SAY HELLO TO ARCHIE

Here's Archie, who appears to be a lot larger than he actually is because his face is larger than his body. 

It took only a month to get a new dog. It happened so fast I still can't believe it. Beau must think that I didn't love him--replaced before the body was even cold! Not really. My friend, Carol, has been sending me dog photos from the Oregon Humane Society.  I figured when I was ready, I would just show up and see what they had. But I didn't go. Then on an aimless and hot Sunday afternoon, I decided to check out Family Dogs/New Life, a no-kill shelter not too far from my house. It was supposed to be a a simple "go-see" where I could see other dogs, but not make a decision. Little did I realize that finding a new pet isn't like sorting through a rack of shirts at Nordstrums.  

The tiny shelter didn't look promising. These wonderful, selfless people operate on a shoestring. It's a no-frills sort of place. I walked in and was handed a book of adoptable dogs. When the time came, I had promised myself, there would be no more purebred dogs in my future. I wanted a mutt, an amiable companion like Beau who wasn't susceptible to infections and illness, a dog with an iron stomach and no allergies. Beau was the most wonderful dog in the world, but his vet bills were higher than my medical bills. As I poured through the book of photos, I didn't see any dog that had instant appeal to me. "Too big," I reasoned while flipping the pages. "Tool old. Too big. Too small." This was good I thought. I'm not leaping into this. And just when I was reasonably sure there wasn't an appealing dog for me to look at, my eye fell on a small black puppy. "Oh no you don't," I said aloud. Puppies? House-breaking, teaching good behavior, hiding the shoes, and typing down anything that was within his reach. None of this had any appeal to me. Well he is ten months old, after all, and those soft brown eyes   seem awfully sweet to me. Well maybe a quick look...

The puppy they brought to me in a waiting room was a shy little guy, very calm, and in no hurry to make nice with a stranger. The lady advised me to just stay put. I watched the little guy move under a bench, and sit down. He stayed there. I had some time to size him up. Shorty (for that was his awful name) was an adorable mutt--an improbable mix of dachshund and sharpei. "Let's throw a little pit bull or lab into the mix," I said. Shorty was built low to the ground and from the neck down, he was pure dachshund, barely  a foot high with turned out front paws that gave him the elegance of a ballet dancer. He had the wrinkled forehead of a sharpie, but his muzzle was either pit bull or labrador retriever. Weighing in at a slight twenty-four pounds, and measuring at twenty-seven inches in length, Shorty seemed to be the idea size for me--small but not dainty. At ten months of age, Shorty was somewhat house-broken, and I might be able to communicate with him more effectively than a three-month-old. 

Archie's first foray into the back yard. He liked it. Lots of mischief to get into. 

I was given a few treats, and staying in the same spot, and by staying quiet, and not pushing him, I managed to entice Shorty over to me for a treat. He took the biscuit from my hand in the most eloquently gentle way. He sat down in front of me and considered me with his soft gaze. I offered another treat, which he also took as gently as the first time. His calmness reminded me of Beau and that's when I rashly decided on the spot to adopt him. The lady looked a bit startled, but rushed to get me the proper paperwork to fill out.  Within ten minutes, Shorty was mine. They only took cash (a $225 adoption fee), so I had to drive to the nearest cash machine. You would have thought that would give me a bit more time to reconsider my decision. But I could only think that I needed food, and a crate to keep him in at night or when I was away from the house. He was already neutered about 10 days before. When I returned with the money, I was handed a file with all the background information on him. Seems he was picked up as a stray in Yakima. He was covered in ticks, which he had been treated for. There was a troubling inflammation on his left side, which I was told was a hematoma, the result of a larger dog crashing into him at playtime. Still it would require a vet's investigation. Shorty was lacking only a few more shots, which the vet could administer during an exam.  I made mental note to call the vet in the morning. I paid the adoption fee and was handed a small bag of food, a leash and collar, some toys, treats, and his file.  In under an hour, I was headed home with a new dog. 

Bit didn't like the idea of some upstart challenging his role as alpha-pet in my house. The first four days

Bit hissed and spat at Archie, trying his best to ignore him otherwise. It didn't work. Archie would not be ignored.

Oops--what is Bit going to make of this new intruder?  Bit was my other pet--a cat I had inherited when his master left my house, leaving behind all of his belongings. When Bit arrived at my house, he was an experienced traveler having been schlepped back and forth between the east coast and west, up to New York and down to Tucson. He was a strikingly handsome feline, with luxurious, thick, and long mostly white with black and gray fur. He had gorgeous blue eyes. But he was rendered comic looking by the addition of a large, black spot which mostly covered his nose and part of his muzzle. Though he had travelled often, Bit was an indoor cat and he was skittish and shy. It took months for him to finally let me pet him and a few more until he would jump up in bed for a cuddle. He loved to be petted, but tolerated it for only so much time. I had become adept in sensing when it was time to stop before he swatted me with a open claw. There are parts of Bit's body that area no-no to touch and he will lash out if he thinks your hands are near that 'no touch' zone. He's fearful of the vacuum, people when they show up at the door. Eventually Bit will re-emerge, but he remains aloof. 

Week two:  This is about as close as Bit would let Archie come, and only because he had the higher ground. 

Bit got along well with Beau in a formal sort of way. Both would pass each other nodding as old-time bankers do when they pass each other on the street. There was respect between them, but little affection. Occasionally they would deign to take a quick sniff at each other, but best friends they would never be. 

