Walking with mr. Coe: sociopath and/or werewolf edition

Jason and I started walking Roscoe together on a regular basis recently. I love the three of us walking into town together. I love waving hello to our neighbors as we pass. I love that Roscoe waits attentively for us at the door of the store, and that the owner gives him treats as we leave. I love that, like the store owner, the winos and drunks on the park benches in town are literally delighted when they see Roscoe (it's weird, we're used to it and it's harmless).* I love that I get to walk with the two of them, though I have to admit that I don't think either of them care as much about the group walks as I do. Jason, at least, does it because he knows it makes me happy, but the dog couldn't care less who's doing the walking or how many of us there are.

Look at that dog go, full speed ahead! Roscoe has this home-store-home, Glen Arbor Drive circuit memorized.

Here he is at his favorite ivy patch on Glen Arbor.

Take a look at that insanely happy face above. A walk a day keeps the neurosis at bay.

On this afternoon's walk, I was able to snap some photos of the missing cat flyers that have been popping up in Ben Lomond over the past couple of months. These are just the two on our Glen Arbor circuit; there are tons of others (of other cats) tacked up around town.

The one above has been up for quite some time -- three months. The one below is "more fresh." SAD.

Oddly, I wasn't the one to take notice of all the missing cat flyers, Jason was. It may be because I'm just not that into cats** -- and Jason is -- but, in any case, I'm jealous that Jason made the Jessica Fletcher-esque old lady detective observation and not me. 

A couple of weeks ago, Jason said that he was concerned about the amount of missing cat flyers. When I asked why (because I'm a jerk who doesn't care for cats), he told me that he suspected that there must be teenaged boys in the neighborhood abducting and killing neighborhood cats. And then I said: THAT'S CRAZY. 

Once again, I'm jealous that Jason's having the weird old lady thoughts and not me. 

Rather than blame the missing cats on burgeoning young sociopaths, I actually think that it's coyotes. OR WEREWOLVES. I CAN PLAY THIS GAME JUST AS WELL AS HE CAN. 

But, no, really, I think it's coyotes.*** Which isn't any less scary! We've been having a lot of late night/early morning coyote pack action in the neighborhood lately. Few night-scares are scarier than waking up in the dark to the sounds of a yipping coyote pack. They sound like horrible old screaming crones. SPOOKY. 

I'll keep you updated. Or, actually, Jason might. This seems to be his crusade. 

* MOUNTAIN LIVING. 

** It isn't that I actively dislike them -- except for maybe one in particular whose name starts with an H and ends in a Y SARAH T KNOWS. 

*** Or a mountain lion! It's been a while since we've had a mountain lion prowling around, though, and word travels pretty fast if there's a new one so it's unlikely.

The Suffering of Saint Roscoe Bueno, Martyr

Poor Mr. Coe. Saturday before last, I took him to the vet to treat a wound I found right above his tail the night before. It was a raw spot the size of a quarter, no hair on it, and Roscoe wouldn't let me or Jason inspect it or clean it. I ended up resorting to spraying it with Bactine while Jason kept him pinned down to the kitchen floor. NOT A HAPPY DOG. Frankly, I wasn't very happy, either. I was shocked, shocked, that Jason hadn't noticed it earlier during the day, and couldn't figure out how he had hurt himself. Was he injured while rough housing with Rusty?* Did he get caught up in something in the yard? Did my crazy next door neighbor sneak into the yard and do it?** I WAS A HYSTERICAL PERSON. 

At the vet's, the vet tech deduced that it was a hot spot Roscoe had created biting and scratching and chewing an itchy patch of skin (his butt). They shaved his butt and exposed an entire constellation of raw sores, scabs, and hivey, red, irritated skin. It. Was. Horrible. It looked like leper skin. It looked like meth skin. It looked like zombie skin. It was mortifying. I felt like a negligent dog owner. I communicated this to the vet tech and she told me, "Oh this is nothing! Sometimes owners don't bring their dogs in until they smell and the skin's rotting and has maggots." And I barfed and died (as I'm sure you just did, sorry).

