jes' keeps rollin'.  
He keeps on rollin' along.

Long ol' river forever keeps rollin' on...

He don' plant tater.  
He don' plant cotton.  
An' dem dat plants 'em  
Is soon forgotten.  
But ol' man river,  
He jes' keeps rollin' along.

Long ol' river keeps hearing dat song.  
You an' me, we sweat an' strain.  
Body all achin an' racked wid pain.  
Tote dat barge!  
Lif' dat bale!  
Git a little drunk  
An' you land in jail.

_Ah, gits weary.  
An' sick of tryin'.  
Ah'm tired of livin'  
An' skeered of dyin'.  
But ol' man river,  
He jes' keeps rollin' along!  
_

In the morning, instead of traipsing around the Bosque, Daisy sits quietly at the Emergency Center, sedated and still bleeding, no doubt wondering what happened. I sit at home writing books and talking to any available ear to pass the time. It is unbearable to not be occupied with some trifle. This is perversely funny as I previously sought that which I can immediately no longer stand; the overpowering silence. Daisy filled all my hours and I tried to rush through all the necessary chores to have more time with her. Now, the days are much too long.

When I saw her yesterday, her once almost luminous white coat was spotted with dried blood and some other substance the color of bile. She sat still on a blanket, periodically nodding off, while I continually stroked her back. I told her about the new walking area the local vet spoke of. I told her that it's much tamer than places we had previously been, but that I was sure she'd like it. Lots of people go there. I've seen the parked cars. She'll have scores of new doggy friends to say "Hi" to and that has been the consistently growing part of our excursions since she severely tore a muscle and got the first indications of arthritis at age seven.

It's difficult for me to see her like this. I wonder what she's thinking and if the disease is painful. The vet says no to the latter. I know that she's scared and that she needs to be somewhere where someone can take care of her better than I can and I'm almost certain she knows that too.

I wonder how well she remembers the days when we were able to walk 17 miles. I'm afraid that she does, yet wish that she didn't. Drawing the comparison has to be extremely depressing. I'd give anything to relive those days when we were way out in the Bosque and my only worry was if we would make it back. On one particularly ambitious warm morning we must have covered 25 miles. I miscalculated how high the river was, and after walking a few miles into Rio Rancho I planned to go back on a coyote path bordering the Rio Grande. We found that the path was under water. This didn't bother Daisy in the least as she always liked water and mud. It was also easier for her to navigate with four legs. I told her this on numerous occasions, saying; "Slow, slow, mud, mud," but she never seemed to understand the difficulty a two-legger experienced until she was older.

On this day, we were faced with the choice of doubling back about a mile or going through the river edge mud. We went through it very slowly despite her protestations. She pulled on the leash probably wondering why I was being such an uncooperative snail. But, we made it. When we again hit dry land I said; "We're home free now," and immediately proceeded to slip on a slight decline and break my ankle.

No doubt Daisy now wondered why I was still so slow. At the time I thought that I had just sprained it. I had never previously broken a bone. But, I didn't know that it was broken until a week passed. The doctor said I had a hairline fracture and that it had already re-set itself. Our walks were not deterred. I thought it my duty to keep up with Daisy, and nothing deterred her.

The next day was particularly dismal for this time of year and inane little things like that always make me think of the end of something. I got an AM call from her Internist which was bleak. Daisy had been bleeding every four hours. I arranged to visit her again at 3PM and the doctor told me we would talk more then.

I couldn't help but again think about my sweet baby's imminent death. Patti Smith queries; "Have you seen death singing?" and I assured her that I have. I really do not want to go on without Daisy. I've always felt this way. Sometimes when we were out walking, even when she was young, I'd tell her that when she goes I'm going with her; that it would be best if someday we get hit by a car and die quickly and simultaneously. Since that is not going to be the case, I'm confused. I could get drunk and mope around the house, crying whenever I see something that Daisy touched, which was virtually everything, remembering that good time and desperately wanting it back again. It seems like only yesterday. In an odd way, I actually like this morose feeling, as I believe that to feel otherwise is an insult to her memory. But, we loved each other, and I think she would tell me to find another companion and that we'll see each other again soon. She might even reproach me for failing to take care of another abandoned puppy. There are so many. When Daisy was a puppy and I accidentally hurt her playing roughly, she stared at me a second, then ran full tilt around the back yard twice. When she came back to me I started to play very softly and she would have none of it. She disgustedly looked into my eyes as if to say; "Oh, come on now." We again got going as we started. But, somehow that was much easier. Daisy was still immortal and we seemed to have all the time in the world. If I did get another puppy, we could never have the richness of experience Daisy and I shared, as I'm just too damn old now. I might also resent any newcomer as being "not Daisy," unintentionally condemning the pup to a lifetime of an unfair feeling of inadequacy and not being loved. **Anyone who says that dogs do not feel has never looked into their eyes.** Many choose to spout the phrase; "Dogs only understand dominance." It seems obvious to me that these people base that perception on their own frigid way of existence, and superimpose it on loving dogs.

