Selfish Sharing

I sense my co-workers consider me generous for sharing my food. If they do, they are mistaken about my motives; I share for purely selfish reasons.

I’m a fairly healthy eater, and I consume a lot of produce. When at work, I typically eat an apple or a pear every afternoon and, typically, I dissect the fruit into bite-sized chunks. Upon arranging the chunks on a plate, I stroll from cubicle to cubicle, tempting my co-workers like Snow White’s witch. Sometimes I even encourage Alicia to snag seconds. Usually she does. My co-workers thank me as I make my rounds. I feel good about myself.

But what Alicia, Pete, Traci and Eliza don’t realize about my handouts is this: They are simply a means of mitigating my own future discomfort. Because as much as I love produce, produce does not reciprocate. Instead, produce ties my intestines into tight coils that build and bulge and bide their time until they can unfurl at only the most inappropriate times – namely, during group exercise classes. All that jumping and bouncing and bending is quite dangerous post-pear, and I’ve learned to limit my produce intake on downward dogging days so as to avoid any unnecessary clenching of buttocks.

The sweaty shirtless guy in last night’s Vinyasa Yoga class must keep all his pear chunks to himself. During my favorite pose, Shavasana, or “Corpse Pose,” he released a mighty wind, a thunderclap loud enough to rouse the dead. He certainly roused me from my meditations, deep ruminating thoughts on subjects such as whether my yoga pants make my butt look big and whether there was enough leftover spaghetti for dinner. My eyelids snapped open. I waited for the ensuing laughter, but nobody – not even the 6-year-old yoga prodigy accompanying her mother – snickered. The room remained silent, an unnatural silence suddenly devoid of the twiggy gray-haired lady’s throaty breathing and the neon tights girl’s coughing. Oh, mortification, Sweaty Shirtless Guy! Staring at the ceiling, I thanked the heavens my own musical fruit remained unplayed.  

I don’t want to be that guy.     

So, I ask you, Alicia: What’ll it be tomorrow? Bosc or Bartlett? Fuji or Gala? You pick. I’ll serve.

Polishing a turd: 1317 Sunnyslope Avenue, Belmont

There’s a brand new home in my neighborhood: bright blue paint, cheery yellow front door, generous picture window for gazing from the well-appointed living room to a tree-lined street. With four bedrooms spread across 1,910 square feet, No. 1317 Sunnyslope Avenue in Belmont seems the perfect starter home for a young family – a young family able to foot the $1.4 million price tag.

One month ago, No. 1317 appeared condemned. I know because I toured the property when it was listed for $795,000: The moldy wood floors sagged. The warped window sashes failed to meet the sills. The ramshackle addition towering over the main structure threatened to crumble. When the house was constructed back in 1938, the property likely included land now occupied by newer, neighboring houses. Present day, the home is stuffed onto a tiny, 4,410 square foot lot, the only “backyard” a buckled concrete driveway.

I carried the home’s real estate flyer to my home and work and showed it to my disbelieving husband and coworkers. I texted a picture to a friend in Denver and posted the image on Facebook.

The flyer’s text read like a warning:

“Prospective buyers are advised to check with the City of Belmont regarding any plans to remodel or redevelop the property, and satisfy themselves as to the property’s condition and future potential for remodel or redevelopment.”

In the two years I’ve lived in Silicon Valley, I’ve come to appreciate its realtors as a particularly delusional lot. They pepper their property publications with flowery descriptions, selecting adjectives like “beautiful” and “charming” willy-nilly to characterize 600-square-foot shacks abutting Caltrain railroad crossings. But Anthony Christen of Coldwell Banker, so cock-sure of a sale in this mania of a real estate market, simply told it like it was: “this large home has been vacant off and on for the past 2 to 4 years.” BEWARE.

I took to referring to No. 1317 as “the toxic waste dump house,” a building in such disarray and with so many red flag disclosures that it had to be harboring oil tank contamination – or at least a few decomposing bodies under the fetid floorboards. When it sold for $1,065,500 -- $270,500 over asking price – after just eight days on the market, I just laughed.

I was curious how the property might look once the house had been bulldozed, so I drove by No. 1317 a few days after it sold.  To my surprise, the structure still stood, and the exterior had been painted a bright blue. Workers buzzed inside and outside the home. A massive dumpster, as long as the house was wide and brimming with construction waste, sat near the sidewalk. Could that receptacle possibly be large enough to fit the entire house inside? Again, I laughed.

