Preface

Chapter 1: My Philosophy

Chapter 2: The Great Christmas Truffle Caper

Chapter 3: Beach Blanket Bingo

Chapter 4: Eau de Bovine Episode #1

Chapter 5: Fit & Finish

Chapter 6: Nutcracker Suite

Chapter 7: Happy Mother's Day

Chapter 8: Applemania

Chapter 9: Happy Thanksgiving

I was born on a ranchette in Danville, California, way back in April 1983. My birthmom was Dream, a nondescript, medium-sized, short-haired, brown dog of unknown lineage. And, as is true in so many cases, the biological dad I never knew was some vagabond who wandered through the back yard one day. I spent the first nine weeks of my life alternately tussling with my four brothers and sisters and sleeping under the family deck. We all answered to the call "O'Puppy" and that's what I came to recognize as my proper surname.

On the Fourth of July weekend, one of my brothers and I moved on to a new home and family in the nearby community of Lafayette, which bills itself as a semi-rural suburb of San Francisco. This means it's full of homes with big back yards and lots of trees. My new digs were no exception.

My new mom and dad were heavily into "themes" and gave us first names based on mountains. Recognizing the future grandeur that my life would hold, mom christened me "Sierra" after eastern California's majestic spine of peaks that includes so many outdoor wonders (Yosemite, King's Canyon, and Sequoia National Parks; Mt. Whitney; my own cabin). Dad got to name my brother and called him "Lassen" after the volcano and national park in northeastern California.

Over the years, other mountain dogs have shared by home. My brother must have inherited defective genes and succumbed to leukemia when he was six; two weeks after his demise, the pesky varmint "Siskiyou" (a samoyed/shepherd mix who has never had an original thought in her life) showed up (if you want to know where those mountains are look at the border of California and Oregon). And, very recently, my understudy, a border collie named "Tecumseh," has come on the scene (yes, I know Tecumseh was an Indian chief as well as the middle name of William T. Sherman who sacked Atlanta -- but it's also a mountain -- check your map of New Hampshire).

This descriptive background is all well and good, but doesn't explain why I feel compelled to commit the highlights of my life to cyberspace. Recently, mom brought it to my attention that there are a number of fellow canines who share similar interests with me: notably, the love of trash, garbage, guck, and other such delicious goodies. Since I have scored so many points at home over the years with my trashy exploits, I wanted to leave some stories that current and future Trashdogs could enjoy and profit from. So, in the coming months, I will be irregularly publishing my memoirs on the Internet for all or none of my friends to read.

I'm no particular breed of dog -- maybe that makes me everydog's dog -- what dogs evolve into when human interference is eliminated from the breeding business (black and tan; short-haired; medium build (weighed 44 pounds in my prime but now hover around the half century mark); keen eyes; and a nose with a one gigabyte memory). But, mom and dad are constantly asked what I "am." To help them out of this somewhat uncomfortable position of not knowing what their dog "is," over the years I have demonstrated enough "traits" that have enabled them to figure out my heritage. They have now reached the point where they can confidently answer, "What's Sierra? Oh, she's a cross between a Maytag and a Waste Management truck!" They've even suggested that maybe I would like to ride on top of the local garbage truck the way dalmatians ride on fire engines! Sounds good to me.

The guiding philosophy of my life is quite simple:

Finally, you earn extra points in life by getting your prime nemesis in trouble because of your trashdog exploits. My favorite line is mom exasperatedly saying to dad when his obvious lack of attention has enabled me to have some otherwise forbidden fun, "Who has the higher IQ -- you or the dog?" (I know the answer to that one -- and so does he!)

Every year starting in November, mom and dad make about 1,000 hand dipped chocolate truffles to give to their friends and relatives at Christmas. It's my job to make sure the kitchen floor doesn't get dirty from this undertaking. So, anything that falls off the counter or drips en route from the microwave to the refrigerator to the island is mine. However, I've never felt that I've been adequately rewarded for my attentiveness to duty. Mom and dad subscribe to that odious theory that chocolate is bad for dogs. (If it's bad for dogs what makes them think it's OK for them?) But I finally got my revenge during the 1994 Christmas truffle season.

Mom and dad always go visit the grandfolks in Florida and Massachusetts for the Christmas/New Year's holiday season. Even though mom and dad have been making this same trip since 1980, they still go ballistic about getting ready -- and 1994 was no exception. Now disruptions at home always present good opportunities for vigilant trashdogs and I didn't miss a cue.

Mom had announced on the prior Saturday that she was done with truffle season for that year. A few days later, however, dad calculated he needed three more pounds -- most of them Chambord-flavored (raspberry) to give to Aunt Susan in Florida since he had just realized it was time to think about Christmas presents. Mom had already "hit the wall" which she usually does this close to holiday time. She said if dad wanted more truffles that was fine, but he'd have to make them all himself -- usually he makes the insides in large batches and mom artistically hand dips them one-by-one in her non-existent leisure time.

The Thursday morning before Christmas came and it was clear home wasn't normal. Dad got up early and was busying himself making truffle innards in the kitchen. Mom slept in until around 7 and then took me and the pesky varmint Siskiyou for a three-mile jog around the local reservoir before completing her packing (we of course never get to go visit the relatives at Christmas -- we're cooped up in the boarding wing at the vet's). When we got home from the park, Dad was out, probably at a "meeting." (Dad always goes to "meetings" -- he's a minor public official and almost always has to get together with bunches of other minor public officials so they can drink coffee, eat bagels, and think of ways to spend the public's money.) Mom did a quick circuit around the kitchen, noting that dad had completed dipping the truffles which were drying on the island. Then she went off to take a shower and Sisk and I followed to rest on the bed.

