Picasso and the Dog Catcher

Barely fortified by a middling sized (grande) cup of Verona from the Westport Starbucks, I made it back from Waldo South by 8 a.m. On a Saturday. After a Friday evening spent at Fric 'n Frac. Bad mommy, bad! All the companion canines had their legs crossed -- hello, biped, how would YOU like to go 11 hours without a pee? Nah, didn't think so! Still, it's not as if the pups had a skinful to burden their bladders -- and neither did I. Sigh. 'Twas a wineless evening, as horrific as that sounds.

It's a Fric 'n Frac thing. Stopped girlfriend from ordering wine at the neighborhood joint. Inferior jugs, open god-knows-how-long, do not make for quaffable wine. The tiny slosh of pink stuff delivered to a nearby table confirmed my disdainful take on "bars and grills" -- unless yer a fan of "White Zinfandel," don't EVEN order vino at dives. Order things that come in closed containers. Beer. Or beer. Or perhaps beer.

Not being a beer drinker, I had what is quaintly termed a "margarita" at F & F. It's not lacking in tequila or mix, but it always comes. . . carbonated. Bubbly. Ennyhoo -- I slouched home from Starbucks with my companion firecracker, she of the red hair and fiery disposition. It was a new day. A Saturday.

Dropped off Picasso's daily fare (a few cups of Kirkland Chicken and Rice, dry, with a partial can of wet) in the evergreens, a task made more challenging by the ice-coated evergreens bending down to the ground. Slithering on my belly, I managed to snag the empty bowl and replace it with the full, gathering the usual pine needles down the back of my pants, with the lovely addition of sleet particles. My darling wild dog did not make an appearance during the butt-chilling morning foray, but I didn't think much of it, being more focused on rushing home to Brandyn and the rest of the pack.

Pack sated, Brandyn doing better, I was startled to see an Animal Control truck slowly cruising down my street. Startled, and suspicious. And, quickly, anxious -- anxiety being my forte. From calm to fretful, in five seconds. Was the guy after Picasso? Worse, was Picasso injured, or dead? Stomach jumping, cursing not so softly, I watched from my window as the truck driver walked a small circle around 26th and Charlotte. He didn't seem to find anything, which perked me up a bit. No way Picasso would get caught by ANYONE, if he weren't crippled.

Girlfriend and I hit the streets just as the truck departed. Slushy, frozen, grey snow/ice crunched beneath our boots as we made the trek 'round the block, tracking doggie footprints and wondering where in Hades the warming trend was. It's been four days since I was able to enter my icicle of a car, and I had hoped to make a Costco run. . . ah well. We proceeded to Picasso's evergreen hideout, his Midtown den where only I and a few others know there is an igloo doghouse cached away from prying eyes.

I don't know if Picasso has ever USED his kennel, mind you, but it comforts me to know that he can survive any Kansas City weather if he's inside it. And the boy is a survivor, no doubt about that. It's been years, perhaps three, since Laura and I first spotted him limping through the neighborhood. No one has ever gotten close enough to pet him, although for many months all the Hospital Hill interns and students dumped fast-food leftovers by his intersection.

I spotted Picasso as we turned the corner onto 25th Street, heading east to Charlotte. He seemed okay, and I inwardly cheered his victory over the forces of Animal Control. The driver probably never even saw our boy.

Picasso knows me, knows my voice, as much as he knows anyone, I suspect. I'm the daily deliverer of a hot breakfast, and that counts for much, even in the world of wolves. Wild dogs, that is. Lone ranger. Piney recluse.

Still, even though I'm the feeder, and the namer, I was surprised when Picasso popped out to follow me up the street. That's only the second time he's ever done that -- the other time when I was walking Dio. That was when I first wondered if Picasso were a female, Dio being a stud of a dog and Picasso showing friendly interest.

"He just wants food," Andie opined. "Well get him some then," I responded, worried my Picasso would cross the street into traffic. I crossed back to his side, and waited while girlfriend trudged up the hill to fetch the grub. Picasso had re-hidden himself by the time his second helping was deposited, but I imagine he's up there now, snoozing on a full belly and dreaming of how well he's got his humans trained.

That's what HE thinks. No way I'm sharing my stash of wine with that mutt, no matter how prettily he bats his eyes.