Yesterday, I received an email alert notifying me of a new Belmont home for sale: No. 1317 Sunnyslope Avenue, priced at $1.4 million. Could it possibly be the same home? Within the image gallery, a near-macro close-up of the address over the front door seemed to serve as verification: Yes! It is the same home! The remainder of the gallery revealed a stunning transformation: A decorator had hung curtains, graced the fireplace with a funky starburst mirror and invitingly draped a frilly blanket over the slipcover sofa’s armrest. The kitchen featured a brand-new refrigerator, Restoration Hardware-esque swivel stools and a potted orchid plant. The bedrooms were streamlined and clean and, well, inviting. The basement, once home to my imaginary decomposing bodies, now contained a Ping-Pong table. And someone had the good sense to splurge on a rattan lounge set to spruce up the driveway/backyard.

Here’s the new property description, courtesy of Keller Williams’ Marylene Notarianni (Warning: frivolous capitalization and exclamation points to follow):

“BEST LOCATION IN BELMONT! With highly accredited Belmont Schools, and everything you need within 4 blocks! Walk to Caltrain, restaurants, shops, and Twin Pines Park. Completely remodeled with stylish features, designer colors and gorgeously redone original hardwood floors.”

But you don’t need to take Marylene’s word for it. There’s an open house at 12 p.m. Sunday (Nov. 15) and likely a bidding war on Monday. 

I wish the new owners the very best of luck.

World's saddest "literary" claim to fame

My biggest dream is to walk into a bookstore and see my novel, with my name (pretentious middle initial and all) printed across the spine, nestled snugly between other hardbacks on a shelf. I’m not greedy; I don’t require one of those cardboard stands displaying dozens of copies of my bestseller or even placement upon that prominent “featured” shelf at the end of a bookcase; a single copy of my masterpiece within a non-“adult” bookstore will suffice. I’ll even autograph it – for free.

Becoming a published novelist, however, requires something I don’t have: a published novel. Heck, I don’t even have an unpublished novel. I do, however, have an incredibly goofy photograph of myself tunneling through a blue whale’s heart, and it is with this image that I can finally claim a microscopic segment of bookstore real estate.

Let me explain: My husband, Matt, took the photograph in early 2013 during our visit to Te Papa, New Zealand’s national museum and art gallery. The children’s wing contains a fiberglass model of a blue whale’s heart. Designed to scale, the model is roughly the size of a Volkswagen Beetle -- the vintage kind with the trunk in the front. Visitors are allowed – nay, encouraged – to climb inside the slippery aorta, and so I did – and demanded Matt take a photograph. The photo made its way onto our travel blog, earned semi-viral status for all the wrong reasons (click on the "Oh god I can't unsee it" link) eventually caught the attention of the Guinness Book of World Records.

 Months went by. I forgot about the whole affair – until this past Sunday. On Monday, I drove to Barnes and Noble.

“Can you tell me where you keep the Guinness Book of World Records?” I asked a 20-something female clerk.

The clerk escorted me from one end of the store to the other, a stroll just long enough to generate a pregnant pause I felt compelled to fill.

“I want to see it because I think I might be in it,” I gushed. I suddenly realized this statement implied I had earned a spot in the book by vanquishing some record, i.e., performing the most number of chin-ups from the “human flag” position or crafting the globe’s largest toast mosaic (actual Guinness-recognized honors). So I added a clarification:

“Um, my husband took a picture of me climbing through a whale’s heart, and the photo editor said she might use it.”

“Oh really?”

And then, the moment of truth: We stood in awed silence before the glorious tome, a garish chartreuse-colored hardback gracing the top shelf of the “Trivia” bookcase. I lunged for the book and began flipping through the pages. The clerk, perhaps reasoning that we’d already come so far together, remained at my elbow and watched. But after a polite handful of seconds went by and I failed to locate the image, she retreated toward the information desk.

“I am in it!” I exclaimed, holding up the book to display page 30 and the baby fist-sized image of me and the plastic heart tucked near the book’s gutter (publishing lingo for “the ditch in the middle of the book”). There was my wristwatch and the white, long-sleeved shirt I wore and washed and wore and washed throughout that 6-month trip. And there was my silly expression, a look of sheer wonderment.

“Oh,” the clerk said. “Wow.” She was undoubtedly impressed. And then gone.