The second Shorty entered my home, Bit stopped in his tracks. His eyes got huge in horror and he immediately issued a terrifying hiss at the new intruder. Shorty went flying over to make his acquaintance, and Bit fled for cover. I didn't' see him again until bedtime, when he came to give me holy hell about letting that creature into his domain. He seemed to be saying, "I no sooner rid myself of that previous beast, when you bring home another one! And here I was enjoying my new status as Alpha cat in the house.  How could you? Once his scolding was over, Bit departed, not to be seen for a few days, except in fleeting visits for food and refreshment. 

Shorty didn't mind and wasted no time getting relaxed and settled into his new home. He liked the decor. He liked his new water dish and blanket. I had washed Beau's daybed, and Shorty was now ensconced in it when he wasn't following me all over the house. For the first three days, he never let me out of his sight. But he was fascinated with Bit, and ran over to him every chance he got. "They might just become friends," I said to my housemate, Deb. Bit isn't running for a hiding spot anymore," I noticed after the third day.  

The first thing I did was establish a regular walk, and then I launched a contest to give him a new name.  I got some great ideas, and Gus was one of my own suggestions that I considered.  In the end, the name Archie struck me as a perfect name, and so Archie he's become. Shorty has been consigned to the dump heap of really bad dog names. 

Archie aced his visit with the vet, charming everyone there, and submitting to shots and body inspection with good humor and affection. The vet took a sample of the hematoma and said it would take months for it to subside, but assured me it was nothing to worry about. Once that was past, I set about introducing Archie to friends and family. The transition has been smooth, and he's winning everyone over immediately. It helps that he's not only cute, but a handsome little guy and he enjoys meeting people and being fussed over.  We even scheduled a playmate with Porter, my friends, Trish and David's Everready Bunny of a French Bulldog. Porter doesn't understand the meaning of behave. He simply charges at anything and everything. He's a tough little guy.  Beau never really made friends with Porter. Usually he would put up with Porter's hectoring until he would lose patience, and really give him a scolding. Porter would always back down and peace would be restored. It took peace forever to finally make an appearance during their first playmate. Porter spent the first half hour clearly the winner, harassing and bullying Archie, while the adults sat out on the terrace of Trish and David's beautiful garden and watched the proceedings.  Archie was relentless. After a time, we simply ignored them and got on with our adult conversation.  About a half hour later, we hard this low rumble in Archie's throat which became a rather large and intimidating growl. The next thing you saw was the sight of two dogs chasing each other very aggressively all over their terrace. I had no idea Archie was that fast. Every once in a while, Porter would just give out, dragging himself to his doggie pool and getting himself a cool dunk while regrouping for the next round. This went on for more than an hour. Porter finally gave up, collapsing in a heap on the porch and taking a well-deserved rest. Archie had won. As Porter's eye rolled around in his head and his tongue lay hanging, he rested to get his wind back and decided the test would be taken up on another day.  Score one for Archie. 

Archie is the handsome boyo on the right with the dancer's feet. Porter, the tiny terror is my friend's French Bulldog. A bit of Churchill, and all manic personality. They had a memorable play date where Archie gave as good as he got!

For a time there, it didn't look good for Archie. 

I didn't take long for Archie to come in bed. Once he was groomed, his coat regained it's sheen. The tick scars were gone, and he made a fast recovery. He's got a good appetite, and for nearly three weeks now, there have been no accidents in the house. I just may take up the plastic painter's drop that I put over my living room rug to protect it.  Archie is now accompanying me when I can take him out to a friend's home, and he made a successful appearance at Papa Haydn's a popular local restaurant here with a beautiful garden that allows for dogs.  He has anxiety when I leave him to run an errand or have a meeting or go out for lunch and dinner. I keep him in his crate for these excursions, but we have to work on making him for comfortable when I'm not around. 

We also did a day trip to Astoria and Archie is a good traveler who didn't get car sick. It was a beastly hot day and we went to the beach near Astoria (a historic town that separates Washington state from Oregon at the mouth of the Columbia River). The sand on the beach was so hot, I had to carry Archie to the shore because it burned his paws. He didn't much care for the water. But it think it's a matter of his getting used to it. Wonder who he will fare with the rain of Portland this winter. 

I'm been trying to get a good photo of them at play for weeks now. This is the closest I've come to a 

live action shot of them.

Bit is thawing. Now he just falls to the floor whenever Archie is in hot pursuit. You'd think I had a gay-for-cats dog! Archie is winning him over, though he still loves to torture him by being elusive. They do this Mexican stand-off thing with both of them on the floor, their legs underneath them, practically nose-to-nose. Archie's tail is ram-rod straight and sticking out at a 50%-angle; Bit's is slowly moving horizontally back and forth (it's like watching a slo-mo rally of tennis players with the ball going back and forth oner the net). They stare at each other. The object is to see which one will blink first. Bit is the master of this game, because he's much older and far wiser, and he never loses. Archie brings his head down on his paws and starts a low growl and then a whine. He'll either suddenly jump up and bark at Bit, or back away whining like the little weenie he is. I swear, you can see Bit laughing his head off.  Their byplay is hilarious.

A rare moment of repose with his favorite toy--a string of hotdogs on a rope. Needless to say, Archie has separated the links and they have been scattered all over the house.

Archie is enjoying the park, but I'm keeping him on a tight leash until he learns to complete stay with me. I want to take him to a park with a fenced in play area so he can really run. I'm really encouraged that he's taken to well to living with me. He's been with me to a couple of dinner parties, where he has made friends and is complimented on his good manners. Most importantly, Archie has certainly eased my sorrow over losing Beau.  That has been huge and I'm grateful for this sweet puppy for this. So stay tuned. More Archie stories will be coming. 

