Juniper, a dog, yawns, inadvertently revealing her mouth full of sharp teeth. I love a good picture of a dog caught mid-yawn, because on the one hand, it’s a completely benign behavior by a sleepy creature who feels safe, and on the other, it’s a reminder of the formidable Natural Attacks that dogs possess. The depicted yawn is a particular favorite, because this squinty, effortful yawn has the look of the full-throated scream of a rock vocalist belting out the chorus, while also being situated in the context of surroundings that are only soft and comfy.

Barley, a dog, is mid-stride as she glances at a staircase, as if considering whether to ascend. Barley has no strong opinion one way or the other about stairs (the ascends and descends with similar ease and enthusiasm), but if she gets within about one body length of a staircase, one of her two “stair protocols” is liable to kick in. This has become automatic enough that I have to be careful when walking her past a staircase I have no intention of climbing, because if she decides to go for it while I’m not paying attention, I need to be light on my feet to avoid accidentally giving her a more-perilous-than-usual yank of the leash.

Barley, a dog, lounges on the futon, with paws tucked under her chin. The camera is close enough to her nose that it creates a fish-eye-lens effect, making her block-head seem even bigger than usual. It’s now a fairly settled scientific matter that domesticated dogs are big fans of eye contact (which, interestingly, is less true for wolves). This certainly seems to be true for Barley, who often gazes deeply in the eyes of her human interlocutors as they praise her sweet demeanor. What I find quite interesting is that, given the choice, Barley is usually more interested in bodily contact than she is in eye contact. If someone sits down on the futon, she turns her face away from them in order to flop her whole flank against their body in a big sprawling lean. I think eye contact is just one of several means to a more global end: immediate and continuous sensory information that she and another are currently Hanging Out.

Barley, a dog, tromps through a park toward a picnic table that is conspicuously positioned in the deep shape of several close, tall trees. I most frequently play host to out-of-town guests during the summer, when the Pacific Northwest’s gray drizzle gives way to a (mostly) really lovely stretch of summer. On more than one occasion, such guests have wondered aloud why the parks near my home all seem to have their picnic areas well out of the sunlight, often in shade that feels oppressively dark, even at midday. Residents of sunnier states are surprised to learn how willing the locals around these parts are to go to the park amid scattered showers. That said, there are limits, and if a table isn’t bolted down, there’s a good chance someone has needed to drag the table under a tree’s canopy to at least keep the food dry.

Barley, a dog, sits on a futon, her fur still visibly damp, with a white towel draped over her shoulders. And just like that, Barley’s clean once more! The big payoff of a Barleybath is a really unreasonable level of softness that lasts 4-5 days. Don’t get me wrong, her fur is always very pleasant to pet. It’s just that most of the time, it has a certain grain to it, and petting against that grain is really more of a “giving scritches” experience (which, of course, she is also very into). In this post-bath window, however, Barley is at her most velvety, and she’s as soft as a toy, every which way you pet her.

Barley, a dog, stands reluctantly in a bathtub, her fur and harness visibly darkened by splotches of mud. As short as Barley’s fur is, she can never get too muddy, but a playdate like the one in yesterday’s post demands an immediate response. As soon as we left, she was whisked home and rushed directly into the bathtub before her leash & harness had even come off. After all, they were as dirty as she was! Fortunately, Barley has become quite tolerant of bathtime. She seems to understand that compliant behavior (a) hastens the whole process and (b) yields 4-5 treats over the course of the experience! And with such short fur, it’s a really speedy process. By contrast, her golden retriever buddy ended up requiring about an hour’s worth of washing and drying before he could be allowed back onto any of the furniture.

Barley, a dog, stands alert in a yard whose grass has been reduced to a mud pit by rain and dog frolicking. At her feet lies a golden retriever, looking up playfully and ready to spring back into action. By a curious coincidence, both of the dogs with whom Barley hangs out from time to time are golden retrievers. Unlike her work buddy, however, this young fellow is still full of puppy energy, being only a year old. Heavy rains the night before this playdate guaranteed that these pups were going to tear the place up, and after an hour of enthusiastic rough-housing, it felt like Barley left wearing a not-insubstantial proportion of the yard. Needless to say, her playmate’s longer fur absorbed even more of the terrain.