While mom was in the shower, the garbage collector came. This is always exciting because Sisk and I run to the front door and bark our lungs out at him to make him go away -- works like a charm every time. When the garbage collector had departed, Siskiyou like the good little obedient princess that she is went back to the bedroom. I, however, had other fish to fry, so to speak.

Some time later, mom got out of the shower and started getting dressed. Something in the back of her mind prompted her to look in the bedroom and she noted there was only one canine there. Then she remembered that she heard us barking at the garbage collector while she was in the shower. Then she realized that I hadn't come back into the bedroom. Then she knew exactly where I had gone.....

Meanwhile I was happily checking out the freshly made truffles in the kitchen. The pickings couldn't have been easier. Dad had been very neat that morning -- and very careless. The truffles were lined up in soldier-straight rows right next to the edge of the counter. I didn't even have to stretch -- just hoist myself up by my front paws and lick them up with my tongue one-by-one. Heck, I didn't even drag the paper they were drying on down to the floor as I usually would. There I was happily sating my appetite when my concentration was broken with "Sierra, come here!"

Since I had now downed three rows and was getting a bit full, I thought I'd answer the call and act like nothing had happened. So I wandered back down the hall toward the bedroom just as mom was coming out. She had this suspicious look on her face and strode right past me to the kitchen. There she of course quickly deduced that I'd been gainfully occupied while she was in the shower. She couldn't do anything about it now, but I knew dad was going to get in trouble when he got home (extra points remember!).

Some time later, dad waltzed in having done his civic or some other kind of duty that morning. He could immediately tell that mom was ticked off and he couldn't figure out what transgression he had committed this time. When he want into the kitchen, mom pointedly asked him why he hadn't moved the truffles away from the edge of the counter like he'd been told "a thousand" times since they both knew what a "pig" Sierra was (that's strange, I thought I was a dog). Dad knew he was really in trouble now because he quickly realized how many I'd consumed (he's really good at doing mental arithmetic: 3 rows times 7 truffles equals 21 truffles -- YES!). And sure enough, mom next exploded with, "Who has the higher IQ -- you or the dog?"

As I subsequently spent the twelve days of Christmas incarcerated at the vet, I noted, "1994 was indeed a very good year."

When my brother Lassen and I were seven months old, mom and dad bought us a second home up in the mountains. We really liked it up there, especially because we didn't have to be on leashes most of the time and could run around in the woods and swim in the lake and frolic in the snow in the winter. With all that freedom, some of my best Trashdog exploits occurred at our cabin. Here's one of mom's favorites.

A couple of years ago, mom and dad and the pesky varmint Siskiyou and I were heading out to hike around the lake. Ususally they keep me leashed up until we get beyond the marina and beach area, but I had been well behaved by their standards recently so they let me off early. (Every once in a while, it's important to do what mom and dad want because that lulls them into a false sense of security and they lighten up on the restrictions; then, when they're caught off guard, you can get to some especially good tidbit.)

Just as the trail was leaving the lakeshore level and heading up the rocks, we passed a family having a picnic by the water. Now they were about 30 feet away from us and, under normal circumstances, I probably would have ignored them. But their dog started a ruckus by running toward us barking and acting like he was going to chase us. Quickly, I analyzed the situation. Determining that the oncoming canine was too small to be a threat, I saw no reason to play the defender.

Meanwhile, the other dog's family kept shouting "Come." Way back in doggie obedience school I had been exposed to the word "come," and even answered well enough to place third in my class. But, since then I have learned that mindless obedience to human words can severely limit one's opportunities so I respond to such utterances only selectively. It also seems the other pooch had reached the same conclusion, because he obviously wasn't turning tail to go back to his pack. Personally, I thought it was really nice of these strangers to invite me to lunch, so the more they yelled "Come" the more I felt compelled to trot over to their beach blanket.

At this point, mom and dad realized what was going on but they were too far away to stop me. They started yelling "Sierra, come back." Funny thing is, I just couldn't hear them very well.

As I neared the picnic, I wondered what they'd be serving up ... and then I spied it. One of the younsters had wandered away leaving a half-eaten sandwich on his beach blanket. Without breaking stride, I dashed past the adults and hit ground zero with my mouth open. BINGO! Wolfing down my prize, I hoofed it back to the trail.

Mom and dad were mortified, of course. (They get mortified awfully easily and I've done lots to mortify them over the years.) But, the picnicers were roaring laughing so there were no hard feelings.

Chanel No. 5, Christian Dior, Charlie, Calvin Klein, Giorgio. People have this fascination with pouring liquid on themselves to smell something like flowers. My taste in perfume, on the other hand, tends toward earthier fragrances. Over the years, I have taken every available opportunity to dab myself with exciting odors emating from all sorts of offal -- from traditional garbage cans to dead fish rotting on the shore. My favorite aroma of all, however, comes from a good romp in cow pucky. Here's what happened on my first major encounter.

It was summer, sometime back in the mid-1980s. I was a youngster at the time, still learning all about what the world had to offer. Mom and dad, my Massashusetts grandfolks, my brother Lassen and I went for a drive in our now defunct Chevy Blazer up a long, winding, rocky dirt road in my namesake mountains (the Sierras, of course). Mom and dad wanted to show grandmom and granddad the view we could get from the top of this mountain near our cabin. They claimed you could see all the way to Yosemite National Park, 50 miles to the south as the crow flies. Well, it probably took us 45 minutes or an hour to get there, jiggling and lurching all the way. When we got to the top, everyone piled out to stretch their legs, admire the scenery, and, in my case, run around to explore.