Anyways, we're thinking that the hives were caused by an allergic reaction to a new food Roscoe had been eating for the last month. After cleaning his butt with an antiseptic solution, the vet sent us on our way with some antibiotics and antihistamines, and strict orders of: NO BITING.  Easier said than done! But that's what the cone's for...

Roscoe's only ever had to wear the cone of shame (or, in his case, the cone of paralyzing fear) once before. It was horrible then, and it's been horrible this time, too. Completely debilitating. After leaving the vet, I went out and found an inflatable collar that, though absurd and heavy, at least allows him to see where he's going and reach his food and water. It isn't as effective as the cone (he can still reach his butt if he really, really works at it), so he wears it under adult supervision only. When he's alone he's in the cone (poor dog).

Cone and inflatable collar, lots of bed rest and down time, short walks, no baths, no hikes, and, most tragically, no beach. This dog has been stoically suffering the most boring week of his life. The good news is that the medication is working its magic and his skin's looking much better. Scabby, but better. He's back to his old food and now salmon oil in the mornings as well, and I'm looking forward to having a cone/life preserver-free dog back very soon.

* We had been sitting my parents' dog Rusty for three weeks while they were away on a trip. Conveniently, they had just picked Rusty up earlier that same day.

** Though my neighbor is a pain in the ass, the idea of him sneaking onto my property to torture my dog is, in and of itself, insane. Hyperbolic histrionics on my part, clearly. (though he's horrible.)

Mr. Coe is Internet Famous!

Check out Roscoe's absurdly adorable "Hello My Name Is..." profile on Pawesome! That dog, how does he do it? 

It's good to see that somebody in the arantxa household is still active on the interwebs, am I right? Speaking of the interwebs, let's see if I can't get back on the old blogging bicycle... plenty's been happening! 

Until soon...

Walking with Mr. Coe: Old County Road

Things have been quiet on the blog since we left Santa Cruz for (what was to be) a quick family visit at the beginning of August. As mentioned in my last post, we drove down to LA for the Mars Science Lab landing. That was two weeks ago. Jason came back up to Santa Cruz on his own a couple of days later, and Roscoe and I ended up hanging out for a week and a half longer, enjoying the perks of staying with Mom and Dad (excellent home-cooked meals, clean and comfy house, air-conditioning, LA museums and restaurants, local hiking trails, etc. etc. etc.). It was wonderful, and we very well may have stayed on for another week (and a half?) if it weren't for a surprise email offering a last-minute job interview. That got us back up here super quick. More on that later. 

Before leaving for LA, though, Roscoe and I took a final early morning walk in our little mountain town. We usually walk in our immediate neighborhood, and along our beloved Love Creek Road, but that morning I took us across the San Lorenzo River and into the neighborhood carved into the side of Ben Lomond Mountain. We walked up from highway 9 and took a left onto (the) Old County Road.

You get to walk through a pretty, little residential neighborhood for the first bit, but as the road winds around the mountain up above the river, you pass through a dense patch of vegetation. And then you get to walk over this awesome and wonderful redwood bridge, over a gully with a creek feeding into the river. It's pretty scary, actually. The bridge is old, and has enormous redwood slabs that are weathered and cracked and have big (okay, not so big) gaps between them. Because I'm an old person with old person vertigo (I know), I have to walk down the center of the bridge because if I get too close to the railing (that doesn't even come up to my waist) I feel like I'm about to lose total control of my body and throw myself head-first over the railing like an insane woman. VERTIGO. But I just walk down the center and remind myself that the people who live up Brooks Road drive their trucks and cars on the bridge daily and that, just like Lucille Two in Arrested Development, "we're okay, we're okay." 

What does that sign mean? Can you really drive an 11 ton big-rig over this bridge?
Why bother with the 6 ton limit for the smaller truck? Why why why?

Once you make it over the terrifying bridge, you're met with this lovely gate and signage. The neighborhood watch sign is new. A couple of times, Roscoe and I have walked beyond the ominous gate, but we never make it very far. Maps show that Old County Road continues, carved into Ben Lomond Mt., high above the San Lorenzo River, for a bit longer before crossing the river and meeting back up with Highway 9, still within the town limits. In reality, though, who really knows (certainly not us because I'm a rule-following, vertigo-inflicted old lady): rock and mud slides have made a mess of the old abandoned road and I always feel like I'm being watched by mountain lions and werewolves from the fallen tree trunks and boulders up above. Maybe I'll bring a friend along and really give it a try, until then, Roscoe and I turn around to go back down the mountain at this point.