Juniper, a dog, reacts to a scene in Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy (2004) in which the title character’s dog (not pictured) has just been kicked off a bridge. Juniper does not seem to have understood the events in the scene, displaying enthusiasm for whatever is going on. Broadly speaking, Juniper’s preferred genres are sitcoms and baking shows. She likes shows that are bright, with expressive actors who have upbeat energy. Sitcoms in particular have the advantage that while the characters are over the top, the budget usually limits things to relatively simple camera moves and relatively few special effects. Also, the most intense negative emotions (blind rage, intense pain, extreme fear) are all generally off the table. Action movies, by contrast, are too high-energy, dramas are fine but a little boring, and horror movies stress her out vicariously because she keys into how stressed out the audience gets. Even so, it’s pretty clear that as much as she loves television, she’s not following the action the way we are. These photos were captured because the people watching the film knew this scene was coming and wanted to see how she would react, and the entire room had to pause the film to laugh it off because her reaction was one of unqualified and clearly non-comprehending enthusiasm.

Barley, a dog, closely inspects the plastic head of a Spider-Man action figure, lying by itself on some grass with no body in sight. One of the curious features of Spider-Man as a creative property is that it has long practiced a form of “facial erasure” that, to varying degrees, denies the geometry of the human head. The degree of indulgence varies from artist to artist; nearly all deny the existence of the nose to a degree that makes anime seem anatomical by comparison, but skim through panels rendered for the comic and you’ll often spy depictions that gloss over the ears and chin as well. From this cutting of corners, one can only conclude that the logical conclusion of the Spider-Man brand is a sort of Spider-Egg, with the entire franchise following a slow Benjamin Button arc of the character gradually morphing to his pre-hatched state.

Barley, a dog, stands beside an austere black metal fence, beyond which is a laws whose color and uniformity both seem completely unnatural. I generally try not to put a person’s home on blast in these commentaries, but sometimes a come across a yard whose aesthetic seems to alien to my own sensibilities, and so effortful to maintain, that it leaves my mind a little boggled. I’m pretty sure this yard has living grass, but I haven’t reached through the fence to feel around and find out. Every other aspect of this yard is maintained within such intense tolerances that I feel checking if the lawn is astroturf would be seen as an invasion of the perimeter by the homeowner. It’s possible I’ve been fooled and the grass is really high quality astroturf, but given that the homeowner clearly removes any leaves or debris larger than my thumb on a daily basis, I would not put it past them to tend to this patch with the attention of a PGA-rated golf course botanist.

Barley, a dog, walks in the grass along the base of a white stucco wall. As someone in just the right age bracket to have been charmed by Banksy’s rise to fame early enough to retain a sense of nostalgia for that era of street art, I can’t help but see the potential in a blank patch of wall. In this case, however, Barley is already such a work of art that I think this photo lends itself more to another gag popular in the oughts: chroma key compositing. So if anyone wants to pull the bright whites out of this to give Barley a different mural as a backdrop, feel free to do so.

Barley, a dog, stands in the lower center frame, with an incense cedar and a giant sequoia reaching their painterly trunks into the sky behind her. There are some very lovely trees where I work. The nearer of the two in this photo is (I believe) an incense cedar, while the more distance is an ornamental giant sequoia. The two in juxtaposition regularly give me art history vibes, as their coloration and the shape of their crowns strike me as altogether too impressionistic. Seeing them gives me the same sort of, “Oh, you!” amusement as a surprising outfit worn by a flamboyant coworker.

Barley, a dog, enthusiastically asserts dominance over a golden retriever, who submits with equal enthusiasm. Barley’s encounters with her once-in-a-while work buddy are very fun to watch, because their personalities are complementary opposites. Barley is quite bossy with other dogs - she wants to play, but very much as a top dog who is issuing An Edict Promoting Play at all times. Her pal, on the other hand, is one of the most submissive dogs I’ve ever met, and she immediately shows Barley her belly as soon as Barley gives even a hint of throwing her weight around. So a typical greeting between the two is Barley pinning her pal to the floor, making a chin-on-head stack, as both wag their tails excitedly.