Mom, dad, and the grandfolks spent quite a bit of time walking around in the open meadow at the top of the mountain. In fact, they spent so much time looking around and exclaiming about the beauty of the area that Lassen and I got really bored really fast. So we took off on our own chasing butterflies and chipmunks.

After a long while, mom and dad decided it was time to head back down the mountain for lunch. At this point, they realized that my brother and I were no longer in the vicinity, so they started bellowing out our names.

After a few seconds, grandmom said, "Oh, there's Sierra. But what is she doing? Why is she on the ground?" Now, grandmom could be excused for now knowing what I was doing. She grew up in the city, and her childhood dogs never knew country delights. But mom and dad immediately knew -- and horror struck their faces. Lassen and I had discovered the recent grazing spot of a cattle herd and were busily rolling around in cow cakes. I must admit, this was great fun and we were getting really stinky.

But we were in an accommodating mood that day, and soon answered dad's call to "Come." (When you smell really bad, it's important to come immediately when you're called so mom and dad can enjoy it while it's fresh.) We ran happily over to where everyone was congregated by the Blazer, figuring that lunch was next on the agenda.

Grandmom and granddad were pleased to see us (they still weren't clued into what was going on). But, mom and dad had these really weird looks on their faces -- all screwed up funny like. And rather than saying "Sierra and Lassen you smell so nice wearing your 'Eau de Bovine'," they were talking through clenched teeth. Something about how were they going to get us cleaned up before we got back in the truck. (You see, even though they were really very mad at us, they didn't want to look uncool in front of the grandfolks by jumping up and down and yelling at us and calling us BADDOGS.)

Mom looked into the Blazer -- no paper towels or rags in there. Then she went through her pockets -- but, for probably the only time in her life, she had no tissues. Dad never carries anything so he was useless as usual. Finally, they had to let the cat out of the bag, so to speak. Mom tried to discreetly ask her mom if perchance she had a tissue with her since the dogs had gotten "a bit dirty." (What an understatement!) Now the sensible grandmom never goes anywhere without an ample supply of tissues -- except maybe this once. All she was able to come up with was a half-dead kleenex.

So what were mom and dad to do? Here they were on the top of the mountain, away from all civilization, no water, no shampoo, no b*thtub, no towels, one scrunched-up tissue, and two prim and proper parents. The next thing I knew my legs were thrown out from under me, like a dogie in a calf roping contest. I was unceremoniously deposited on by back and rubbed around in the dust. Dad had gone off the deep end and was giving Lassen and me dirtb*ths. While this certainly was not as bad as getting a real b*th, I wasn't pleased that my perfume was being scratched off.

After Dad was done with us, he, grandmom, and granddad assumed their normal positions in the Blazer. However, mom decided to be sociable and join Lassen and me in the far back section. But for some reason she made us lie real still on the bumpy trip down the mountain and wouldn't let us roll over on our backs. And, everyone must have been so taken with the beauty of the vistas that not a word was spoken all the way home to the cabin.

As you might have guessed it, when we got back we were treated to cold water hose b*ths. Did this cure me of ever rolling in cow pucky ever again? Not on your life!

Some people move from one country to another. Some folks relocate from coast to coast. Still others just pick up and head across town. But, my mom and dad are weird. They've lived in three houses on the same street. It's even more bizarre because there are no more than 30 dwellings on our little road. They started in an apartment at the bottom of the street -- then bought their first house about halfway up the block the year before I was born. Later when I was three, they purchased a property at the top of the street with the idea of someday building their dream house on it. Five years later, they broke ground.

During the design and construction process, I had two jobs. My first task was to be an ice breaker with the architect so he could get to understand mom and dad better and find out what they liked so he could design a really nice house for them (this literally took years!). I always accompanied mom and dad to the architect's office. The head architect had a fuzzy head and he liked dogs. Since he didn't have a furry companion when we started the plans, he spent a lot of time patting me and my brother Lassen (and after he passed on the pesky varmint Siskiyou). Even better than that, he gave us lots of *T*R*E*A*T*S*. (Mom and dad always wondered how many hours they got billed for the architect to play with us dogs.)

My second, and to my mind, more important role was chief inspector of the work-in-process. Every evening when it was still light, mom, dad, the pesky varmint and I would walk from our old house up to the new one to see how things were progressing. When we got to the construction site, my leash would be unlatched. While mom and dad were imagining what their dream house would eventually look like, I would run from room to room sniffing out all those new and interesting smells -- or so mom and dad thought. In reality, though, I was doing quality control -- that is making sure that the workmen didn't leave any scraps from their lunches or snacks. It just wouldn't do to have crumbs left indiscriminately in the new homestead -- they'd just attract ants or mice or, worse, raccoons or even skunks.

As fall came on and the days shortened, mom and dad got home too late to visit the new house every night while it was light, so group inspections were relegated to weekends. However, I felt that not checking out the worksite at least once a day was a dereliction of duty. Who knows what tasty morsels were being forever sealed behind wallboard? So one evening, I just couldn't wait any longer and decided to conduct my own personal inspection. (As an aside, since dogs naturally possess superior nighttime vision, I saw no reason why we had to wait for daylight anyway.)