Since Daisy has been gone, unlike my usual routine, I have not been able to play any music. It is all too joyful. Daisy was the music in my life. To hear notes seems an insult to my sick darling. The silence produces a mausoleum effect on the house in which Daisy brought life. After trying to tolerate existence in the cemetery, I thought of two songs to play. On her last release in June, 2012 titled "Banga," my favorite artist, Patti Smith, did two songs which broke the silence. One was titled; "This is the Girl," and the other was titled; "Maria." I previously focused on other "Banga" songs, but now these two registered with me as the most relevant expression possible. I played them over and over.

But, despite Patti's help, I'm still confused and depressed. And I feel guilty about being confused and depressed as I am focusing on myself, rather than my rapidly wilting Daisy flower. I know that our happiest days were when I forgot myself and focused on her needs, but now I no longer am able to give her what she needs. What to do? What to do? Though it seems ages ago I strongly suspect that I felt this way when Willy died. And I was unable to do anything, until that fateful dark morning when six month old Daisy did it for me by running to me and licking my face. To repeat that day is the only good solution this brain can conjure, but I strongly suspect that will not happen again. I was extremely fortunate that it happened once. However, barring a repeat of that event, the only acceptable solution I see is that Daisy and I should die simultaneously. I visited her-our room and saw her pink collar and chain. I had taken it home as I feared that it might have been lost in the chaos of the emergency clinic. I wanted to be certain that I had possession of Daisy's last earthly encumbrance, something she touched, a physical reminder of her life, just in case. The streak of blood near the buckle seemed suiting and my eyes moistened.

I left early. My exit from Corrales was customarily arduous, as I got behind yet another nothing-to-do gawker, who drove 20 MPH down the overly cautious 35 road, trying to waste as much as possible of their boring day. My inertia allowed me to see the cheery "How are you today's?" at the sides of the main thoroughfare, in search of someone to infect with their faux merriment. Their presence presented me with a perverse thankfulness, as I realized that my plastic and metal, moving roadrunner protected me from their presumptuous, state-of-the-art New Age garbage. Contrary to flawed popular opinion, misery loves solitude. My early leave was fortunate on a mechanical basis as I've always been terrible with directions, and when I finally got out of town I discovered that one of the roads I usually had taken was being re-paved. I tried an alternate route but wound up lost. A jogging Good Samaritan helped me with directions after a bad one sent me the wrong way.

I got there only 15 minutes late, apologized for that, and the doctor informed me that they believe that they determined the problem and were going to perform the third surgical procedure in an hour. I again had cause for hope.

This may again require revision, but the most likely probable cause of Daisy's problem is fixable. I sat with Daisy in her tall, stainless steel, blood spattered cage, stroked, kissed and talked to my spotted, big brown eyed friend for too short a time. She started to become active and I thought it best that I leave and she rest.

I had visited her every day she spent at the Emergency Clinic, sometimes twice. I would almost always sit with her in her cage, as it didn't require her moving around. She had a number of blood spattered blankets on the floor, folded over at an edge to make her a comfortable pillow. On some of the visits she acted as if she were her old self, trying to exit the cage and have me take her home. On others she laid still. There were dried drops of blood on the hard floor and silver metallic sides which served as grisly reminders of the problem. When she was still I'd lie next to her, put an arm around her, and kiss her head. I told her stories, just as I did when we were out walking. She pretended that she had not heard the old stories countless previous times and didn't interrupt. I felt compelled to tell her tales with happy endings as I thought that was the best thing for her to hear and also because we were three feet away from the attendants. Universally, medical people reprove the patients and family if they hear any naysaying, and I didn't want to risk wasting our time hearing the cheer, followed with the obligatory and interminable forced smile. I have some suspicions why they do it, but wonder if they ever realize the absurdity of their chirpy approach.