The aforementioned Brooks Road continues up the mountain to the left of the ominous gate.

Re-crossing the redwood bridge on the way back home. 

In weekend update news: today is my birthday; I'm currently sitting in front of my laptop with a shower cap on over a deep-moisturizing treatment for my hair; I'm preparing for the aforementioned interview for the teaching job that I have tomorrow, Emily will be mock-interviewing me sometime this afternoon; Jason and I will go downtown for a fancy dinner of my choice this evening (don't get too excited because I'll probably end up deciding on a cheeseburger at Betty's -- but then I WILL insist on going to a movie), and then I'll go to bed nice and early so I can get up with plenty of time tomorrow morning to GET IN THE ZONE. 

I wrote Lisa an email last Thursday telling her about this interview, asking her to think woo-woo thoughts for me the day of. She replied that she was going to "woowoo all over that shit" and it made me very happy. Perhaps you'll woo-woo, too?* I JUST BROKE MY BRAIN.

***
* I think it's hilarious that Deepak Chopra wrote a snarky little article defending woo-woo for the Huffington Post in 2009. Yes, I just found it when I googled woo-woo, IT'S MY BIRTHDAY. 

Weekend Update: Fear, the Sublime, and Roscoe at the Dog Beach

It's another beautiful weekend here in Santa Cruz -- sunny, mild weather, with a nice breeze. This generally isn't the best dog beach weather (it's so perfect that it brings out all the sun bathers and small children; neither of these things go well with active dogs), but we found a nice strip of Its Beach untouched by the sunbathing masses. It's true, there were lots of gnats and smelled like poop; we made due. 

Roscoe made a new friend who likes to chase as much as Roscoe likes to be chased. EXCELLENT. All in all, a successful outing without any knocked over children or invasive sunbather sniffing (at least not by my dog).

TAIL TWINS. 

In totally unrelated news, I've been working on a new syllabus for my teaching portfolio and it is, sincerely, awesome. I have stacks of monster and horror theory books all over, and I'm having too much fun crafting a monsters curriculum for a course that doesn't even exist (yet; let's keep our fingers crossed and work a little woo-woo magic).

Later today I'll be skyping with Emily and K over a bottle of vinho verde rosé, a bowl of spaghetti and clams (!!!), and stack of Emmanuel Kant and Edmund Burke. SUPER. Good food, good company, good philosophy of fear and the sublime. 

Walking with Mr. Coe: Roadside Blackberries

The early mornings have been cool and misty in the Santa Cruz mountains over the past 5 or 6 days, long-sleeves and knit hat weather -- welcome relief from the mega-heat blast we got last Saturday: high 90's, no wind. It was like being in an oven. I prefer this week's weather much more. Roscoe and I have been taking advantage of the morning cool, taking our walks through the neighborhood before the mist and gloom burns off mid-day. 

Ben Lomond is covered in blackberry bushes -- they grow wild along the backroads and even on highway 9 -- and the berries are just now starting to ripen. EXCITIIIING.

Here's an extra enormous blackberry bush along good old Love Creek Road. It's more of a hedge, and runs along the road for quite a bit. Roscoe likes it.

Oh yeah, that's a happy dog.

Mr. Coe has lots of favorite stops he insists that we make throughout town. They're all generally pee-mail stops, of course.

Roscoe, checking his pee-mail at one of his favorite telephone poles.
Note hidden sign in the background.

And now for some more weird and wonderful signage. Above and below, "No Trespassing: Keep Out" signs. 

"Private Property: Keep Out" JUST STATING THE OBVIOUS.

And here's a sad one:

She whistles like: tweet tweew.

I really hope they find their lost cockatiel. Whoever made this sign (and the tens more I found posted all around town) did a great job of covering all pertinent information: Sily doesn't talk, but she does have a distinctive whistle. That's good to know. I hope they find her.