I pulled out my iPhone and snapped a photo of the photo and a photo of Matt’s photo credit. Then I gently placed the book back on the shelf. It was a start.

The 2015 SF Pride Parade: Equality without Exception

I knew I wanted to attend the San Francisco Pride Parade the moment I watched the human rainbow strut cross my television screen. Six men and women stood arm in arm, an explosion of pencil balloons radiating from their backs like porcupine quills. Each human porcupine had been assigned one of the six colors of the LGBT flag and was dressed, head-to-toe, in that color. The crowd was smiling. The human porcupines were smiling. The combined effect was mesmerizing. 

I turned to Matt as soon as the news report ended.

Parade reveler

“We have to go next year!” I told him.

What I didn’t know at the time is Apple, Matt’s employer, participates in the parade each year. He signed us up in May. On Friday, just two days before the parade, the U.S. Supreme Court issued its landmark ruling on marriage equality. I'm relatively new to the San Francisco Bay Area, but from what I gather, Pride Weekend is always a big deal here. News of that 5-4 vote simply magnified the celebration and hugged the Bay in rainbows, moonbeams and starbursts. Everyone was gay or knew somebody who was gay or knew somebody who knew somebody who was gay. We wanted to paint the sky with ROYGBI (I’ve come to learn there are six colors – not seven -- in the LGBT flag) -- or at least show solidarity through application of that ubiquitous Facebook rainbow filter.

Yes, as participants in the 2015 parade, Matt and I would surely witness history. To mark the occasion, I began scouting Amazon.com for rainbow socks and punk rocker wigs.

“Isn’t the whole point of this to be yourself – not to dress crazy?” Matt asked.

My husband officially swore off cross-dressing in 2005, the year of the Great Guavaween Get-up: neon green wig, stuffed Hooters shirt, Victoria Secret Angel wings. We’ve been married long enough for me to know he can’t be cajoled into costumes but for him to worry I may still try. Undoubtedly, he was concerned any non-traditional clothing choice I made would ensnare him as well. But under the circumstances, Matt’s “be yourself” advice seemed appropriate. So on the day of the parade, I dressed in jeans and the official Apple Pride T-shirt provided. I satiated my inner "crazy" by accessorizing with a multicolored bead bracelet from the thrift store and a pair of neon orange Asics athletic shoes. 

The Apple contingent

In 2014, an estimated 12,000 Apple employees and family members completed the 12-block march down Market Street. This year, the parade organizers capped it at 8,000.

“They didn’t want this to become the ‘Apple Parade,’” a volunteer told us. Like Matt and I, this guy wore a white T-shirt featuring the Apple logo outlined in rainbow colors. But he also had a black Apple hat and one of those curly-cue earpieces typically reserved for members of the Secret Service and burly nightclub bouncers. His function: ensure overzealous Apple marchers at the staging area didn’t tumble off the sidewalk and into the stream of Dykes on Bikes.

After the motorcycles set off, the Apple crowd cheered the Scooter Queers and the San Francisco Bicycle Coalition. My favorite “float” belonged to AirBNB. The online accommodation network had arranged a flatbed to resemble a flat, and “lodgers” were dancing in the living room and pole dancing in the shower.

Apple came 13th in the line-up, and we waited on the sidewalk outside the One Market building for about an hour (I later learned our friends, marching with Coursera near the end of the parade, had to wait five hours to begin!). Eventually, however, the Black Hat Brigade permitted us to step off the sidewalk, and the Apple contingent poured into the street, rainbow flags waving.

I’ve photographed a few parades, but I don’t recall ever participating in one. I certainly don’t remember a more joyous group celebration. Everyone was hugging and dancing and holding hands. For much of the route, Matt and I walked alongside a golf cart-like vehicle tricked out to transport a 6-foot-tall speaker blasting pop music. We grooved to “Uptown Funk” and alternately waved our hands and flags. I photographed the Apple employees and revelers stacked 10 bodies deep against the barricades. 

When we reached the end of the route, Matt and I doubled back to watch the rest of the parade. I spotted Jim Obergefell just before we peeled off to locate lunch. The lead plaintiff in the marriage equality Supreme Court case smiled and waved from his perch on the trunk of a convertible. 

Jim Obergefell

“Thank you!” members of the crowd shouted at Obergefell.

“You’re welcome!” Obergefell shouted back to each one.