Now tell me Archie isn't a handsome fellow!

GOODBYE LITTLE FRIEND

Beau posing for the camera a few weeks after he arrived in 2007

I thought I was too old to have my heart broken, but on July 9th, 2012 Beau, my little French Bulldog, died in my lap. I've already written to friends, posted the news on Facebook, so I won't detail the events that led me to make the decision to put Beau down.  I want this to be a celebration of a remarkable companion.

Beau was remarkable. I adopted him at the age of four from a breeder in Connecticut. I found him on a website while I was searching around for a French Bulldog puppy. I saw this beautiful brindled Frenchie with expressive eyes, a Winston Churchill countenance, with Yoda ears. I wondered what his story was.  The woman I talked to said Beau came from a breeder in Oklahoma and she acquired him as a "back-up" stud dog. Frenchie females have a difficult time conceiving, and most have to be either helped or artificially inseminated. Beau had proven to be a disappointment as a stud, and because she had too many dogs, she had come to the difficult conclusion that he would be adopted out. She told me Beau had one of the sweetest temperaments she had ever encountered in the breed, and would be very sorry to see him go. How could I fail to not swallow that story hook, line and sinker. I immediately told her I wanted him. We agreed that he should be neutered by her local vet and I could pick him up in two weeks.

My friend, Joan, was in town and when I told her about Beau, she immediately volunteered to drive me up from New York City to collect him.  I hadn't had a dog since my early teens, and I soon realized I was hardly equipped or had sufficient knowledge of dogs in general to take such a step.  I had always wanted a dog, but I worked full time and hated the idea of abandoning a dog to an empty apartment while I went off to work.  By 2007 I had moved my consulting business to my apartment, and had the time to devote to a dog.

Joan, Beau's godmother, and her daughter Lily in New York, where Lily is first introduced to Beau.

We drove up to Connecticut on a hot morning in early June, which coincided with Beau's fourth birthday. Because he had stitches and lived in a kennel, Beau was a stinky, unpresentable mess when we first met, but the breeder brought him to me, and I knelt down to meet him eye-to-eye. Beau came over to me immediately and licked my face. Though my nose wrinkled in disgust at the smell of him, I fell in love immediately.  Joan had a old quilt throw and with Beau wrapped up and on my lap, we drove to Greenwich, where Joan dropped me off at the train station for final leg of the journey to Manhattan. I had no idea you couldn't bring a dog on a train, and thank God, the conductor didn't protest.

We arrived at Grand Central Station and Beau was immediately plunged into the bewildering world of non-stop motion. We waited in the wilting heat for a taxi, and some drivers refused to allow us a ride. I finally got Beau home, and in the cool confines of my apartment. It was time for water and his first feeding, which went smoothly. The next step was his first walk in the big city.  Out on the street, we headed for the dog-run in Union Square Park, one block away.  About one third of the way down, Beau began to pant. Frenchies are very much affected by hot weather and it was beastly hot that day. I was alarmed at the effort it took for him to breath, and picked up him and carried him the rest of the way. A twenty-one-and-a-half-pound Frenchie is all muscle and dead weight. I was sweating profusely by the time we got into the dog run. Once safely behind the gate, I took off Beau's leash and looked for a shady place to cool off.  Beau sat down in the middle of the run, and stared in the distance as dogs whizzed passed him, chasing balls, Frisbees, and each other. In the middle of that canine maelstrom, Beau serenely contemplated his place in the world, Suddenly people came over to me and started to comment on "that amazingly calm little dog." Beau quietly ignored the dogs surrounding him, remaining aloof to others who ventured close enough to give him a good sniff. Eventually, he walked over to the side to do his business. He walked over to me, as if to announce it was time to go. This time he walked back on his leash.

Beau meets with Joan's young daughter, Lily. They got along famously.

Karole always commented on what an exemplary gentleman Beau was.

On Dyanne's terrace trying to cool off on a hot summer's night. 

Dyanne and Beau were pals who shared a special bond. 

Beau's animal rug imitation. 

Beau could be serious...

Or silly.

I told everyone rather grandly that I wasn't going to allow my dog to sleep in my bed. That lasted as long as four days when Beau was introduced to his new vet who removed the stitches from his operation. I took him home and put him into the kitchen sink to bath him. It did not go to well. Beau didn't want to be shampooed and fidgeted, making numerous attempts to escape. He was strong and stubborn and resisted. I finally got him rinsed off and into a towel, making a mental note that in the future, he would be groomed professionally. I didn't have the patience for it.

Until surgery corrected the problem, Beau suffered from a cyst in his paw, 

requiring daily soaks in Epsom salts. He would get bored and sit down. One my

 my favorite of his many photos. 

Once he was clean, I couldn't ignore the fact that Beau would wake me up, put his paws on the edge of the bed frame and stare at me in the dark as he had the previous nights. With no excuses left, I pulled him up in bed with me. He did a few circles, pawed the blanket into some semblance of a nest, and plopped down, arranging his entire length against the side of my back. It would be his preferred method of sleeping for the next five years.

Beau, subjected to the kiddie swing in the park across the street from my Portland home. 
He was always a patient,  good sport.

I thought Beau would be a jaunty little guy, walking me everywhere. I reasoned he would be good exercise.  That didn't turn out as I envisioned it. Beau was a start and stop kind of fellow. He loved to sniff everything, constantly alert for anything he could eat. And if he couldn't eat it, he loved to pee on it. My heart rate never accelerated walking Beau. When he dove for something tidbit on the street to consume, I learned to drive my hand into his mouth and down his throat to retrieve it.  He was very particular about where he would do his business and the first three weeks were hell as I waited patiently for him to make up his mind.