Now the backyard at our old house was fenced in, loosely speaking. Any time I wanted to, I could break out of there by digging out under the wire or dislodging the debris (logs, sticks, concrete blocks, etc.) mom and dad stuffed around the bottom of the gate to keep me in. My strategy was to act good for a while and then, when their guard was down, take advantage of the situation by shrinking to about half my size and oozing out through an impossibly small looking escape hatch.

One late autumn moonless night, I sensed the time was right. Mom had let Sisk and me out in the backyard after dinner. The pesky varmint, obedient princess that she is, of course showed up at the patio door fifteen minutes later wanting to be let back in the house. Now I had already vamoosed, but mom didn't know it yet. (After pawing my way through the clutter amassed at the bottom of the gate, I had hustled my buns up the street and started working the new house over from top to bottom.)

Some time later, mom realized I hadn't come back up from the lower part of the yard. She also knew this invariably meant trouble. (Either I was digging a hole to China; or had treed a wild animal; or was trying to rid the property of vermin (one year there were the great gopher wars -- even though I eventually prevailed, I was wounded and earned a purple heart in the process) ; or (gasp!) had taken a hike out of the yard of my own volition.)

Now mom always panicked when she thought I might have run away. (I never knew what her problem was -- I knew my way around the neighborhood -- I certainly wasn't going to head for the highway -- they don't have any trash cans there!) First thing she had to do was find a flashlight; that always consumed several minutes because they never put anything away where it belonged. Then she had to check the backyard. After searching all the nooks and crannies very carefully, she finally had to conclude that I had indeed made my exit.

Mom now had to escalate the search process. The first stop was the kitchen to grab the box of milkbones. (She often had to resort to bribery to get me to come home -- when I was on a trashhunt very little could distract me -- but I did keep an ear open for the telltale sound of a box of dog biscuits being jiggled -- if I was coming up dry with garbage, it was at least worthwhile to be rewarded for finally coming home (which I was going to do anyway when I felt like it).) Then she hitched Siskiyou up to her leash. (I think mom had this mistaken notion that the pesky varmint could actually help find me -- I'm not sure she could find her way out of a paper bag.)

Then these two forlorn creatures headed out the front door. Mom's hope was that by standing in the driveway, shaking the milkbone box, and yelling my name, I might actually be in the vicinity and respond. Ha! I was so far away by this time that there was no way I could hear her. Eventually mom concluded that phase two of the search process was also a failure. Now she and Sisk had to move on to Contingency Plan 3: figuring out where I might be. Since I had been known to sometimes head to the new property on my own before construction started, mom at least was smart enough to try there next.

Meanwhile, I was having a grand time for myself. Now I'm not going to say the construction workers were slobs, since mom and dad made a big thing with them about picking up after themselves. But, let's just say these were not the tidiest bunch of guys going. A crust in the living room. A grape in the den. An almost empty bag of potato chips in the master bath. Searching through mom and dad's future castle was like going on a treasure hunt! After about a half hour or so, I had gleaned all there was to be had and was just padding about enjoying my freedom.

At this point, I started to hear huffing and puffing sounds cutting through the cold, still, dark night. Hey! Mom and Sisk had come up to join in the fun. Now mom was never as surefooted as me in the new house -- at least at this point. She seemed to have these warped hang-ups about wandering through the house-to-be at night. I never really understood her problem -- something about there were no outside walls yet and there was a fifteen foot drop out the end of the family room; something else about no banister on the temporary staircase from the main to the lower floors; and something else about you had to enter the house over narrow gangplanks because there was a big trench you could fall into around the fifteen foot foundation. Heck! I was smart enough not to fall down anywhere. Anyway, at first she just stood outside and called my name. But I wasn't quite finished with the inspection, so I didn't respond.

I must have given myself away, though. Probably the jingle of my name tag against the county plate. Mom now knew where I was and was coming in after me. First I could hear her treading lightly on the gangplank and then shuffling around on the plywood sub-floor through the sawdust, dragging Siskiyou with her on leash the whole time. She also escalated the shaking of the milkbone box and started calling my name out louder. Figuring there was no sense in actually making her mad, I bounded up the somewhat rickety stairs and greeted them with great glee. Since mom was a goodmom and had paid close attention to the teacher at obedience school, she knew you were never supposed to yell at your dog when it came to you. Furthermore, you were not supposed to withhold *T*R*E*A*T*S* after you had promised them. So, guess what. Not only did I get yummies, I didn't even get reprimanded! Of course, I did get latched up to the leash immediately, hustled out the future front door, down the gangplank, and back down the street to home. Later that evening when dad got home, he was greeted with, "You'll never guess what Sierra did tonight.........."

P.S. Remember that fifteen foot wall around the foundation? Well, it moved gradually for two to three years after the house was built (everything moves in California, even when there's not an earthquake). So, one of these days soon, after the lawyers and insurance companies finish hassling things out, the workmen will be back to repair the retaining wall and all the cracks in the house. I can't wait.

I love the end-of-year holidays. Visitors abound, dispensing lots of pats and more than an occasional handout. The forbidden goodies inventory rises. And, above all, confusion reigns meaning that there's an above average opportunity for me to snarf some carelessly discarded tidbit. As near as I can tell, there's only two drawbacks: I have to spend part of the time boarding at the vet's, and mom and dad make me wear those silly antlers with the elastic strap that goes under your chin and the bell that dangles off one prong. But anyway, back to the story at paw.