Barley, a dog, walks past a fallen tree those upper branches have been sectioned off to clear the path, revealing the tree rings beneath. It’s funny how quickly the brain falls back into essentialist thinking. If I see a mossy log, my first instinct is to think of it as a feature of the environment, almost like a piece of furniture, and not as the horizontal afterlife of a once-living tree. Awareness that the features of the natural world all had to have somehow gotten to where they are, and that their position and character is transient on the scale of years or decades, is slippery, especially for someone as indoorsy as myself. I all-too-easily take today’s thin slice in time and extrapolate, assuming something superficial extends durably into the past and future. All of which is my long-winded way of trying to justify the dumb thought I had when I took this picture: “Huh! How weird that this log has rings!”

Juniper, a dog, rests her head on a very firm and lofty pillow while relaxing on the guest bed. In contrast to Barley’s “I’ll just plop down right here and then figure out what I’m doing later” approach to soft surfaces, Juniper’s meticulous and calculating approach to everything shows through in the ways she seem to “use” the features of those surfaces. She’s picky about getting things ‘just so,’ pawing and fussing if they’re not in a good configuration and finally settling into what seems like very deliberate poses.

Barley, a dog, peers out across a grassy field, lined in the distance by buildings and tall trees. This photo is now just a bit out of date, reflecting the final days of wintry weather back in mid-March. We may consider this as a marker in time before three major changes. First, the deciduous trees have finally begun to provide some greenery to compete with the conifers. Second, the grass has begun to grow more rapidly, and the passing of the lawn mowers have done away with the lingering leaf litter visible in this photo. Third, the most significant development from Barley’s perspective, has been the return of the Canadian geese that by the hundreds claim this lawn as their turf for six-to-eight months every year. With their arrival, the lawn is effectively closed to Barley, not because she poses any meaningful risk to the geese themselves, but because she simply will not stop trying to eat goose poop.

Barley, a dog, sploot-stands while enthusiastically holding a toy donkey, either about to stand or about to lie down. A lot of Barley’s play behavior involves an intuitive sort of call-and-response. A person crouching down might be settling down to roll around on the floor, or might be making a bow before springing into motion. Fortunately, she does not mind a playmate who hasn’t quite made of their mind. Just pick a direction and Barley will follow your lead; wait too long, and she’ll just take the lead herself.

Barley, a dog, trots along a concrete path that shines with a thin layer of fresh rainwater. In contrast with the drab patches mentioned in yesterday’s post, other parts of our walks feel enlivened with the coming of spring. Even the rain feels more lively. In the place of winter drizzle, it’s now quite common for the clouds to break after a rainfall and for the pavement to reflect light back up at us as we walk toward the sun.

Barley, a dog, sniffs about among the dead leaves and branches beside a foot path. Even as spring is making itself undeniably felt with the warming weather and blooming flowers, I can’t help but feel as though some patches of land have yet to slip free of winter’s grasp. Through some mix of tough soil and limited exposure, I swear there are bits I walk Barley past that have had the same layer of leaf litter, hardly changed for the last six months.

Barley, a dog, makes herself as small as she can as she crouches behind a piece of furniture, nervous on account of distant thunder. As I’ve mentioned in the past, Barley experiences a lot of anxiety relating to stormy weather, and a pretty broad class of “sky rumbles” will inspire her to seek cover and make herself small. Note here how her legs are tucked under her body and her chin is lowered to the floor. This is not a dog who is curling up for a nap. She is also very insistent that her hiding spot have a solid-seeming roof. Her crate, for example, does not pass muster, and when as storm rolls through, it’s very common for her to spring out of her crate and get under a neighboring table instead. This tells me she has some intuition that distinguishes “soft cover” from “hard cover,” but I haven’t quite deciphered her rule of thumb for making that distinction.