In light of the Supreme Court ruling’s magnitude, this seemed like a comically simplified exchange to me. But perhaps everything had been said that needed to be said; there wasn’t much more to share beyond simple gratitude.

That's a heart you could crawl through

I almost didn’t open the email. For starters, it arrived in my inbox at 3:46 a.m. – well within the working hours of poor displaced members of the Nigerian royal family. This particular royal called herself “Fran Morales,” and the portion of her message I could read with the email app’s preview mode sounded hokey.

“Hello I am contacting you from Guinness World Records in London, a…”

I didn’t like “Fran’s” punctuation. I'm certainly not a punctuation expert, but the absence of a comma following a greeting seemed like a sure sign of duplicity perpetrated by a non-native English speaker.

I opened the message anyway.

“Hello

“I am contacting you from Guinness World Records in London, and I am currently researching images for the 2016 edition of our book.

“We are interested in possibly using your image of the whales heart on your blog http://www.compasswhistle.com/2013/02/middle-earth-or-at-least-the-middle-of-new-zealand/whale-heart_6286/

“Could you let me know if you would be happy for us to use it?

“I look forward to hearing from you.

“Kind regards

Fran

“Fran Morales
Deputy Picture Editor
Guinness World Records Ltd.
184-192 Drummond Street
London NW1 3HP”

I recognized the link “Fran” had included as one I created two years ago for my website, CompassWhistle.com, It directed to a picture of me. Climbing through a replica of a blue whale’s heart. With a dopey look of (feigned) wonderment plastered across my face. (GROAN).

My husband, Matt, snapped this embarrassing photograph during a visit to Te Papa, the Wellington-based national museum and art gallery of New Zealand. We were within the children’s section of the museum, and the exhibit invited young visitors to tunnel through blood vessels of the life-sized plastic model. So I did too. Matt and I shared a good laugh, he took the picture, we posted it on our travel blog and then promptly forgot about it.

Despite Matt and I’s best efforts, CompassWhistle.com never made it big within the blogosphere; At most, the site received 50 unique visits a day. So we were floored a few months ago when Jetpack indicated a sudden spike of several hundred unique visits a day. What was going on? The referral log indicated much of the traffic welled from a MetaFilter feed. About whale vaginas.

CompassWhistle.com traffic referral stats

The 30-comment MetaFilter feed began in August 2014 when an astute user named “viggorlijah” posted a link titled “...the big baleen whales can be over 100 feet in length, so their reproductive tracts likely wind for several feet. That’s a vagina you could walk through. (SFW),” a quote he borrowed from a June 2014 Scientific America blog post baring the auspicious headline “Getting to KnowWhale Vaginas in 7 Steps.”

Interesting, but what does any of this have to do with Matt’s whale heart picture? Well, some idiot named “maryr” joined the feed by posting a link she titled “Oh god I can’t unsee it.” It directs to Matt’s whale picture.

Props to "maryr" for all the traffic (I believe it helped make Matt’s picture the top Google Images result for the query “whale heart”) but I am gravely offended by the implication I’ve crawled through a whale’s lady parts, by being labeled as something unsightly someone would wish to “unsee” and by yet another comma infraction, this particular assault against the vocative case.

I Googled Fran Morales. She seems legit. And those goofy Brits add all kinds of unnecessary letters to words (e.g. colour, flavour, behaviour, harbour, honour, humour...). Perhaps they make up for it by ditching commas. If Guinness World Records wants to set the record straight about my whale heart encounter, I’m “happy” for it; Matt and I give the reference book our blessing. The 2016 edition hits bookstands in September. I encourage you to purchase one.

How to train your human

I’ve known my share of “bad” dogs. My mental roster includes a robust Chocolate Lab that dragged whoever held her leash, a stubborn, overweight Golden Retriever that devoured a cellphone and a sausage of a Border Collie that never met a french fry she didn’t like. All are past or present members of the Winslow family.

Hailey & Barkley circa 1989

For years I’ve daydreamed about adopting the first dog of my adulthood, but I put off a serious search until this past autumn. By then, my husband and I had completed our “World Trip” and settled into our new West Coast home. So I told Matt I wanted a dog addendum added to our lease as my birthday present. He made it happen. And then I got to work. I signed up to become a “Dog TLC” volunteer with the Peninsula Humane Society in Burlingame. I researched online and borrowed library books on canine behavior. I took a part-time position with Benji’s Backyard, a small business that shuttles dogs from the Silicon Valley suburbs to Fort Funston in San Francisco for 3-hour romps on the beach. And what did I learn? All that exposure to dogs and dog experts essentially boiled down to one universal truth: Most “bad” dog behavior is not the fault of the dog but the two-legged creature at the other end of the leash. Consequently, it is with great humility that I recognize my contribution to the legacy of delinquent Winslow dogs.