One year when I was a fairly young dog, someone had given mom and dad an assortment of nuts and dried fruits for a Christmas present. Because they received this gift somewhere away from the house, mom and dad had packed it loosely in a brown supermarket bag for transport. Arriving back home, they rather unthinkingly put the package on the floor (as usual, every other available counter or table surface was piled high with clutter) and promptly forgot about it. But, I didn't.

Now everything that was in this bag was wrapped in plastic of one sort or another. It took me a few days, but my supersensitive sniffer could gradually discern that there was at least one interesting smell emanating from the sack. So, one night when mom was otherwise occupied down in what was known in the old house as the "lower room," I started sorting through the goody bag.

First, I had to nudge aside all the frilly paper that was stuffed at the top of the bag, probably put there with the illusion that I would think there was nothing edible underneath. Then I encountered a plate of dried fruit -- you know, apricots and dates and other such stuff. While these might have been interesting to nibble under other circumstances, my nose had honed in on a package further into the bag. So, turning the fruit platter on end, I pushed onward and downward. As the delectable odor became more pronounced, I knew I had finally reached my prize. The next puzzle was how best to break through the wrapping.

A ribbon gathered the plastic of this special little bag into a tight neck. But, since the plastic was noticeably thicker than glad-wrap, simple gnawing wasn't going to let me in easily. So, exercising greater oral dexterity, I yanked the ribbon off entirely and gently pried apart the folds of plastic. Success, at last! Now the fun could begin.

Gingerly, I lifted out some of the contents. But it turned out there was one final barrier -- the goodies came cloaked in their own natural cover. My next maneuver was to put a mouthful of my marble-size nuggets on the floor, pick each one up individually, bite down with enough force to crack the exterior, drop the two pieces, and then scoop up the prized kernel with great relish. I spent several minutes perfecting my technique and made considerable progress consuming the contents of my special little bag.

Meanwhile, mom was downstairs, probably sorting the laundry, one of many tasks in the housework constellation that she hates. Gradually into her consciousness drifted a strange noise from upstairs -- something like a clicking sound. Since this continued with fairly regular frequency for several minutes, mom decided to investigate.

Unfortunately for me, my scam was just about up. I had been betrayed by the tile floor. Every time I dropped a piece of my booty, it made a small clack. Obviously, enough of these had sounded to alert mom that something was awry. (Next time, I'll have to do it on the carpet.)

As mom thumped up the stairs from the lower room, I hurried, but there were too many left to finish. As mom's head appeared in the dining room, I knew I was done for. Then she stared at me in amazement and exclaimed, "SIERRA, YOU'RE SHELLING THE PISTACHIO NUTS!"

Luckily for me, mom and dad thought this trick was so clever that they eventually fed me the remainder of the entire bag one by one.

One pleasant early May evening back in 1993 or 1994, mom took the pesky varmint Siskiyou and me to the mall. Not that we got to go into any of the shops or walk up and down the promenade, mind you. I guess taking us for a ride in the car and then leaving us to guard it while she went into a store was mom's idea of an outing when she couldn't think of anything else more interesting. Anyway, we sat patiently, me behind the steering wheel and Sisk in the passenger's seat.

Mom was gone about a half hour. First, she want to the candy store named See's to pick up a Mother's Day present for dad's mom in Florida. Then she headed to the department store to purchase a few miscellaneous items. Finally, she wound up at the book store to browse and stock up on some interesting literature. Having three separate packages was proving a bit unwieldy, so mom consolidated them into the department store bag. And, since she knew she couldn't guard the bag from me and drive at the same time, she carefully placed the most valuable and vulnerable item -- the box of candy -- at the bottom.

The evening was progressing well for mom, until she made a tactical error. As she turned off the freeway toward home, mom suddenly decided that she needed a pick up a few things from the supermarket. So, instead of making a right hand turn to head up our street, she continued on another block and turned left toward the downtown. Arriving in the supermarket lot, mom pulled the car into a parking space, turned off the ignition, moved the gearshift to Park, and, without giving one thought to the shopping bag in the back, hastily climbed out, shut the door, and jogged over to the grocer's entrance.

All the way home from the shopping mall, the smell emanating from the See's candy box had been driving me crazy. Maybe See's isn't as fancy or as rich as say Godiva or even mom and dad's truffles, but it's good stuff nonetheless. (And, they have those homey ads on the radio at certain times of the year.) And, now I couldn't believe my good fortune to be left unsupervised in a car with an entire pound. I just couldn't help myself.

I knew I had to work quickly. First, I knocked the shopping bag onto its side. Then, with my front paws, I pulled the department store bag out and shoved it out of the way. Next, I nudged aside the books and grabbed onto the white See's bag which I rapidly ripped apart. Actually getting into the candy box was going to be a little harder than I had anticipated, because the box was giftwrapped and tied with a frilly little ribbon and bow. But, since I intended to take no prisoners, it wasn't going to matter what condition the box was left in, so I made a full frontal attack, crunching my teeth through the ribbon, wrapping, cardboard, et al. A few more such moves and the box was open. A rather neat job even if I do say so myself.

There they lay in front of me: nuts and chews, caramels, and creams of all sizes and flavors (mocha, orange, raspberry, vanilla, chocolate, lemon, and on and on and on). I ate them all so quickly, it was as if I was just inhaling chocolate -- ah! theobroma, food of the gods. (I also inhaled quite a few candy wrappers along with the real thing.) The pesky varmint Siskiyou watched me with a kind of wide-eyed amazement. She, of course, would never have thought of this on her own. Occasionally, she'd try to sneak over and get a piece, but a few well timed snarls kept her at bay.