Travels with Mr. Coe: Carmel-By-The-Sea

Have you ever visited a place so ridiculously over-the-top fancy that it doesn't seem like real life? A place where nobody seems to work and everybody drives really, really slowly in expensive cars, and buys exorbitantly over-priced foodstuffs just because they can? A place where you ask for "inexpensive lunch options" and are recommended a Michelin-starred restaurant that only has a three-course prix fixes menu? Welcome to Carmel-By-The-Sea, a "seaside village" that operates in its own dimension of reality.

Source

I had a couple of errands to run down in the Monterey area this weekend, so I decided to bring Mr. Coe along and make a real outing of it. Part of Carmel's charm -- and what makes it so attractive to me, at least -- is that it's outrageously dog-friendly. Dogs are allowed at most restaurants/cafés/wineries with outdoor seating, the Carmel Valley hosts a couple of awesome dog-friendly hiking/outdoor recreation spots, and Carmel Beach is dog-friendly as well. Off-leash dog-friendly. You have to deal with ridiculous WASP-y rich people in sweater sets and khaki shorts and that horrible feeling that everybody's secretly judging your junky old Toyota Tercel and half-feral dog, but you know what? SO WHAT. Off-leash dog-friendly.

Excitable labradoodle, Carmel Highlands in the background.

It was a beautiful day down on the shore, as you can see. Carmel's beach really is breathtaking; you come out of the pine grove and are met with beautiful white sands and turquoise surf. Can you imagine what it must have been like for Junipero de la Serra to sail into this shallow little bay in the mid 1700s? It's no wonder the Jesuits established one of the first California missions here; the site is gorgeous.*

Asilomar State Park at the point, über-fancy Pebble Beach golf course further inland.

The beach was jam-packed with families. Roscoe and I must been a weird and wonderful sight to behold; Roscoe whining and crying and running in circles out of sheer ecstasy, me tromping with my beach chair (from REI! super light-weight, with a shoulder strap! I keep it in the trunk of my car!), wearing my big white sun hat and my finest "weekend wear"**, jacket and long pants. Everybody was wearing bathing suits; the only parts of my body getting sun were my feet and wrists. VICTORIAN CHIC. We sat alone and I read a book and Roscoe guarded me. The only other person I spied who wasn't part of a group or (human) couple was this shirtless dude wandering around the beach with a poofy lap-dog in his arms, drinking a bottled beer and singing to himself. I wish I'd taken a picture, what a weirdo.

Roscoe asking me "CAN I GO. CAN I GO CHASE THE DOGS. CAN I GO." and me responding
"WHAT HAVE I BEEN TELLING YOU TO GO AHEAD AND DO FOR THE PAST TWO HOURS.
GO AND LET ME READ MY PERIOD PIECE MURDER MYSTERY/POLITICAL INTRIGUE
AND CRIME THRILLER PLEASE."

After hanging out down at the beach, Roscoe and I walked around the downtown shopping district for a bit. Let me tell you: Roscoe was the BELLE BEAU OF THE BALL of downtown Carmel that afternoon. Everybody commented on how pretty handsome he was, and how well behaved he was, and how cute he was, and how all-around super great he was. And it was true, he was wonderful. He heeled as we walked along the sidewalks and sat at every intersection before we crossed. He was very polite with the old rich people who stopped to pet and talk to him, and didn't even freak when a baby grabbed his tail (I did stink eye the parent, though). 

Roscoe really does feel right at home in Carmel. He's most comfortable in either wild and desolate landscapes or laps of luxury and comfort. Go figure. 

* Though I have a heart-felt love and appreciation for the California missions and their history, I respect and honor that these are also sites of mourning for the indigenous peoples of California, representative of centuries of enslavement, suffering, trauma, and (arguably) genocide. A subject of interest for another blog post, another day.

** Yes, I'm self-conscious when I go to Carmel. Yes, I was wearing my best "casual" clothes. Yes, I applied makeup before leaving the house. Yes, it all ran down my face once sunscreen got in my eyes at the beach.

Cuchi Time: Little Stinker

What should I spy with my little eye in the backyard this morning? 

A skunk baby. 