Laurele didn't love having her photo taken, and I usually contrived to get her with hiding behind something, resulting in a series of lovely photos. This time, she used Beau, and they are adorable together.

Most of the time, Beau was the center attraction wherever we ventured. My friends took to his charms easily. Karole, Laurele, Carl, Jeannie, Alison, James, Joe, Wilma, Trisha, Dyanne, Joyce--it didn't matter. Beau was invited into all my friend's homes, praised for his manners and utter adorability. It was frustrating owning a dog in New York. You could never eat, even in an outdoor cafe, where dogs were required to be leashed on the outer side of a fence. Of course, this never worked, and one would have to spend their entire time trying to keep the dog from jumping the barrier to get to you.  Cabs often refused to pick us up, rudely driving past, the minute they saw a dog. Dogs are not allowed on subways or buses in New York City, so you had to plan carefully.

Beau hated jackets or sweaters in the winter. Maryann bought him this very nice coat for Christmas. We put it on and the result was one miserable looking dog.

Clothing was not for him. Beau preferred to go naked even when the temperature outside was below freezing!

Like most Frenchies, Beau hated the water, though he liked to come with me on a motor boat on a large 

body of water. He just didn't like the life-preserver that went with the journey.

We settled into a nice routine.  When people came to the apartment, I would wait until their elevator arrived on my floor, then open the door. Beau would come flying down the hallway to greet the arriving goes, which always charmed them. My friend Trish actually believed I only did this trick with Beau for her benefit.

Marcos, my favorite doorman was besotted by Beau and the two of them got along famously. He would lift Beau up, and scratch his chest and talk nonsense to Beau while he gave him a massage. Beau would aways smile. Marcos was his pal. Monroe, one of the retired co-op owners in the building frequently sat in the lobby to talk with friends, always had a treat for Beau.  He was one of the first Frenchies in the building, but not for long. The breed became very popular. For the next two years, we settled into a pleasing routine, meeting new friends at the dog run each morning. The local hairdresser always enjoyed giving Beau a pat. He new most of the dogs and their owners in the neighborhood. He was a regular visitor to the Union Square farmers market on Wednesday, Fridays and Saturdays, and enjoyed the sea of humanity pouring into the area on shopping days. We took long walks then--to Washington Square, or up to Madison Park on 23rd Street.  Beau knew many of the shop owners in the area, and the Chase branch at 14th & Fifth was always a good place for doggie treat.

Marcos kept treats for Beau in his bag.

They were pals and Marcos could always get Beau to play--something he never did with me.

As news began to gather momentum about the coming financial meltdown, I decided the time had come to leave New York. After nearly four decades, I wanted space, a more relaxed life-style, and a backyard for my dog. I began to formulate a plan for selling my apartment and moving to Portland, Oregon. I was sure Beau would like the change. No more freezing mornings, and steaming hot summers, which made breathing difficult. The day the apartment was listed, The New York Times announced the worst financial downturn since the Great Depression. It would take eight months and a great reduction on the selling price, but in April, 2009, I got an offer I thought I could live with and made the rest of my moving plans.

My friend Kent, decided to use Beau as a chick magnet to resuscitate his love-life 

following his divorce. Beau didn't mind posing, as long as it wasn't too strenuous.

Beau automatically drew strangers. Women thought he was adorable and men thought

thought he was a little toughie (so not true).

It is not easy transporting a dog via plane. The restrictions are really tough. Most airlines will not allow a Frenchie, a Pug, a Boxer, or any other dog with a squished-in nose to fly in the luggage area and certainly not in the summer. Beau was now 23 pounds. The limit to bring him into the cabin was 20 pounds and a signed note about Beau's health by a vet was required. I was told by friends that the airlines didn't weigh the dogs. Beau was also a little short for a Frenchie. I found a soft carrier, and on June 26th, having said goodbye to all of my friends, Beau and I made it to the airport. I kept him out of the carrier until we were in line. To my relief, Beau didn't put up a struggle. We got through check-in and security and were off to the gate. On-board, Beau fit right under the seat in front of me. Still I was was worried how he would handle the small confines of the carrier. Dogs are not allowed in laps or out of their carriers in-cabin. I did not drug Beau, but he was calm and behaved beautifully. I would put my hand in the carrier every so often and would be rewarded with a lick. I managed to give him a few treats to ward off hunger.

Beau visiting Sara and her mother while I was out of town. He always knows how to pose for the camera.

As anyone who has read my blog knows, I found an adorable Cape Cod-style house in the SE section of Portland.  Beau and I now had nearly three times the space of New York to stretch out in.  We quickly established ourselves in the neighborhood with Beau making friends everywhere. Beau and I were seen all over town together. During the first summer, which was spectacular, he often came with me to outdoor restaurants, street fairs--even the farmer's market where dogs are not allowed. I would carry him (heavy) or wheel him around in a carrier with mesh top and sides so he could see outside and be seen. Part of the pleasure of Beau was the reaction his comic appearance. People were always drawn to that cute little dog.

Summers in Portland meant a nap in the sun.

Life was good for an indulged little guy, who had daybeds in practically every room in the house. And then we got a puppy...

Walden, the cutie pie with psychotic edge

Beau and Walden during a quiet interlude

Beau seeking refuge from Walden in Walden's crate. 