My family had three dogs and three cats for most of my childhood, and although my sister and I were extremely fond of all our pets, we were selfish and lazy when it came to training them. It was our mom who singlehandedly housetrained Barkley, Jackson and Charlie, and she did an admirable job molding them into loving, loyal family members. They were still turds.

Scene of the crime

The first Winslow turd was Barkley, a miniature schnauzer mix my family adopted when I was about 6 years old. According to legend, my mom selected Barkley -- of all the dogs warehoused at the Broward County Humane Society –because he had the shrewd sense to jump into her arms as she entered his kennel. We named him for a “Sesame Street” canine with similar shaggy gray hair, and he demonstrated the appropriateness of our selection through his favorite pastime, which, of course, was barking.

The quintessential Barkley story involves a houseboat and a jet ski. In Barkley’s pea-sized brain, jet skis were roaring, menacing demons intent on destroying the sanctity of water-related excursions; his burden was to keep them in line. And so our 20-pound mutt exhausted countless hours of his 18-year life chasing jet skis up and down beaches, his frame morphing into a gray blur as he reached warp speed and all four legs left the sand at once. He barked and he barked and he barked. There was no calming him. His hatred for personal watercrafts was legendary, even comical. Yet none of us anticipated how his mania would culminate into sheer madness one weekend afternoon in the late 1980s.

Barkley in his golden years

In those days, it was customary for the Winslows to spend at least part of the weekend on my grandparents’ houseboat, the Loggerhead. On that particular weekend, the Loggerhead was ambling down the St. John’s River when a jet ski pulled up alongside. Enraged by this noisy interloper, Barkley began racing across the second story of the houseboat. Upon reaching the bow, he took a flying leap and belly-flopped 12 feet into the water below. He did not surface until passing beneath the entire length of the 55-foot boat.

My dad was not particularly fond of Barkley, but he did not hesitate to dive in after him. Somehow, Dad managed to swim back to the boat with the half-drowned dog flailing in his arms.

Barkley didn’t slow down until Hailey and I were in college. By then, cataracts had claimed his sight and advancing age had scrambled his brains. He often “stared” into corners and barked at nothing at all. He coughed up puddles of phlegm, presents Matt never failed to step in, and, if not monitored, would walk straight off second-floor landings (He did so on at least two occasions and, miraculously, suffered no discernible injuries, a clueless Mr. Magoo of a canine.). 

Charlie: The best dog I've ever known

Barkley, that incessantly howling, mailman-biting, phlegm-spouting, pee machine, was definitely on my mind as I conducted my search for a four-legged best friend. As much as we all (excluding perhaps Dad and Matt) loved that dearly departed dog, I was not in the market for another Barkley. And I happened to be in a unique position to be choosy; I met and interacted with adoptable dogs during each volunteer shift at the humane society. I also carefully observed the Benji’s Backyard dogs I took to the beach.

“Jack Russell terriers are too hyper,” I said to Marie, Benji’s Backyard owner. “And I’ve met some sweet pit bulls, but I don’t think I’d ever adopt one. They seem unpredictable.”

I certainly didn’t have the energy for a boxer like the giant, high-strung beast I walked most days. Tommy* can be awfully sweet but he barks incessantly to demand I throw whatever I happen to be holding in my hands. He has a habit of torturing the overturned crabs that wash up on the shore, and his favorite game is lunging to rip legs off those I’m holding aloft to toss back into the ocean.

“We are not getting a male dog,” I repeatedly told Matt. “They have too much aggression and pee on everything.”

I knew what I wanted: a calm, mid-sized, adult female dog, preferably of the Border Collie variety. And it had to be a rescue. That got along with our cats.

Dad & Jackson (before he ate the cellphone)

“Do you eat kitty cats?” I asked Keesha as I took her picture for the PHS adoption website. The Queensland Heeler seemed to smile, and I took that as a favorable sign.

But as with every major decision I’ve made in life, I erred on the side of caution and waited. And waited. And waited. Months went by. Keesha the Heeler and Catorina the Dachshund and Phi the Australian Shepherd all went to other homes.