When I was done, I left the remaining debris scattered throughout the back of the car (really a 4X4) and assumed my normal position in the driver's seat to wait for mom. Shortly, she reappeared out the door of the supermarket and headed for us. Opening the door, she gave me a pat and motioned for me to scoot to the back. But then suddenly she had this sense that there was an overwhelming aroma of chocolate in the car. Realizing that she didn't remember smelling this on the way back from the mall, she suspiciously turned to look in the back of the truck. The evidence was, of course, plain to see: the ripped bag, the strewn ribbon, the gouged box, the telltale candy wrappers. I sat there wagging my tail and looking as if nothing had happened. Mom then got into the back and searched around to see if there were any pieces left. Nope. Then she went over to the pesky varmint and checked her breath -- no chocolate smell there. In her best Sherlock Holmes style, mom then deduced that I had indeed eaten the entire pound of See's candy.

Normally, mom would have been very angry with me, but knowing that chocolate could be highly toxic to dogs, she feared that I would become quite ill and so didn't call me a BADDOG (I'm a very sensitive soul and really hate being called a BADDOG -- I get very nervous and beat my tail rapidly on the ground to let out my anxiety.) Realizing that this episode had occurred because of her own blunder, mom also felt quite guilty. Can you think of a better position for me to be in? Kind of like having your cake and eating it too (I like that analogy).

Anyway, mom rushed home and immediately called the vet's office. It was after hours, so she connected initially to the answering service. When the person on the other end responded, mom said, "My dog just ate my mother-in-law's mother's day present." In reply, the lady on the other end of the line burst out laughing. But, after recovering her composure in a few seconds, the operator did put mom through to the vet. And, despite her concern for my health, mom could see the humor in the situation, so she led off her conversation with the vet using much the same line, "Sierra just ate my mother-in-law's mother's day present." To which the vet replied, "I hope it wasn't a poisonous plant." (I think their opening remarks had something to do with mother-in-law humor.) Then they got into an extended discussion of my condition and doggy/chocolate toxicology.

On mom's part, the conversation went something like ... "She ate an entire pound of See's candy (you better believe it!) ....yes, wrappers and all (I didn't have time to discriminate) ... no, I don't think she let Siskiyou have any (no way!) ... it wasn't solid chocolate (too bad) ... a mixture of different flavors (they were all pretty good, except the pineapple) ... she seems fine right now (of course, I felt fine -- I had just eaten an entire box of candy -- wouldn't you feel fine?)" I can surmise that the vet's comments were of the following nature ... "She'd need to eat 35 candy bars for it to be really bad for her (sounds interesting) ... if she were here in front of me, I'd pump her stomach (that's disgusting) ... she'll probably get sick in a few hours (oh, great) ... bring her in the morning and we'll look at her (helps me meet another of life's goals -- driving mom and dad to the poorhouse -- I'm doing a pretty good job of that, too, since I've had bouts with skin cancer on and off for six years)."

So, there was nothing else for mom to do now, except worry. (She's really good at that -- seems to be a strongly inherited trait from the Massachusetts grandmom. Dad never worries about anything -- it drives mom up a wall.) We continued the evening as if nothing had happened and turned in to bed at our normal time. Unfortunately, the vet was right. In the middle of the night, I was awakened by loud gurgling noises and cramps in my tummy and intestines. The chocolate really hadn't settled well and I really needed to go *O*U*T*. So, I nudged mom awake and she let me out in the back yard. This happened several more times during the night until my system cleaned itself out. In the morning, mom took me in to the vet for "observation." But, of course, there was nothing to observe except a perfectly contented trashdog.

In the backyard at my previous residence grew a rather unkempt old crabapple tree. Shortly after mom and dad moved into this house back in 1982, mom made an apple tart using the fruit of this tree. Concluding that the resulting pastry was rather bland, mom and dad never harvested the apples for themselves ever again. They did, however, still appreciate the arb for its horticultural value. You know, stuff like: pretty pink flowers in the spring and refreshing shade over the deck in the heat of the summer (frankly I think they were lucky no one ever got bonked on the head with a falling apple and sued them).

Less than a year later, I entered the scene, and by mid-summer had discovered that the greenish red ornaments dangling from the crabapple's branches eventually fell to the ground, providing a luscious dessert. I spent that and every summer thereafter running around the yard scooping up the fallen apples, even the soft, rotten, and wormy ones (a little extra protein). My brother and later the pesky varmint Siskiyou didn't seem to have quite the same appetite, so the bounty was all mine! Some years I ate so many apples that my normally svelte middle would bulge a bit by September. The vet even once had the audacity to say that he had never seen a dog "bulk up" on apples like Sierra did.

But then deprivation set in. We moved in 1992. Remember mom and dad's dream house -- well I don't know whose dream it was -- certainly not mine -- there were no apples trees! In fact, there wasn't much useful vegetation at all. The bulldozers, drilling rigs, and heavy trucks had created a compacted desolate wasteland all around the structure. There were some older trees and shrubs on the perimeter of the lot, but no apple trees. In retrospect, the grounds looked pretty pathetic that first May when we moved in. It was now the seventh year of a seven year drought, and the water company wasn't keen on people using a lot of H₂O just to add some greenery. So, we basically lived in a dustbowl for the first year.