Walden was an insanely peppy little black dog who looked adorable but acted like a baby Cujo. He chewed on my baseboards, tore up Beau's day bed, jumped all over everybody, particularly Beau, with whom he was trying to bond.  Beau wasn't having it. He was a puppy, a nuisance, a rude disruption around Beau's very ordered day. Walden would get into Beau's food, or take over his daybed in the dining room.  Beau even escaped into Walden's crate. I had made a promise to the woman we adopted Walden from--Beau had to be happy or Walden would have to be returned. Beau nearly had a nervous breakdown over that little dog. For five weeks the house was under siege. I kept Walden crated in my bathroom with the door closed at night. He would violently scratch at the door and squeal his head off, until I relented and opened the door. He would be confined to the crate, otherwise, we would never sleep. Because he was in he middle of house-training, I kept him confined to the kitchen with gates. The day he chewed through the baseboard (still visible) and ripped up the thin padded mattress in his crate, I knew Walden had to go.  Neither one of us could cope with puppies. Within days of Walden's exit, Beau's appetite returned.  So did the bounce in his step.  We were back to being a team again, with no immature interlopers to get in the way.

Bit arrived with Kyle, a young man my brother, Doug, sent to me to help on projects on my house. Bit was a long-haired cat, a skittish guy with a comic black dot on his nose and the most beautiful color of blue eyes you ever saw. Kyle and found him abandoned as a kitten, and adopted him. Bit was dragged all over the country has Kyle moved from place to place. By the time he arrived at my house in Portland, Bit was terrified of nearly everyone and kept to himself in my basement. He was welcome upstairs but it took a long time for him to feel confident around others. Beau and Bit never became bosom buddies, but I think Bit appreciated Beau's keeping his distance, allowing Bit to make peace between themselves. They got along and occasionally even chased each other around, as long as Beau's interest, which was minimal, kept the game going. They were best photographed in repose.  

Beau and Bit: peaceful co-existence

Sometimes they feigned interest in one another.

Beau's aloofness with dogs always puzzled me.  The only dog Beau ever showed any evidence of enjoying as a companion was my friend, Darrin's chocolate lab, Penny.  Early one we were out with John Baker  at various outdoor events on a weekend, and people would always stop and stare at Beau, want to pet him, while ignoring Penny.  Darrin finally said to one admiring person, my dog is a lovely purebred dog, just like Beau.  "Yes, but it's a common breed that everyone has," I shot back at him. It was a mean thing to say.  Penny is beautiful girl with soft brown eyes, and the kind of white teeth starlets spend a fortune emulating.  She's a happy dog and Beau endured her tail banging against him. He liked her and they were pals.  He didn't have that kind of relationship with any other dog. He was totally content to say as glued to my side as possible. Sometimes other dogs annoyed Beau. My friends Trish and David have a spark plug of Frenchie named Porter. Porter loved to terrorize Beau. When we went to visit, Porter charged at Beau immediately. Beau would try to ignore Porter who would not be ignored. This would go on until Beau lost his temper and then he would get right in Porter's face and read him the riot act. I'd never seen Beau snarl.  Eventually Frenchies lose energy or interest and simply fall asleep. But it was always fun to watch Beau lose his composure, which was rare.

Proof positive of Beau's slacker credentials. He could fall asleep in my lap

in a nanosecond.

My friend Jay had a special rapport with Beau and he now has his own dog--Bella!

Beau made it his business to follow me all through the house. If I was upstairs working in my office, then he was in office daybed. If I was making my bed, Beau would be in his bedroom day bed. If I went downstairs--even for a minute--Beau would follow.  He didn't always like being walked by someone else, and had no problem putting on the breaks if someone were to hold his leash. Handing it back to me always got Beau to move. Otherwise, he would sit. The bulldog in Beau would come out during our walks. He would constantly put on the breaks, making me stop dead in my tracks. If he wanted to go in another direction, he would pull me towards the direction he was interested in exploring. If he tired during a long walk, he would simply sit down and not budge. Sometimes I felt smothered with love, but who could complain?

It is common for animal lovers to extol the virtues of their pets and I'm no exception. Beau rarely tried my patience. He didn't jump on furniture, in fact he preferred to look at me from the floor until I relented and brought him up on the couch for a nap while I watched TV.  He didn't dig holes in my back yard. Or chew on my shoes. He didn't climb into garbage cans looking for food scraps. But he also never played fetch, or tug of war with me, or chased a Frisbee.  Beau was more likely to simply lay down and take a nap. No dog and master were as perfectly suited as we were.

Beau in Trish and David Hamilton's kitchen, begging me to get him away from 

Porter, their over-active Frenchie. 

In some ways the last two weeks with Beau were some of the most memorable. We took a drive up to Seattle for a weekend to spend July 4th with my friend, and colleague, Gypsy, her husband Steve and their adorable toddler, Hickory. They have a young Frenchie named Crumpet with whom Beau played with in New York. Now living and working in Seattle, it was the first time we had seen each other in quite awhile. Beau wrote shotgun in the front seat next to me. He was always a good traveler. I only wish we had done more car trips--such as the long drive to San Francisco, where he pretty much slept in the back seat for most of the 12-hour drive. The last day in Seattle, we attended a street fair near Gypsy and Steve's home. As usual, Beau was a rock star, attracting all sorts of attention. Most were charmed by his presence, asking what sort of dog he was. Beau was always good for a lick and a warm greeting. When Hickory refused to stay in his stroller, Beau obligingly took his place, and Gypsy got the shot on her iPhone. This is the last photo taken of Beau.

Beau loved being wheeled around. Before I got a car, I dragged him everywhere in 

a cart with wheels, and a mesh top and sides he could look through.  Then I could bring 

him into supermarkets, and other places where dogs are not allowed. Beau was never

tied outside of a store or restaurant. I was terrified he'd be kidnapped. 

