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?

All kinds of things  running through my mind as I watch this.  Musings on how much of photography is being in the right place and the right time.  Recollections of kayaking out and snorkeling with the seals and sea lions and otters in Monterey Bay. Amazement at the shots Paul Nicklen got on this adventure.  And a bit of reconsideration about what was going on in Pongo’s mind when he’d bring me live geckos when we still lived in Togo.  Did he really think I was “useless” when I didn’t know what to do with his gift?

[via Towleroad]

Pongo never had a dedicated bed.  He was quite content creating his little fortress of solitude out of his blanket and whatever gently-used undies he could round up from the laundry pile.

Diego, on the other hand, has had a bed for a couple of weeks now.  It’s a comfy little thing that Spinner got at Costco.  Fake fur on the inside and overstuffed with fluff all around. He’s a perfect fit on the inside and he can drag it around when he feels he should be sleeping somewhere with a better view.

The dragging is the problem.  One of the corners gave out after less than a week.  That’s when Diego realized a bed is like a box of Cracker Jacks.  OMG if a just pull out all the other stuff there’s a prize in there somewhere I know there’s a prize I just gotta keep looking…  Last week I reinserted the fluff and stitched up the seam.  Then again tonight.  Sure a bed can be a play space, but a play thing?  Dumb dog better learn quick or he’s going to find himself with a blanket and some old undies just like Pongo had.  

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.

Thumbboy stopped in to check out the cousins while downtown this morning. It seems the reason they blew off my birthday party last Monday is their spacious new electrified enclosure. Some nonsense about not being able to get free.

They were all frisky and running about, probably in anticipation of some Cinco de Mayo party. Wild Dogs are all about the fiestas. Not really into guac and chips, but if they bring in some pork rinds and bacon-wrapped thingees, I’m sure the cousins will give those zoo critters a party to talk about even after we’re long extinct.

Work is here to be done, but my sinuses are clear for the first time in two weeks, the temperature under the beautiful blue sky is 75 degrees, and the mind just keeps wandering off.  Kinda like Pongo’s.  Took a walk on the beach this morning hoping it would settle me down a bit so I could focus, but one grande coffee from the ubquitous coffee emporium and one 256 MB memory card later, I’m still bouncing off the walls.  Please help me.

Damselfish my well-licked butt.

This is a Pongofish.

It showed attitude when trying to dodge Chuck’s evil camera.

It has the colors.

It is worthy of the name.

Where do I start the paperwork?

While out doing our business this morning, a strapping young lad from down the street nearly stumbled on us. Out and about at 5ish in the morning, and dressed in his finest Christmas boxers, we escaped his notice as all his attentions and remaining powers of focus were directed elsewhere. Our young neighbor was working hard to entice the object of his affections to return to the warmth of his apartment with a medley of Blues on his harmonica. This was clearly requiring more concentration and balance than he had available.

The lass of his interest, dressed in holiday party attire (velvety and with ornaments), was more interested in Pongo than our nieghbor, and seemed to have had enough warmth for one night. She did not appear to be a fan of the Blues, and neither did she appear to be sympathetic toward the possibility of her suitor turning blue. Glad tidings were not on display.

She seemed to prefer walking alongside us, and as she arrived at her car and the Blues were becoming background music, she left us with that timeless phrase of the walk of shame, encapsulating her sense of the spirit of good will prevalent during this special season: “F’ing drunks, man.”

Scorching hot on a weekend I’m both on call and buring with moonlighting work. The apartment’s been a sauna the last two days, but I’ve been hiding in the air-conditioned cube and little Pongo’s just suffered through. Since I’m working at home today though, I broke down and turned on the little window A/C. It only cools one-third of my apartment, merely turning it on triggers a direct tap from SDGE to my checking account, and the wiring in this apartment is so old there’s a 20% chance I’ll trip a circuit breaker by trying to use both it and the computer at the same time, but I’m a wimp. Sure briefing cases in the boxers sounds like a decent lifestyle choice, and is one I’ve embraced at times, but the uncovered flesh still sticks to the chair and the sweat dripping on the keyboard is probably just as bad for it as all the other fluids spilled on it over the years. So as Quicken shovels cash like an ancient locomotive’s engineer shoveled coal and I turn off all the electrics I can on the west side of casa, I’ve got a cool breeze for a while.

But once I make decent progress on the work, I’ll find another way to stay cool. Whatever it takes, it doesn’t matter if I look pretty anymore – everything’s about the personal comfort.