Dogs 184-191

I'm not one to draw conclusions here, but I am basically 100% certain that this is the president of German shepherds. Looks ... looks like he doesn't have any orders at the moment, but maybe we should just hang out and wait in case he wants a bone or a bowl of water or something. It could happen.


The white one: "Can you feel the breeze, dude? There's a breeze if you just -- look, if you just lean like this, it's totally there, it's like being in a car or something. Can you feel it?"

The brown one: "I'm more interested in why my leash is so damn short at the moment. Do you have any ideas? Hey, look at me. Look this way. I'm talking to you, man."


Before you start hearing the Lassie theme whistling in your head, please note that this guy occupies a surface area equivalent to exactly one square of sidewalk at most. Not exactly Timmy-rescuing material, but he's so damn soft-looking I could care less. I didn't pet him, though, because I didn't want to disrupt his concentration. Maybe he was making sure the waiter got those really long-looking specials right.


This chief spent the entire time I was trying to take his picture coming up to everyone who passed by like they were his long-lost parents and he wanted to go home and see what they'd done with the old homestead. Was he just hungry for a burger or did he not have any idea who he'd even arrived there with? Dogs are awesome.


The Bandanna Brothers here just want everyone who visits this place to feel right at home, especially if every visitor's home contains two really happy dogs who want to play catch so bad they're practically giving off sparks.


I need to know who was in charge of the breeding line or whatever you want to call it that produced the fur pattern on this fella. Was there somebody a hundred years ago who laid down a plan to make a dog that would have two little white spots in exactly those places? Is he still around in spirit form, just following this dude around and cackling to himself contentedly under his vaporous ghost breath?


Who's the sleepiest-looking dog I've seen since I started this thing? Who? What's more, are you just a puppy or are you full-grown? What the hell are you going to be like in a year if it's the former? Should I build the temple in your honor now or later, is what I want to know.


I've got no words for this. I just don't. Sorry.


This guy is ready. He's ready for his game. He's got his ball and he's just waiting for his owner to come back outside and they are going to wreck some shit. He's got his ball, and he is prepared. Without that collar on, he is so streamlined, he's beyond motion. He makes a greased-up otter look like a manatee's fat, cough-syrup-addicted momma in steel-belted army boots. This right here is the truest thing that has ever been said anywhere on the internet. I know this.

Still wondering if anyone out there is a literary agent or happens to work in the publishing field. I've got an idea for you. Email's on the right.

See you next time, people.

Dogs 177-183

"The release mechanism is around here somewhere. I'm close, I'm close, I can smell it. Goddamn."


This might've been the happiest dog in the Marina. Usually I reserve that assumption for golden retrievers, but you should've seen him wag that tail. Maybe he was just having a good day, or maybe he knew his people were inside the restaurant saving him bacon for later.


Maybe this one's part cat. Look at that pose. All predatory, watchful. Patient. You can't fool me, I've seen nature shows.


He stood like that basically the entire time, as if he thought the parking meter was going to give any second and he could go right into the Pottery Barn and grab himself a shiny bronze throw pillow for his goosedown-stuffed doggy bed. I know they make those. That SkyMall catalogue is full of weird, weird shit.


Possibly the greatest puppy I have ever seen aside from my own dog when he was little. There is absolutely no part of this dog that's not completely on, right down to the look on his face. That is a little dude who's got things handled. Damn. Dammit.


Another one of those moments happened in the Mission where I had to check and make sure I was actually seeing what my eyes were feeding my brain. Look at these two amazing guys just sitting there. In the upper right corner, a slightly closer look at one of their extremely boss collars, proof of their total and unquestioned mastery over the entire city of San Francisco.


What's up, dogs. What is up.


As seen from inside the wing place on Valencia & 17th: These fellas. I'm pretty sure the small one is in charge. Look at the way he sits. "They've got two more minutes to bring the meat out here, and then we're leaving. That's the plan. Don't screw it up this time."

Question: Is anyone out there a publisher or a book agent, or do you know one? If you are or do, hit me up at dogblogSF(at)gmail(dot)com; I have an idea I'd like to bounce off you.