These memories of Beau have been in my computer for weeks now, stubbornly refusing to be released. As most pet lovers know, it is terrible to lose a beloved pet.  And as always, I rambled on and on, but I do understand that bond and am reminded of the dog food commercial where the master denies he is obsessed with his pooch, despite the fact there is a wall-to-wall oil painting of his favorite in a noble pose behind him in the shot. I refused to have a dog until I had the time to devote to one. I was always working in an office and I saw the anguish so many friends had leaving their pets alone all day long in solitude, waiting for the master of the house to return. So when I found myself working from home, I now had the time to devote to a dog.

If Beau didn't want to follow, he simply put on the breaks and held his ground. 

He often did this with friends, who took care of him in my absense.  He was a

truly a one-man dog. 

The end arrived without much warning and he was gone so swiftly. I hardly had a chance to absorb it all. They say losing a beloved pet is difficult, and I'll vouch for that--it was just terrible. We had each other in our sights for five wonderful years. I couldn't have asked for a better companion. His essential sweetness and affection never ceased to amaze me.  I loved how obstinate he could be. Beau was always dignified, even when passing gas (a Frenchie habit), never acknowledging any loss of dignity even as my eyes teared from the stench. Beau didn't care much for kids, but was patient with them. He knew how to charm, just by standing in front of someone, waiting to be noticed. I'm convinced he managed to endear himself to my friend, Lynne, who has bad knees and is more than a little scared of dogs, having been bitten as a child. One night at a gathering of friends, Lynne was sitting on the couch and Beau came over to her and put his paws on the edge of the couch. Lynne eyed him with suspicion. I went over to her and said, "the only thing Beau wants to do is lay down beside you and go to sleep, I promise." I then put Beau up on the couch and he lined his body up against her side and as she petted him, his eyes closed and he began to snore. Lynne was amazed. She melted and from then on, was always happy to see him. My last conversation with Beau (of course I talked to him all the time), was to thank him for his loving companionship and tell him I was so grateful for everything he had given to me. The richness of his presence and the powerful connection he made with me will never be forgotten. More than anything, I loved how much joy Beau gave to everyone he encountered. His spirit lingers here. He was a dear friend.

This spot not the stairs gave Beau a vantage point. He could see who 

was at the door, and it was wide and comfy enough for a nap site. 

SANDWICH NIRVANA

East Moreland Market & Kitchen serving some of the best sandwiches in Portland 

(or anywhere else for that matter)

In the last few weeks, I've rediscovered a fabulous small market, tucked away on a quiet residential street in the heart of the East Moreland neighborhood in South East Portland. They serve the most wonderful sandwiches at lunchtime, and they are so good that it got me to thinking about sandwiches, one of my favorite food categories. I started thinking about some of the memorable sandwiches I've ever eaten from my travels and the cities I've spent a lot of time in.  So forgive my long and obsessive recollections of sandwiches. And if you're in the vicinity of one of Portland prettiest neighborhoods, you owe it to yourself to come to this friendly and quaint market to buy groceries, wines, meats or have a cup of coffee, or a glass of wine. But don't forget to treat yourself to one of their many incredible sandwiches.  You'll go back again and again and again. 

The sandwich has alway been a marvelous invention.  But they need to be carefully made.  A heavy hand can turn a meatball sub into an acid-reflux nightmare. Everyone has their own personal likes and dislikes.  Relish in tuna salad, for instance, makes me violent. I have memories of sandwiches that stretch back to my childhood. We never ate ham, salami, roast beef or turkey sandwiches until my brothers and I were well into our teens. Peanut butter and jelly, tuna salad and bologna were my daily lunch fare. The minute I had a job selling flowers all over San Francisco where I grew up and earned my own money and independence, I began to assert my own adventurous sandwich palate.

There was a small supermarket with a butcher across the street from our home in the Sunset district.  The butcher roasted chickens and turkeys and also had cold cuts that I loved, particularly Italian salami, which I had them pile high on sour dough rolls with provolone or swiss cheese, yellow mustard (hadn't been exposed to Dijon yet) and shredded lettuce.  They were addictive. My twin brother dated a young girl whose parents had a small, but very nice breakfast and luncheon shop in the main business area of the Mission district, right near the flower show where we bought our roses. They made a grilled tuna and Swiss cheese combination that was as close to a perfect sandwich as I ever got. The rye was grilled with butter to a golden hue, and stuffed with tuna and Swiss that melted. Served with coleslaw and a dill pickle, it was my go-to sandwich from that neighborhood.

Muffuletta:  Layer upon layer ham, salumi, mortadella, swiss and provolone.Topped with special 

house made pickled vegetable, olive salad, on ciabatta

San Francisco in the 60s had many German-style "hoffbrau" restaurants that specialized in steam table cooked foods. Not much in these popular restaurants interested me except their sandwiches. There was roast beef, or turkey or corned beef, sliced to order and piled high on rye bread or your roll of choice with mustard or mayonnaise or both.  Roast beef sandwiches were served on rolls dipped in a beefy, fatty and thin broth called a French dip. While I enjoyed them on occasion they were the precursors of  the kind of overstuffed deli sandwiches served regularly at the Carnegie or Stage Door delicatessens.  Awkward to hold an a mess to eat, they were never really my cup of tea.