I suppose they know that in the situation most of us would like to be lied to. Though the next time we are in a similar situation and our logical mind knows the score, we still want the lies. Humans have an illogical need to believe in something, even after thousands of years of searching have produced not one iota of evidence.

I couldn't make myself leave. I wanted one more touch; one more kiss, then another and another ............. I felt her warm, soft body next to me just as I had every night for ten years. I desperately wanted another ten. I took in her current view of the world. Through the silver bars I saw a busy room, with uniformed attendants scurrying from their rolling chairs with inadequate back support to screwed-together-metal shelves which wasted not an inch in holding medicines, food and paraphernalia; then administering their concoctions to other quiet patients. I saw a new patient admitted; a handsome, sizable, long haired black dog, who hobbled to the cage next to Daisy's on three legs, bleeding from the place where there formerly was a fourth and requiring the attention of a few attendants. The pressed wood desks were all pushed together, like a circling of the wagons. The 2013 seekers of shelter were cluttered with computer screens and casually beeping medical diagnostic machines. It was a far cry from Daisy's home view of red and yellow flowering yucca plants with hovering hummingbirds. No wonder she wants to either go home or sleep.

I held and kissed my dozing beauty. I told her that she would soon be home and that we had years of happiness ahead of us. I realized that I had promoted myself by displaying one of the characteristics requisite for a medical occupation. I requested to be let out of the cage, and drove home talking to Daisy between the tears.

In the course of Daisy's plight I have learned that when a dog's nose bleeds it is usually the sign of something other than an injured snout. The most likely culprit is a tumor, while bacterial and fungal infections are not uncommon. Presented with these possibilities one hopes for the bacterial infection. During both of her rhinoscopies Daisy was tested for these infirmities and nothing was found. Perplexing. During the second rhinoscopy, the blood vessels in her right nostril were more extensively, chemically cauterized. Yet the bleeding resumed. Doubly perplexing.

However, six months prior, Daisy had a five minute nose bleed which signified a pancreatic infection, which she no doubt got from eating a very old hot dog she fished out of the river. Two weeks of antibiotics cleared up that infection. My hero, Dr. Charlotte Nova, saw this as a possible root cause of her vascular damage.

Daisy has had the more invasive procedure done, as it seems likely the damage was not limited to the veins, but included the artery or arteries further inside. She should be home again in a few days devoid of hemorrhage. I will always consider this a miracle, no matter how any rational scientist may chide. Yesterday, despite her extensive hands-on and teaching experience, Dr. Nova had no concrete answers, even after having consulted other vets and physicians, who also had not seen anything quite like this.

The eccentricities of Daisy's condition no longer matter. I expected that now, my baby would be back with me and soon we would be out walking again. I have re-named her Daisy Phoenix.

Dr. Nova's morning call informed me of positive news. For the first time since this horror story began Daisy had not bled for 16 hours. Dr. Nova's advice was to keep Daisy in her cage, as inactively as possible for another day. She administered drugs which contribute to clotting, keeping blood pressure low and lethargy.

I visited my stoned out pooch twice that day. She roused when she saw the treats I had brought, but after eating them, went right back to her puppy dreams. Her head and one back leg used me for a pillow. I sat there for an hour on each visit and told her stories. Unlike my previous tales of the past, I told her of our future in the manicured park with the tame doggies.

The next morning Dr. Nova's wakeup call continued and enhanced the good news of the previous day. She told me that Daisy was doing fine, was not bleeding, and that her red blood cell count had gone from 14 pre-surgery to 28, well on its way back to 40, without the aid of a transfusion. The brilliant doctor told me that I could bring Daisy home at 5PM, which would constitute 48 hours after the last surgical procedure. Though I remained mute on the matter, I couldn't help but worry that something would go wrong between the good news morning and the shadowy and ghostly early evening.

It was at this point that I encountered my most difficult decision. I wanted to see Daisy in the AM and assure her that her best friend was still lovingly there, but, thanks to Dr. Nova, I also knew that 48 hours was a magic number. She told me that if one did not re-bleed in that time, it was most likely that one would not.