As fall approached and the rainy season looked like it might make a comeback, mom and dad started talking about developing a master landscaping plan (read this as mom's master landscaping plan with dad getting to install the irrigation pipe where she told him to). Listening closely, I heard them say they really needed to put in some apple trees since Sierra liked them so much at the old house. My prospects were improving. Enter Aunt Jeanne the plant lady (as distinguished from Aunt Jean the cake lady -- she'll be in a later chapter). (Note: I have a few real aunts and uncles; the rest are mom and dad's friends who are my honorary aunts and uncles.) Aunt Jeanne the plant lady specializes in gardening and using mom and dad's yard as a laboratory for her ideas. That's fine with mom and dad since they're horticulturally challenged.

Finally, they all settled on phase one and a tantalizing phrase caught my ear: They were going to put in a weeping flowering crabapple, malus ecktermeyer by name. The specimen arrived in a fifteen gallon tub in late fall and was planted right by the front door. My mouth watered in anticipation all winter; the tree flowered right on schedule in March; and then (drool) set small dark purplish fruit. But, mom and dad and Aunt Jeanne had betrayed me. As a food source, malus ecktermeyer was a dud. As it turned out, the tree existed primarily for ornamental value, and, in our case, for deer fodder. The so-called fruit was small, hard, and yucky. So, I spent the summer of 1993 forlornly scrounging around the backyard searching for the occasional plum that fell from the wild plum trees that grew by the fence.

Apple opportunity looked like it might knock once again at the end of 1993. The drought was over, and mom and Aunt Jeanne had progressed to phase three of the landscaping program. Their focus had by now moved from the front yard to the back, and mom said they had to plant some "real" apple trees for Sierra. One Sunday afternoon with the plant catalogues spread all over the kitchen table, mom and Aunt Jeanne picked out three new apple trees for me: a Granny Smith for baking, a Gala which is supposed to withstand hot summers very well, and a Sierra Beauty because mom and I liked the name. Shortly, the tree order arrived and some men came to plant them at the far end of the flat area of the backyard, about 100 feet away from the back door.

Do you know what three young dwarf apple trees look like? Well, let me tell you, not much. Kind of remind me of the scraggly Christmas tree in the Charlie Brown made-for-TV holiday cartoon. They're basically narrow sticks with a few puny limbs that look like they're pasted on the top. I must admit, I had my doubts about them, particularly after having been duped by the malus ecktermeyer out front.

Spring of 1994 rolled around bringing appleblossom time with it. The three dwarfs all put out nice flowers. By summer, the Granny and the Gala were developing some good-looking fruit, and I kept my eye on them every day. One thing I quickly figured out was that there was a distinct advantage to having a young dwarf tree: The limbs were fairly close to the ground and with a little effort I could reach up and grab the apples right off the tree. But that proved to be my downfall. The puny limbs on the Gala weren't very sturdy, and, in grasping an apple, I snapped a branch right off. Mom wasn't too pleased about that since the number of branches was pretty limited to begin with. And, after discussing the matter with so-called experts, she stripped the tree of fruit that summer before I destroyed it. Darn!

Now it was time to move in on the Granny Smith. This tree was the tallest of the three and I couldn't reach any limbs. But I didn't let that stop me. It seemed to me that with a little assistance, the apples could be convinced to fall off the tree onto the ground. And I would be the vehicle to provide that "little assistance." Standing straight up on my hind legs, I pressed my front paws against the toothpick of a trunk and started rocking. Slowly the tree began shaking. Momentum built further and I got some good oscillation going. Unfortunately, just at that moment, mom happened to look out the family room window and spied me. Her first thought was, "Now what is Sierra doing?" Then it sunk in: Sierra is trying to get the apples to fall off the tree -- either that or demolish the twig altogether. Fearing that I was going to topple her prize baking tree over, mom dashed out of the house, ran across the lawn, and grabbed me away from Granny. Of course, she then had to go strip that tree, too. Worse, Aunt Jean the cake lady came to visit shortly thereafter and ate all my Grannies herself and didn't even share!

Next season, mom and dad were bound and determined to keep me away from the apple trees while they were still in their formative stages. But, to foil me, extraordinary measures were called for. The tactic settled upon was to move some of the wire mesh deer cages, which had been installed to protect early plantings at the front of the house, out back to the apple trees. The new "Sierra guards," as they were dubbed, prevented me from getting within about two feet of the apple tress. Or so mom and dad thought.

As summer progressed, all three trees put out a small crop. Mom hand fed me some of the Galas, but saved all the Grannies for baking. That left only the Sierra Beauty. Since SB had not borne fruit the first year, mom didn't know what to expect from it. Finally, around Labor Day, she thought it would be time to harvest the tree's few apples which she had been assiduously watching for the prior three weeks. But, guess what, when she got there, the tree was bare. To this day, mom and dad can't figure out if and how I or any other animal got to the apples. I, for one, am not telling.

P.S. While transcribing this chapter for me, mom looked up the apple tree names in her Sunset Western Garden Book, so we could be correct. I would like to add some editorial comment to the official descriptions.

Gala: vigorous, heavy bearer with long, supple branches that break easily. -- See, it wasn't my fault that the branch snapped.

Sierra Beauty: large, yellow with red stripes. Firm, sweet-tart....exceptionally attractive. -- I thought so, too.

The year was 1989, and it had not turned out to be a good year at all. By fall, my brother Lassen had been diagnosed with leukemia and was undergoing chemotherapy. Florida granddad's health had started failing. And, all of us had just been jiggled by the big northern California Loma Prieta earthquake, so mom and dad's nerves were perpetually on edge. Under these trying circumstances, you can easily understand that no one, and I mean no one, was paying any attention to me. Of course, to a trashdog, anonymity has its advantages.

