Of Pups, Sippy Cups, and a Box Full of Memories
Chester is a damn fine good one. He can't he'p it. He's tryin' to he'p it right now...

We don't know exactly when he was born; all we know is he showed up, courtesy of Bobalouie, sometime around Christmas 1997. It was a cold and rainy winter and Chester was hanging around the industrial park where Bobalouie worked, a stray. He was perfectly happy with the cold weather and very friendly. But he was alone. Either he was abandoned or he escaped. I'd like to think he escaped some bad situation and cast his fate to the winds. He's a trusting old soul like that. Maybe he knew he'd find us. Maybe he trusted if he was that good, somebody would surely rise to the occasion.

We had two cats at the time, inherited from my wife's single years. Damn Calamity, I don't even think we were married yet. Chester went from a chain to the invisible fence to inside the little cottage in no time, all on charm and good looks. Make no mistake, Chester is one handsome dawg. Half lab, half chow (we guess--he doesn't talk about 'the early days'), all hound. Jowly, but in a good way. Some would say even majestic (Chester among them).

He quickly became "Chief of Security," the post he continues to occupy today. He sits on the porch, scouring the landscape and lookin' for "monsters." Monsters can include just about anything that's not a treat or in his dogfood bowl.

Chester gets walked everyday. That's an exaggeration, there are some days he doesn't go walking--like when there's a storm. A big storm. Used to be just the three of us (now four); and he covers more ground now after learning how to walk beside the bike.

We were worried how Chester, already then a "mature" dog, would deal with the new baby. He's done great, showing patience while the little one pawed at him and now being rewarded as she learns her way to the treat bowl. My wife described him slowly and gently taking treats from her the other day. He's very smart. He can't he'p it.

Ethel and James Memorial Gardens, Stinkville, the Nile: all owe their names to Chester, who took us there with his love of walking. He's a Walkin' Dawg alright. We owe him a lot for taking us out so much, walking us. Maybe this old soul knows something we don't. Maybe he's made his ascensions to a higher level and decided this is the ultimate existence before becoming pure love without matter. Does he live for anything else but belly rubbin's, naps and swims in the bay? The better question is: 'is there anything better to live for?'

Good boy! Chaser of sticks, eater of sushi, howler at "Old McDonald's Farm," you're such a damn fine good one Pup-a-roni, Pup-a-linni, Pup-a-razzi. You've earned your retirement home where you can sleep on the porch, chase 'coons, and walk along the bay. You've gone from a homeless pup to one who got a whole house designed around you--and no one is happier about than we are.

My daughter is officially off the bottle now. No more washing empty bottles and rubber nipples. No more pouring milk into them and stocking up the refrigerator. Still, just like toys she's outgrown, there's a tinge of sadness as another baby relic falls by the wayside.

Her mother rounded up all the bottles recently and explained to the little booglet we had to give those to a "little tiny baby" who needed them more. Smooth transition and good parenting on her part. Now she goes to the refrigerator and picks out milk from a rainbow of colored sippy cups.

Finally, my wife was organizing her "hurricane drawer"--pictures we shouldn't leave behind in case of the worst. Man, we came across some good ones--pre and post--baby--of our adventures. Oh Calamity, the things we've done. The adventures we've been on. I'm gonna scan some of them for future posts, they're priceless.