Two more San Francisco sandwiches are remembered from my youth:  I recall a tiny, crazy busy financial district takeout shop where I would often meet my mother or friends, order a sandwich and sit in the park for lunch, weather permitting. It was called Paoli's and sandwich I remember was a rich egg salad with a thick layer of minced black "California" olives served on a dark pumpernickel bread. It was a spectacular sandwich, filled without the contents falling all over you as you continued to chew your way through it. The egg salad only had mayonnaise, but it was balanced and the saltiness of the olives complimented the bland richness of the egg salad. My final sandwich memory is of course, Mel's Diner. When I was a teenager, I hung out a lot at Mel's on Mission Street near Vaness Avenue. That was the era of car hop waitresses who roller-skated to cars parked outside the restaurant and served people burgers, fries, Cokes, milkshakes, and other drive-in fare. The place was packed with cars and those girls, who were pretty, sassy and could handle themselves whenever a car diner got frisky, worked really hard to please their hungry clientele. The later it got the busier Mel's became.  George Lucas would make Mel's iconic in his film, American Grafitti.  Mel's served an original creation, the Patty Melt, a hamburger patty, pressed thin and grilled, served on buttered rye bread with American cheese and grilled onions. It was easier to eat than a hamburger and didn't come with lettuce and tomatoes to interfere with it's beefy-cheesey goodness. For a time it became another sandwich obsession of mine.

Chef Jesse's Mushroom-Bacon Burger at East Moreland Market & Kitchen

Over the years, I refined the qualities that appeal to me in sandwiches.  I've never lost my affection for tuna salad. It will always be a favorite. But I prefer my tuna packed in oil rather than in water, which is too bland.  I don't eat much salami anymore, not because I don't like it.  I have these arbitrary rules that forbids me to eat salami or hamburgers most of the time because they are full of fat. Doesn't make a bit of sense, because my other choices are equally high in fat content. Other sandwich no-nos include those famous deli towers sold at Carnegie Deli and Stage Door. I don't like sandwiches that are bigger than my mouth. I don't like meat juice and fat running down my arms. I like a sandwich to be easyish to eat. Cheese is almost always a necessity on my sandwiches, unless it is peanut butter and jam (never jelly).   I rarely like butter on a sandwich, unless it's hot. My grandmother used to put butter on bread before she added ham, which I think is disgusting unless you grill it. I love ham. Most turkey is awful, either fresh or deli-sliced. Packed with water, most deli turkey may be lower in calories than other deli meats, but it is also tasteless, especially the supermarket kind. I'd rather eat leftover steak on a sandwich rather than thinly sliced deli roast beef. I love ham, especially Boar's Head deluxe ham, which seems to strike an ideal balance of sweet and salty.

In New York, one can find some perfectly awful sandwiches. Most tuna salad there doesn't come close to the quality I grew up with. Your average burger is shockingly bad and carelessly made when compared to the consistently excellent versions commonly served in Portland. Good restaurants are quite capable of producing excellent sandwiches, such as a memorable Lobster roll at Cafe Luxembourg, offered as a special for $25 in 2005. Another spectacular sandwich was a whole soft shell crab, dredged in flour and sauteed until crisp and served on a ciabatta roll with arugula, sliced tomato (a brilliant red, in-season tomato), and house-made tarter sauce at a popular Pearl Oyster Bar in the west Village.

Rome is a very nice place for a sandwich. You can go old school and get a loaf of bread, some salami and cheese, a bottle of wine and a friend and sit in one of the piazzas and enjoy people watching. Romans often stand in little cafes, and eat their sandwiches, that have been prepared in the standard, old-school way:  three slices of thin white bread with a variety of fillings (ham, prosciutto, tuna or egg salad, cheese, slices of cucumber on one layer or marinated red pepper strips).  Some have anchovies. All are cut into elegant triangles. Pretty and tasty, these are sandwiches you'd be proud to treat your Aunt Mildred to. On my very first visit to Rome, I walked into a place I would describe as a high end Italian deli. There were prosciutto's hanging overhead. Counter were loaded with all sorts food stuffs with cases of cheese, or salumi, or little balls of cooked spinach that had been squeezed dry and could be brought home and quickly warmed or sauteed for dinner that night. The place was mobbed with shoppers and I was overwhelmed by the good looking food, the handsome packaging, the yelling servers, and the slow milling of a hungry and packed crowd. Suddenly I was pushed over to a counter of rectangular pizzas just out of the oven. I watched as customers signed how much pizza they wanted and quickly figuered out that you paid by the slice and the size of the slice. And then I saw it. A golden and crusty potato pizza sliced with olive oil and rosemary. The aroma was sensational. I motioned to the clerk and he gestured back to me:  how much do you want? With two fingers, I indicated the generous width I was looking for.  He cut the slice and then folded it in half, the potato insides facing each other. He then wrapped a piece of brown paper around the bottom of the folded middle and handed it to me, gesturing to where I would pay for it. I started to eat it even before I paid. A pizza slice is not a sandwich you say? Well folded in half into itself would certainly qualify for sandwich status in my book:  two crusts on the outside with the potato in the middle as filler.  Sandwich indeed. That insanely good pizza sandwich was a highlight of that trip. I remember going back to the neighborhood to find that shop again, which I inexplicably forgot to notate. I have retraced my steps in that neighborhood on many subsequent visits to Rome and have never found that shop.  That potato pizza will haunt me for the rest of my life.