I decided to stay home and write. I have seen interviews with various well-selling authors. They are always asked why they write. I wondered what I would say in their place and drew a blank at being compelled to say something which imparted some degree of insightful intelligence to the fans, at $5,000 per pitiful show. I eventually realized that my answers would have been different each time asked. But, on this promising day, a moment of clarity brought me the best, simplest and truest reply. My scribbling had begun three years prior, which coincided with the time when Daisy's first limiting injury shortened our walks. At age 7 she tore a muscle, necessitating surgery. The vet told me to keep her in the back yard, no more than ten minutes at a time, for four months. She never fully recovered, though our walks were still two hours, lengthy by most standards, if not the prior three to four. This late age writing was merely filling the vacuum left when my most enjoyed work-play-partner's abilities diminished. Though I had given my characters other identities, the female protagonist was consistently Daisy. I chronicled her as she attempted to deal with circumstances I imagined, far removed from that which the fickle twists of so called reality provided. There were a few exceptions, mistakenly pursued out of my periodic and subsequently reviled wish to be cutting-edge contemporary, and I consider them the lesser of my efforts, simultaneously realizing that would probably make them the most popular. While I know that these sentiments are anathema to readers, I don't care in the least. I sincerely hope that someone gets pleasure in the reading, but if they don't, the momentary and inconsequential disappointment they feel is universally removed from the pain I feel in seeing my baby, Daisy like this. This "literary departure" from what was essential was unconsciously intended for Daisy and me alone and its commercial greetings are of no importance to us. We never really cared about stupid, opinionated and desolate incursions into our world. As her ambulatory abilities waned, I gave my perfect baby new situations to explore, expecting that she would read my mind and thereby participate. I have good reason to believe that she had this ability. ................ Concurrently, I felt guilty about the good chance that I was disproportionally and selfishly focusing on myself. It seemed too discredited New-Agey and supermarket-checkout-line-periodical passé as well as basely common. Sometimes I do wish that these books are capable of providing an income stream, as I can will to an institution which rescues abandoned dogs and cats and keeps them alive as long as nature allows. My fantasy is to fund an establishment known as the "Friends of Daisy," memorializing her wishes forever. The one already written had better do well as those to come will be missing something. Without Daisy, I won't feel the least bit amusing or entertaining, requirements of the short attention spanned world of 2013.

My undecided reverie induced the pedantic insistence of Enemy Time to quickly pass. I do hope that the banal and easily predictable bastard felt neglected and abandoned, but suspect that our nemesis was deficient in its ability to feel anything. Most importantly, I saw that the inept, silent transgression of the well-made-up illusion specified 4:12, at least as it was imperfectly indicated to me on the functional, cheap, white, plastic, kitchen microwave. The electronic four and two conveyed those numbers to me only because I had been sufficiently biased by my readily available, small college education to mindlessly accept that in the efficient and practical world, segmented straight lines were deemed a satisfactory substitute for nature's curves. The notion that the past was totally irrelevant hit me like a well perused and discounted copy of "Self." It was time to pick up Daisy. I took one more look and touched the urn which held Willy's ashes and asked for her spiritual father's help. I opened a greeting card sent after his death ten years ago. The words were inspired by a Norse legend.

By the edge of a woods, at the foot of a hill,

is a lush green meadow where time stands still;

where our friends do run when their time on earth

is over and done.

In this wonderful place they wait and play,

seeing the Rainbow Bridge they will cross over one day.

For it seems just an instant until their eyes have met;

together again, both person and pet.

The sadness they felt while they were apart,

has turned into joy once more in each heart.

They embrace with a love that will last forever,

_and then side by side they cross over together_.

I wanted to know more of this place. With tears in my eyes, I searched the internet for Rainbow Bridge and found a veritable myriad of versions. I tried to locate the original and found that the poem's beginning was mired in a morass of disagreement, with not even a lettered rendering of its first creation offered. I copied the version I liked best; re-read it, re-read it and re-read it.

The Rainbow Bridge _inspired by a Norse legend._

By the edge of a woods, at the foot of a hill,

is a lush green meadow where time stands still.

Where the friends of man and woman do run

when their time on earth is over and done.

For here, between this world and the next

is a place where each beloved creature finds rest.

On this golden land they wait and they play

till the Rainbow Bridge, they cross over one day.

No more do they suffer in pain or in sadness.

For here they are whole, their lives filled with gladness.

Their limbs are restored, their health renewed.

Their bodies have healed with strength imbued.