At Thanksgiving time, mom and dad and Lassen and I all went to our cabin in the mountains. On Thanksgiving day itself, we took a hike around the lake, and then the two-legged beings stuffed their faces with the traditional turkey and all the fixin's. Since about the only people food we're allowed is bread, pasta, and ice cream, Lassen and I didn't get to partake of the feast. The next day, in a tradition that dates back many years, mom and dad went to a big arts and crafts fair held at the county fair grounds located about 30 miles back down the mountain. I've never been there myself, even though some doggies do seem to get in. Weather depending, the canines in our family either get cooped up in the car while the folks go visit the booths, or we get left home in the cabin, usually stuck in the bathroom.

This year, the weather had turned bad on Thanksgiving afternoon, with temperatures dropping to just above freezing and a chill drizzle falling. On Friday, mom and dad took us with them to the craft fair, and, while they gadded about the exhibition halls, we huddled in the truck listening to the raindrops plinking on the roof. Around mid-afternoon, mom and dad returned and we all drove back up the mountain to our cabin.

Just as the other three were about to go in the backdoor, my attention was diverted by the faint trace of an interesting aroma. I acted like I needed to visit the bushes for a moment and, then when their backs were turned, I split to follow my nose. A few minutes later, mom came out and called for me, but by now I had found my target and so just plain ignored her. Since I had often been known to "disappear" for anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour, mom didn't give my lack a response a second thought. About an hour or so later I showed up at the back door, cold and dripping, but eminently happy.

Around 6 o'clock, mom got out the dog food canister, and dished out a serving each for Lassen and me. My brother voraciously downed his in a few minutes, but frankly, my tummy was so full from my afternoon foray that I could barely look at, much less eat, the kibble. Mom noticed my lack of appetite and commented to dad that "Sierra doesn't seem interested in dinner. I hope she's not sick." Mom had become extremely sensitive to our dietary habits since Lassen stopped eating for a while when he first got ill. So, not wanting to worry her, I forced myself to down my dinner. Saturday and early Sunday progressed normally, complete with several more walks, dinners, and *T*R*E*A*T*S*.

Then all hell broke loose, so to speak. Mom was in the bathroom, getting dressed after finishing her shower. Suddenly, she heard dad screaming at me, uttering all sorts of words she didn't even know were in his vocabulary, even though they'd been married for many years. Mom rushed out to find that I'd thrown up all over the brand new living room rug. Since dog regurgitation follows the LIFO convention (for you non-accountants, that's "Last In, First Out"), they were confronted with a pile of mushy dog food. I was unceremoniously banished to the kitchen, while mom and dad disposed of the mess. Luckily, they had some pretty good rug cleaner in the closet, so my depravity didn't leave any stains.

What mom and dad didn't know was that this was just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. My tummy at this point was in great turmoil and I had to find a way to relieve my discomfort. So, I started heaving again. Mom noticed I was about to toss my cookies once more, and quickly threw me out on the deck just as round two emerged. Rounds three and four followed within the next hour. Then my two-day old secret was a secret no more, for spread in front of us all over the deck were turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, candied yams, salad, green beans, cranberries, pumpkin pie.

Having examined my stomach contents, mom had now figured out what had transpired. Her line of reasoning went like this. Because of the dismal weather, our cabin neighbors had gone home on Friday morning. They placed their leftovers in one of those aluminum roasting pans and put it outside their back door for the raccoons. But, I discovered the remnants of their feast on Friday afternoon and helped myself to all of it. However, the sheer volume of what I consumed proved to be indigestible, so I had this full course Thanksgiving dinner fermenting in my stomach for almost two days, with several meals of dog kibble piled on top. Finally, something had to give, and you now know the rest.

Boy, was I in the dog house for the rest of the day. Nobody spoke to me on the trip home. But did this cure me of eating X-rated goodies? Not on your life.

The following Thanksgiving, mom and dad were paying most of their attention to the pesky varmint Siskiyou who was almost a year old. That gave me an opportunity to sneak away during one of our walks to the lake and slip under somebody's cabin to check out what was under there. After a while, mom and dad realized I wasn't around. The pesky varmint could hear me barking, though (somehow I had gotten under this cabin, but couldn't figure how to get out, and so was trying to get someone's attention). Eventually Sisk and dad found me, and dad managed to drag me out through a really small hole in the foundation. By Saturday night, mom and dad were congratulating themselves on having "contained" me for the Thanksgiving weekend. Little did they know. Around three o'clock Sunday morning, I started feeling ill and desperately needed to go *O*U*T*. Since mom and dad were sleeping like logs, it was proving difficult to get their attention. Finally, in mooching around the living room, I knocked over a lamp, and that finally woke them up. Mom let me out. I came in a few minutes later, but still didn't feel well. We were all about to go back to bed, but then I felt like I needed to take more drastic measures to purge my system, so I started to get a heaving motion going. Mom quickly directed me out the back door. By now the pesky varmint Siskiyou was up and thought it was really neat to be going out to play at three o'clock in the morning. But the moment I got outside I threw up. Siskiyou came over to me, assessed the situation, and pretty much said *Y*U*C*K*. Of course, throughout the day on Sunday there were several more such episodes. The only thing mom and dad could figure out was that I must have eaten whatever creature was living under that cabin. I'm just keeping mum about the whole situation.

Back to Sierra's Page

Property of Ellen Reintjes (Mtndogmom@aol.com) copyright (c) 1998