An adorable little skunk baby, sniffing around my backyard. Look at how super cuchi that little guy is. I couldn't get a clear shot because it was raining and I was simultaneously trying to photograph it from far away,* using my camera's digital zoom, and keep the dog Mr. Coe from seeing it and barking and spooking it.

It's a case of the cuchi tinged with the bittersweet though: where there's a skunk baby there's a skunk mama, and that's the last thing we need around here.** I'm going to have to throw a handful of mothballs under the deck and the shed at the bottom of the driveway (the last places skunks have tried nesting in). The babies are adorable, but I'd rather they be raised in somebody else's yard. 

* Skunks, apparently, are not born with stinking capabilities, but I wasn't about to take any chances. 

** It took over a month for the smell of burning rubber and household electronics to dissipate from Mr. Coe's coat after the great skunking of the winter of 2010. We tried the tomato juice, the vinegar, and even the expensive Nature's Miracle, nothing stopped Roscoe from smelling like a chemical-ly garbage can.

Walking with Mr. Coe

Roscoe and I went on a nice, long walk through the neighborhood early this morning. We decided to turn up Love Creek Road in order to stay cool as the morning got warmer, and stuck with it until the road narrowed to a single lane. The Santa Cruz Mountains are full of weird little nooks and crannies -- hollows and gulches -- full of strange tales, abandoned camps, ghosts, memories. Love Creek may be one of the most storied of them all. 

Approaching Love Creek Road, in Ben Lomond.

 It's a beautiful walk. The steep gulch walls provide near-constant shade for redwoods, moss, and ferns to grow, the road crosses the creek a handful of times, and there are quite a few nice little (and not so little) cabins to ogle at along the way.

Mr. Coe likes this walk especially, I think mainly because it's as close as he can get to going on a hike without hopping in the car and going to a local state park or wildlife reserve. No sidewalk to stick to, lots of stinky spots and bugs and bushes and undergrowth to tromp through right at the edge of the road. 

Roscoe, mountain scout

Though he does have to stay on leash.

"EXCUSE ME, CAN WE CONTINUE PLEASE?"

Love Creek, like most of the San Lorenzo Valley, is full of weird and wonderful signage. Especially "No Trespassing" signs. Like, everywhere. The last house up before the road narrows has an amazing road sign nailed up to a pole in the yard that reads "15 MPH ASSHOLE". I really wanted to take a picture, but was too scared to actually pull out my camera and do so lest I infuriate these people with such aggressive taste in yard decor. 

Love Creek residents like to clearly mark their PRIVATE PROPERTY. 

I didn't notice the sign below until we passed it for the second time on our way back down the creek towards town. I stood there looking at it for a long time, and just couldn't figure it out. What was there to witness? Had the evidence of the (maybe) witnessed event/thing been taken away? Was it the sand bags? Was there a slide? Was there a lot of water? Was it something else entirely? Was it an accident? Was it vandalism? Did it happen at night? Are they mad? Are they sad? Is there a reward?

So many questions.

I'd like to write more about Love Creek in the future; I think it's a super interesting place with a lot of valuable stories to tell. In the mean time, I'll leave a final photo of Roscoe checking out the toy box in the clearing right where the road narrows to pique your interest. 

Rooms (and a beach chair) With A View

I really do love my little office on campus. It has crazy blue retro carpeting, a matching blue filing cabinet (locked, and missing the keys, unfortunately... it's purely decorative now), and has, what seems like, all the original furniture and shelving from when the building was first built in the late 1960s.

The best part, though, is the big plate glass window running along the outer wall, just below the ceiling.  I took the photo above last Friday, looking up while seated in front of my laptop at my desk. What a view, right? Redwoods and a bright patch of sky right outside the window. This is Santa Cruz (and the university campus) at its best.

Last Friday was, of course, every campus educator and employee's least favorite holiday: 

4/20. 

This year, it formed part of a trifecta of awesome (or awful, depending on how you see it, of course): 

1. 4/20

2. Friday

3. The first day of absolutely gorgeous, high 70s, clear skies of the spring

This is a recipe for lots and lots and lots of tourists from out of town, both on campus at the university,  and downtown and at the boardwalk and beaches. Which brings a lot of traffic, people driving poorly, and young people wandering in and out of the street, super high and super stupid. I see it as awful. I also sound like an old person. 