They romp through the grass without even a care,

until one day they start and sniff at the air.

All ears prick forward. Eyes dart front and back.

Then all of a sudden one breaks from the pack.

For just at that instant their eyes have met;

Together again, both person and pet.

So, they run to each other, these friends from long past.

The time of their parting is over at last.

The sadness they felt while they were apart

has turned into joy once more in each heart.

They embrace with a love that will last forever.

And then, side by side, they cross over ...... together.

I again thought of death and how quickly good news can turn sour. I completely lost it and ran to the car. The synthesized rubber, insulated trek seemed interminable. There were no words or thoughts capable of meaningful consolation. The soon-to-be-extinguished radio regurgitated last year's smash hit; a repetitious, and ersatz naughty refrain, with romantic "lyrics" concerning the taking of some girl to the toilet to see if she'd like it. In 2012, it was therefore an irresistible work of cutting edge, money making art, popular with low-standardized-test-scoring adolescents with short attention spans, who demanded constant "entertainment." The soundtrack made no mistakes in its pre-recorded syncopation. I found a reason to be thankful; that I was no longer near any teenagers and that I possessed the ability to identify the on-off button. I pushed it in fear of an interview with the now wealthy protagonist.

I thought of the thousands of times I had driven this 18 year old Toyota with Daisy in the back seat, patiently waiting for her opportunity to again see and feel the forest's wild growth, the Rio's change in course and depth, the other friendly dogs, and perhaps most of all, the fast food bags, containing the remnants of schedule-induced, convenient fatty breakfasts. The hinterlands could not be considered truly wild without them. I trailed a codger, driving 15 MPH on their way to an exciting PM at his post office box, looking for the magic letter that makes everything all right, dawdling to delay the time proven assuredness of disappointment. He was in hope of finding the unknown and elusive good news which had been anonymously and mystically delivered to his $9.99 per month standardized metal box in a self-sealing envelope. After he turned off, I was soon out of Corrales, and enjoyed Albuquerque speed. My mind switched gears, entirely abandoning the morose considerations partially induced by the flat drear of faux exurbia, and retained the morose considerations certainly induced by my lack of faith. Of necessity, I focused on the potentially deadly, risk immune, imminent threats of maniacal motorists who had one thought in their harassed minds; to get home to their loved ones as quickly as possible, after a tiring and mind-numbing, yet financially necessary day of trivial, consuming and petty, yet obligatory and contentious negotiations. The yellow plastic, Day-Glo, come- on sign at the thrift store entrance told me to "BUY LOW OR BUY HIGH." I didn't buy it either way.

Without the interference of the radio, my mind touched on a celebratory song from years past; "(Don't Fear) The Reaper," the biggest hit of the Blue Oyster Cult, having reached the enviable position of number six on the popular charts in 1977, or something like that. It helped formulate my "**** you" attitude toward the executor of this pathetic game.

As I made the last turn onto busy Montgomery Boulevard, I knew that I was less than a cigarette's life expectancy from the emergency facility. I almost prayed that Daisy's condition was still as it was at last report, countering that I was praying to the Christian dogmatic idea of a benevolent god, believed to be all powerful. I knew that if I bought that scam, I could not escape the next logical question of what or who was thereby responsible for Daisy's travail. The reasoning seemed irrefutable to an imperfect mere mortal, and the miserable situation was without question egregiously unfair.

I arrived at the clinic and slowed down in their parking lot. It wasn't because of the speed bumps. I had successfully negotiated others at 40 MPH while transporting my bleeding friend. I was afraid of hearing the bad news with which I had become accustomed. My car's digital clock read 4:45. I was momentarily tempted to have a cigarette before entering, undoubtedly pursuing a masochistic fantasy capable of prolonging the hypothetical agony. As I walked alone I saw the line of dried blood, now brown on the white concrete, which trail Daisy had left when she first came here. I recalled the dream which I had the previous evening. Daisy agitatedly led me to the back fence and much out of character, she barked threateningly at something invisible to me.

I rejected any notion of delay and entered, eyeing the dried stains and wondering how long they would remain. This was the most important time in my long life. The glass entry doors reflected the uncertainty of the declining, late day sun. I wondered if it was a vision produced by an uncaring and omniscient producer of omens, filming my trepidation for his-her or both's, wicked and fleeting enjoyment, as much and no more than a forgotten, Chaplin, little tramp short entertainment.

