Thanksgiving--not my Favorite Day

The WWTs didn’t walk the day before Thanksgiving. Speaking of Thanksgiving, it wasn’t my favorite day since my masters left me locked in the house with their son Maverick’s dog, Chigurh, and his buddy, Townes, while they went to lunch at Maverick's brother's house. They didn’t even bring us leftover turkey since that wasn’t on the menu. (Instead, the hosts served Cornish game hens they had won at a tennis tournament.)

Things got better the next day, however, when they took us up to the country place in Tarpley. Now the food wasn’t any better (just the usual dry dog stuff), but the scene--and scents--definitely were. We took an extended walk up and down Hondo creek, which is filled bank to bank, and I was lucky enough to find a bone of who-knows-what wild dead thing to gnaw on.

Back home, Townes, Chigurh and I lounged on the front porch, which is now completely screened in, and barked at passing dogs. I expect that’s why the white squirrel that’s been visiting the yard most mornings has been making itself scarce. My mistress thinks it only comes in the early morning because the light hurts its albino eyes when the sun comes out. Whatever. I’m really tired of hearing her rave about it. Aren’t I enough of a wonder to hold her attention?

Mansions, Trifecta, Tarpley and Number One Dog

The weather was perfect this morning and the ladies selected the perfect place to walk: downtown along the San Antonio River in the King William neighborhood. No sooner had we gotten started than Mary ran into a friend, Maria Pfeiffer, who lives in her historic family home, which backs up to the river. She was being pulled by her lab, Bruno (who had me on edge until I determined that he is an OK fellow if a bit rambunctious).

We walked briskly so as to get back to our ’hood—about a 15 minute drive—by 9:30. Leaving the river, we passed through the garden of the Steves Homestead, a house museum operated by the San Antonio Conservation Society. It is one of countless mansions built by prosperous German families before the turn of the century.

We passed numerous other stately homes along the shaded streets. But the ladies took the most interest in a small house. To it, architect Daryl Ohlenbusch has added a rustic two-story tall screen porch (which was the inspiration for my mistress's new screened porch) on one side and a two-story techno metal-clad apartment on the other. The effect is stunning.

Throughout the hour-long jaunt I saw no other dogs. Nor did I see any chickens, although a number of King Williamites raise them. (One of them, Mike Casey, even has a turkey). Which reminds me: Mary got an email from son Maverick this week that there was a trifecta. When he checked the rolling coop the other morning, all three ladies had laid him an egg in the same nest!

Returning to the subject of walks, the one I enjoyed most this week was near Tarpley, Texas where Mary and Lewis have a country place. The scents there are not to be believed and the weather was perfect—clear and cool. Thankfully, Hondo Creek is running again and the sinkhole (used as a Saturday night bathtub by a neighbor in years past) is full again. When the water’s up in Texas, there's no room for complaints.

Breaking News! Mary just got a letter from her cousin Amelia, owner of Sadie, the nations's number one dog. (Her full name is Round Town Mercedes of Mary Scot—can you imagine?). Sadie just finished winning best in show in Philadelphia, taking the total up to 102. She can be seen on NBC winning that show on Thanksgiving Day at noon, right after the parade. All I can say is I knew (of) her when.

Bitches and the Bridge

Since two Wednesday Walkie Talkies had to be done early yesterday, the ladies moved briskly, starting at the University of the Incarnate Word's sky bridge. The aerial walkway connects two parts of the campus high above Highway 281 as it heads downtown. We looked way down to six lanes of traffic and way up to a cloudless autumn sky.

Our objective was the storied Blue Hole on the main campus, said to be the headwaters of the San Antonio River. As we neared it we passed a stone grotto and the historic home of early day entrepreneur George Brackenridge, who sold what is now the college campus to the Sisters of Charity of the Incarnate Word.

It turned out that the Blue Hole was not what the ladies had in mind. Due to the prolonged drought, it is all but dry despite recent rains. Worse, it is littered with trash. So we left quickly and made our way back up to the sky bridge.

When my mistress paused to take photos (which makes me crazy), other ladies took turns taking my leash. Sometimes Mary gets so carried away talking that she forgets to take the leash back, leaving me at the mercy of another WWT. But hey, I’m just happy to be one of the girls.

Which brings me to a girlie question that’s been bothering me for a while now. Why is the word for a female dog perjorative when applied to women? Dog trainers are quite comfortable calling us female dogs "bitches" but most folks shy away from the word unless trying to cause insult. This "bitch" wants to know why.

Hanging with the Big Boys

I didn’t get to walk with the WWTs yesterday because Mary had to baby-sit her granddaughter, Christina, who had fever. So instead of the tantalizing smell of dog messages on fire hydrants, I had to put up with the stench of nail polish, when Mary painted Christina’s toenails (green) for the first time. Fortunately, they did take me on a short walk down the street after lunch, when Christina felt better.

I can’t complain too much though, since I got to go to Austin over the weekend. While Mary and Lewis spent time manning their Maverick Publishing booth at the Texas Book Festival, I got to hang out back at their son Maverick’s house with Chigurh, his dog.

Now Chigurh is ten times my weight, but unlike his assassin namesake in “No Country for Old Men,” he is the essence of kindness. His friend, Townes, a weekend guest, is a little scarier as he growls from time to time, but I felt pretty comfortable hanging around with the big boys—even if they did hover over me when I ate.

Now that Mary’s grandchickens are more comfortable, they want to come out of their pen and forage for bugs. Whenever Maverick let them out, he made us dogs stay indoors, which was a drag. But I must admit we did relish the leftover scrambled eggs after breakfast.