I'm not that old. I'm just over it.

I wasn't going to let the stoned tourists ruin it for me completely, though, so a friend and I went out for a post-work drink at the only place we could think of that wouldn't be over-run by out-of-towners and students. The bar of the super fancy hotel at the foot of the wharf. Nice view, as you can see. 

The following day was brighter and shinier and warmer, and Santa Cruz was just clogged to capacity with people from over the hill. I drove into town with Roscoe to go to the dog beach, but ended up driving north out of town on highway 1. I drove until I saw the first beach with space for a dog to run and play, over the county line, past Año Nuevo State Park. I drove all the way to Bean Hollow. 

We spent a lovely afternoon on the beach. I took this photo right before we left, just as the fog was rolling in from the sea. Perfect Brontë beach weather at the end of a visit to my favorite California Gothic beach. I got to drive the extra 5 minutes north to Pescadero and pick up a loaf of Arcangeli Grocery's famous artichoke bread, too. A successful Saturday drive to the dog beach.  

Cuchi Time: Bandid@s!

I went scrounging around in my bandana collection for neckwear to dress up Roscoe and BFF Leila with and almost died of cuchi overload once I wrangled them into these. Here they are in my two favorite bandanas from the good old hippie days. CUCHI EXPLOSION.

If you could follow their laser-like gaze off to the upper left-hand corner of the photograph, you would see my hand waving a Thinkers dog snack stick. PURE GOLD. I bought a bag at the Mountain Feed & Farm a couple of days ago and the dogs are obsessed. Made with whole foods, minimally processed, and made in the USA, and I think that's great. Auntie Arantxa brings the best treats, duh.

Sand Dogs

Yesterday, I drove Roscoe and his BFF Leila to the dog beach in Santa Cruz for an hour of extended horse (doggie) play. 

These two get along ridiculously well. All they want to do when they're together is rough-house and chase each other and bite each other's tails and wrestle and bark and snarl and bare their teeth and chew on each other's necks and ears and basically act like rabid, wild beasts. I used to kind of poop myself every time they'd mess around like this on the beach back in the day, but I now understand that it's all fun and games. It's a little embarrassing when there's a crowd on the beach and they look on, mortified. I just roll my eyes and shrug and walk away. These two are just crazy sand dogs. 

Oh, hey, what's up?

Checking out the beach.

It was a beautiful, stormy day out on the beach. Prime Brontë weather. We got caught in a light sprinkle just as a new storm system rolled in.

Sand dogs in action.

Roscoe, especially, gets pretty crazy looking. It's the feral canine within, I guess.

Phew. Time to take a break and oggle the other dogs on the beach, clearly. 

I love all the sand art etched in to the cliffs along this beach. There's all kinds of bizarro goodness left behind by winter birds, junkies, kids, and weirdos. Here's a nice example on the northern-most cliffs. 

I decided to take a portrait of the dogs in front of it. I don't have very good voice-command with Leila, but I was able to put Roscoe into a sit-stay as I backed up to take the shot. 

That lasted just about as long as it took Leila to wander off... 

Sand dogs will be sand dogs, after all.

Introducing Mr. Coe

Roscoe indulges my Spaghetti Western fantasy by wearing this Western-themed dog collar.

Meet Mr. Coe. Mr. Ross Coe. Or just Roscoe, as named by Animal Control employees when he was originally picked up in the summer of 2010. He was rescued from a terrible hoarding situation in Arizona, and the lovely people at the AFRP drove out to claim him and two others when their time was up at the Yavapai Humane Society. I adopted him a couple of months later. 

When Roscoe first came home, he was a feral animal. Now, over a year and a half later, he's still pretty "spooky" but slowly and steadily getting better. In fact, I'd even call him a "real dog" now. Roscoe is a sneak, a weasel, and a cad. He is a treat burglar, a butter bandit, and aficionado of Ultimate Comfort. He's jealous and under-handed, but also absurdly affectionate and gentle, goofy and endearing. We love him super amounts. With a mug like the one below, it's clear he gets by with his good looks, no?

Roscoe enjoying the lower Haight, San Francisco, spring 2011