The hallucinatory brainwave disappeared when the force of my right hand produced a whirr in the overwhelmed and weary, glass emergency door. I recalled the first time I heard this sound, slightly more than a long two weeks prior. I was dazed and confused when I announced my presence at the front desk and was ushered to a private room to wait for Daisy. I read all the thank you cards posted to the bulletin board, wanting to read of testimonials to the doctors for saving dogs. Though the initial survey met my wishes, further scrutiny produced an averaging out of results. The room seemed cold. When I entered it, the digital thermostat mimicked a number reminiscent of 73, but that had dropped to 70 during my card reading. The windowless, interior room reminded me of a particularly dismal day at home alone. There, I had noticed that despite the thermostat being set at 72, I was warm on a sunny day and cold on a cloudy one. This room was an unnatural, yet efficient, black cloud. I waited on the plastic cushion, my hands seeking warmth under my butt.

After what seemed like the afternoon I spent at the side of my maternal grandmother's coffin, sickeningly sweet with the aroma of dead flowers, Dr. Nova entered with an energetic Daisy, whose tail drummed the wall. The busy doctor advised me that Daisy was still not bleeding, and that given the time which had elapsed since the last surgery, that it was very unlikely that it would start again. With a minimum of last minute discharge instructions, Dr. Nova told me to take Daisy home. She was not able to detect what had caused the bleeding, but it had been corrected.

I forgot my superfluous, day long ruminations, gave Dr. Nova a gigantic hug and left with Daisy. I felt sorry for my derisive lack of faith. After lifting her leg on the low lying light feature near the front entrance, Daisy walked to the car. I opened the back door, expecting her to put her paws on the seat, if not hop in. She did neither. Stains from her blood had produced an ugly, asymmetric desecration on the back seat, which was repugnant to her. I directed her eyes to her blood that was still on my shirt. She saw it and apparently took some understanding from the deepening red dots and hopped in. I was especially happy as I didn't quite know what it was that I had communicated. Our hope tanks refilled and brimming, we drove home in twilight.

I wanted her to rest the remainder of the day and the next, despite the doctor's advisement that that was not necessary. I wanted to spend the time cuddling and kissing her in our own room, away from any bloody cage crudely put in our mutual paths. More than ever I wanted to be sure that Daisy knew that I loved her. We had plenty of time to meet all the well-mannered puppies starting the day after tomorrow.

### A Reflection in the Muddy Rio Grande

Regrets? Sure; growing old. Who doesn't feel that way? But, outside of that I think not. Daisy went with all she had when she had it and is not one to complain.

How much longer do we have? Who knows? Who wants to think about it? More than ever, we just try to make the most of every day.

Were there those who demanded that I keep my friendly, feral, female away from their precious pooches? Sure, but they're not worth remembering. It was their loss in not having had the privilege of knowing Daisy better.

Am I just another sad old man, reminiscent of De Sica's "Umberto D?" Up until the last two weeks I haven't wasted any of the last ten years being the least bit sad.

I have a favorite memory of when we were still young. Perhaps I should more accurately say; "When she was still young," but when we were out on an adventure I felt that way too. There was one Rio Grande River island we enjoyed going to in particular; sometimes prompted by her and sometimes by me. It was about 80 feet from shore and looked interesting because it was there a long time, its maturity and resilience evidenced by 30 foot trees. The problem was that the river had deep spots between shore and it and I didn't like to risk getting in water over my head. Actually, Daisy didn't either, but she had an overriding bravery and sense of adventure. During our first visit she found a two foot turtle shell on the island and tried to gnaw it like a bone without much success. I sat and watched. She eventually decided to carry the shell back home, which was about a five mile trip. She kept it in our backyard and little by little, ate the whole thing. I started calling the place Turtle Island.

Turtles are uncommon in Corrales. I've met people who have lived here all their lives and have never seen one in the vicinity. We've seen four or five, two of them just born.

There was something else unusual about Turtle Island. Though it was difficult to get there, once we did we soon discovered that there were two other islands right behind it, each separated by only three feet of shallow water. They must have been new as they contained only sparse, tiny vegetation on a sandy floor. They were just barely above sea level and not visible from the mainland. When we were out there, anyone watching from the safety of shore would have to have thought that Daisy and I were walking on water. We were.

# Let It Never Be the End