A word or two about bread. My choices are sliced sour dough, rye, pumpernickel, and whole wheat, and I've pretty much given up on eating sandwiches on rolls, though ciabatta are a good solution, and I now understand why you see people slicing rolls or Italian or French bread and pull the insides of the bread out in the preparation of the sandwich. Otherwise everything falls out of them.  I never put slices of avocado on a sandwich for this reason. Mashed avocado at least stays put. Slices of avocado, even bread tend to slip out of the sides. I've become rather fond of wraps, though it is shocking how so many bad sandwiches are made with them.  Tortillas are great, and I often stuff them with leftovers for lunch, or warm for breakfast with scrambled eggs, bacon and cheese. In fact a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich on a soft, toasted Kaiser roll is a little bit of heaven to me--please don't pass the ketchup bottle. Scrambled eggs with bloody splotches of ketchup are on my disgusting list too.

Hamburgers--I ate a ton of them when I was in my 20s, not so much before that, and before moving to Portland, barely touched them in my 30s and 40s. Portland is a city of burgers, as I discovered when I moved here in 2009. The quality of the beef that is found in hamburgers here is very high.  Still all those things they pile on hamburgers just get in the way and make them a mess to eat. Tomatoes should be banned in any sandwich, they are almost always tasteless out of season.  Besides ketchup takes care of the tomato flavor.  Cheese and bacon add to the fat content, but are really nice additions. I don't care if it is American, cheddar, Swiss, or blue cheese. Pickles are a nice edition and with lettuce, some mayo and, you've got a complete burger. No mustard, please. That's for hot dogs, which I prefer with sweet pickle relish. Raw onion disagrees with my system, though I often risk heartburn with a thin slice of red. Foster Burger, the brainchild of Pol-Pok's resident genius, Andy Ricker and Daniel Mondok (chef of the late, lamented Sel Gris) pooled their resources and opened a funky joint in a semi-tawdry area of industrial SE Foster Blvd. They were a hit the second they opened their doors and for good reason. The Foster burger just may be the best burger I ever ate. Beefy and tender, cooked to your order (though apparently rare is against the law here), the burger is served on a delicious semi-soft bun of quality. They smear the buns with their own sauce, lettuce, pickle. It comes with the excellent house fries.  Foster Burger has maintained its quality, even though Ricker and Mondok have moved on.  Portland is rather proud of the quality of its burgers, and it is the rare restaurant that doesn't off their own take on this sandwich classic. Gruner, Chris Israel's special take on "Alpine Cuisine," (hardly what you would think of as a place for a hamburger) has an especially well regarded burger on its bar menu).

Without a doubt, the banh mi sandwich is the biggest discovery in the sandwich world since the creation of the Big Mac. This hybrid is from the era when France ruled Vietnam, and is a French roll stuffed with a combination of meats and vegetables, such as pork or pate or chicken, or beef with shredded carrots, hot peppers, daikon, and cilantro. In New York the banh mi can be very elaborate with crusty French baguette, duck, and other exotic ingredients. Here in Portland, the French Baguette shop is a Vietnamese bakery that specializes in delicious, inexpensive banh mi which keeps the two locations hopping.  My favorite holds grilled pork, and all the veggies listed above. I add a liberal squeeze of Sriracha sauce for some extra fire. The average price for one of these fantastic creations is about $3!

Grilled Cheese is only the beginning of this beauty. There's a fried egg in there, baby arugula and pancetta as well. 

Bunk is Portland's current favorite sandwich joint famous for its pork belly and meatball heros. But
recently I have found sandwich nirvana at the East Moreland Market and Kitchen. Reminding me of the small grocery market across the street from my house as a teenager, the owners (former restaurateurs) found this empty space in one of the poshest neighborhoods in Portland. The store specializes in ingredients from Spain and Italy, which means you can find all the authentic ingredients you would want to cook these cuisines. The shop has a frozen section, a fresh organic vegetable area, a butcher, offering beef, chickens, pork and house-made sausages as well as  high quality charcuterie. You can purchase excellent breads and bakery desserts. But it is the freshly made sandwiches, artfully prepared by chef Jesse, that have caught my attention.  I'm not a fan of the Rueben sandwich--there are too many terrible versions in New York.  But East Moreland's Rueben is beyond nirvana. They slice Grand Central Bakery country rye and toast it. slathered with their house-made dressing, then stuff it with very thin slices of corned beef and house-made pickle slaw. I could eat this once a week. The ingredients, the bread, and the dressing made me forget about the grilled, greasy messes I've sampled in the past.

The first sandwich I tried here was something called the Rudy. Here's how it's described:  Bocadillo de calamari. Fried calamari on a baguette with jamon serrano, manchego cheese, arugula and spicy aioli. The calamari rings are dredged in flour, smoked paprika, salt and pepper and quickly deep fried. They keep the coating very thin, so you taste the squid. The result is a salty, tangy, combination with the manchego, baby arugula, and serrano ham within the confines of an elegant, crunchy baguette . My first bite into this superb combination sent me into orbit. I often ate a Cubano at a terrific little Dominican hole-in-the-wall near my last office in New York. A Cubano is a pretty difficult sandwich to screw up. East Moreland's version is a little more elaborate than your average Cubano:  house- roasted Tails and Trotter pork with mama lil peppers, pepperoncini’s, pickles and yellow mustard on ciabatta, pressed. There is a thrill in every tasty bite of this outstanding version.  The Grilled Cheese is somewhat misleading: gruyere and muenster are joined by a fried egg, some crispy pancetta and baby arugula on a toasted brioche roll.  I would call this the ultimate breakfast sandwich, but I keep wanting it for lunch. There are more choices to keep me coming back, such as their mushroom bacon burger, which  a friend recently tried an deemed very special.  I've made friends with the owner and chef and we talk food, cookbooks, the neighborhood.  

The very pleasant cafe interior of the Eastmoreland Market and Kitchen 

3616 Southeast Knapp Street  Portland, OR 97202 (503) 771-1186