Over the years I’ve gotten pretty good at keeping my dogs safe.  I’ve learned to stay clear from the big dogs and keep the Christmas candy stored safely.  I’m used to seeing signs for rattlers in season.  I was still a bit surprised this morning to see signs at the local dog park warning of circling hawks.  What exactly am I supposed to do to keep my puppy safe from flying killer birds?

As part of a new expansion of the San Diego Zoo’s Wild Animal Park, Cape Hunting Dogs may finally be represented in North County.  Cape Hunting Dog is one of the various names for Lycaon pictus, also known as the African Wild or Painted Dogs, and cousins to the Pongo.   

Diego, in his official role as the Pongo Lama, current incarnation of the spirit of the Pongo, is wagging his tail in approval.

Nice visit to the zoo this morning.  Normally the bigger hunters aren’t out and about much during the day, but something must’ve been in the air this morning that got them all up and looking for breakfast tourists.  Snif, snif.  Mmmmm, scrambled eggs with a side of Iowa farmboy.

The bears were frolicking, the tigers and leopards were out, and even all the fun puppies (New Guinea singing dogs, African painted dogs, spotted and striped hyenas) seemed to be out and about. 

Randy still gets amazed at how much the hyenas and wild dogs (and even the New Guinea singing dogs) resemble Pongo. I agree on the resemblances, but just assume that an african mutt is an african mutt and somewhere back in time there have to have been some crossed genes. Still, it’s nice to know that even though he never bred a part of him is still out there, literally chewing up the world.

Pongo would have been twelve years old today.

I tried to caffeinate enough to do some writing despite a bird flu or sinus tumor cold and a lousy night’s sleep.  Instead it appears I’m just wired but still dopey from the cold meds.  Not the best state of mind for legal writing unless I just want to redo it all tomorrow.  Maybe I’ll be able to focus after lunch.  For now Eric Clapton’s Road to Escondido is keeping me relaxed as I look at all the pretty pictures scattered around the internet.  Wish my puppy were still here to keep me company.

Sometime in the last couple of weeks this site started getting search engine traffic for something called “Pongo Point.” Apparantly people are looking for a new social networking thingamabob targeted at the Latin American market at pongo-point.com.

To all those new but slightly lost visitors, bienvenidos. Please enjoy your visit and feel free to look around a bit. Maybe you’ll find even something you like. If you hear a growl and the whooosh of a leaping guard puppy, it’s just the wind these days, so don’t worry about it.

For a while Monday I thought I might be getting to a point where I could get through a day without my eyes welling up. The news had reached most people in my life, so I wasn’t having to tell the story fresh anymore. I was busy enough that I wasn’t just sitting around an empty apartment. Then Tuesday proved me wrong.

In the morning I learned of two gifts (NGF and Scott Barnes) to the San Diego Humane Society in Pongo’s memory, and in the afternoon I received a condolence card from Pongo’s vet that included a card with Pongo’s paw print.

The gifts came out of the blue and were a total shock. The local humane society is a good one, I’m sure they’ll put the money to good use, and I’m honored that the psycho-terrier’s name can be attached to their work.

The paw print just ripped the emotional scabs off and started everything flowing all over again. It’s locked in the safe for now until I can figure out what to do with it.

That’s enough for now. Gotta get through the day.

Thank god for beer and friends. Nothing like a depressant or two or three to chase the blues away. Except that it doesn’t work. Friends can keep me focussed on other things, but eventually I’m alone again. I still hear footfalls behind me and I still reach for the gatekeeper’s bribes every time I leave the apartment. It could take weeks to round up the squeakies and the rope toys and all the half-eaten treats Pongo stashed away during that last week. I dunno if he was saving them for a party, or was just accepting them to make me stop offering them, but they seem to be all over the place. I suspect I’ll be finding rawhide remnants under and in the furniture until I move out.

But as I sit here miserable in the heat, at least my fans are spinning and moving the 90 degree air around (yay for wind chill!), unlike the poor souls in Queens and St. Louis. As of five minutes ago, my landlord has fixed my garbage disposal. Big Brother All Stars isn’t as pathetic as it could have been. And even though work production this week really sucked, the weekend is here. More opportunities for distraction. Chances to get out and about. Not thinking helps.

The last week or so has been very difficult and stressful, and I’d like to thank all those who’ve shown their support, love and friendship to both of us and sent various messages of condolences since yesterday’s announcement. You all mean everything to me and I appreciate everything. Some have asked for more details, and I’ll share what I feel I can at this point. Maybe I’ll write more on this later, but probably not.

Pongo was eleven years old. While I still considered him my puppy, and will forever remember him as the young rascal mugging for the camera in yesterday’s photo, he was showing signs of his advanced age in recent months. Some who know him in real life even commented that the photo of him from last week’s 12 of 12 post showed that age, particularly in his eyes. He started showing physical discomfort last week and yesterday that pain quickly escalated to a point where it was no longer manageable through medication. I was with him through everything.