“I don’t know how you go to the humane society each day and not come back with a dog,” my mom would say whenever I called her during my drive to PHS.

I reminded her of all the canine troublemakers my family has sheltered over the years. Inevitably, Scrappy’s name came up.

Scrappy is the demon dog my mom adopted under the pretense of fostering him for her own local shelter. Three years later, he is still at her side and wrecking havoc daily: perfuming himself with carrion, lunging at much larger dogs, decorating the interiors of new cars with footprints, snagging sausage links from the kitchen table, running from his owners as they attempt to leash him in front of beach patrol officers. He is, however, pretty cute, an oddly proportioned terrier mix with pointy ears and wiry hair that somehow floats into most meals my mom cooks. Scrappy resembles Alf, that wisecracking extraterrestrial from the 1980s television show, and Mom wishes she had had the foresight to switch his name to “Alf” long ago, as she believes his original name inspires mayhem.

Ruby, Scrappy & Hailey in St. Augustine

Scrappy just might be Barkley reincarnated. His favorite pastime is perching on the bow of my parents’ Boston Whaler and angrily barking at -- and biting-- the boat’s wake. Unless leashed, Scrappy becomes so obsessed with eating waves that he plunges headfirst into the water. On one such underwater exploration in St. Augustine, Fla., Scrappy swallowed so much of the Intracoastal Waterway that he became sick the moment my dad plucked him from the waves. He expelled a terrific stream of diarrhea across the boat, causing its occupants, including family friends Michael and Diane Buchanan, to promptly became nauseous. (While video footage of that particular plunge is unavailable, here are clips of three other Scrappy boating incidents, including one in which Hailey pulled a "Dad" and dove in after him: "Scrappy Plunge, Part I," "Scrappy Plunge, Part II" and "Scrappy, a Slight Alteration.") 

Scrappy is a loyal dog that adores my mother and has become a never-ending source of comic relief for my family. But no, the Winslow Family dog roster did not need another wave-eating, dead-fish-rolling, Napoleon-complexed canine.

Sally, Scamp & Tess

Last Wednesday, I drove to PHS early to photograph adoptable dogs for the website before I began my shift in the wildlife department. I was a mere 10 feet in the door when I spied Scamp, a 7-month-old terrier mix tussling with his kennelmates. With crazy gray and black fur standing on end and a pair of floppy, antennae-like ears protruding from a tiny 6-pound body, he was easily the cutest of the four puppies.

But I don’t want cute, I reminded myself. I want smart. I want good. I want female.

Thanks to puppy mills and that ignorant segment of the population that fails to spay and neuter pets, San Francisco Bay Area shelters are flooded with Chihuahuas and pit bulls. PHS is no different. Young dogs that aren’t Chihuahuas or pit bulls are rare and highly desirable. Fluffy, white puppies are adopted so quickly the volunteer photography team often doesn’t bother photographing them; odds are, someone will adopt the pup before we have a chance to post his mug online. I’ve always scoffed at these puppy-obsessed adopters. Don’t they know all dogs grow up? Don’t they realize “cute” is fleeting?

The puppies in dorm AD 145 were brand-new arrivals. It was 10 a.m. The public wouldn’t know about them for another hour, when the shelter’s doors opened at 11 a.m. I felt an unfamiliar wave of frenzy wash over me. Now was the time. I had to investigate.

The Wolfman

Scamp was the only male dog in the kennel, so I asked an adoption counselor about the others, Sally, Cherry and Tess*. The behavior logs for Sally and Cherry flagged them as “nippers,” so I visited with Tess, a sweet, all-black terrier pup.

Selecting any pet, a new family member that will spend decades at one’s side, based on a 10-minute visit is a bit asinine. Most people wouldn’t select a human best friend within 10 minutes because it’s impossible to sufficiently judge character in that time. Yet I spent 10 minutes with Tess in the PHS “Get Acquainted” room and made the kind of snap judgment required in that situation: Tess was indifferent to me. So the adoption counselor brought in Scamp. He jumped into my arms.

“Scamp” is now Wolfgang, a tribute to his lycanthropic features. He has Barkley’s gray coat and Scrappy’s disproportioned ears. He eats leaves and dirt and howls when housed within his kennel.

“’We are not getting a male dog,’” Matt has said repeatedly, mimicking me.

My husband is absolutely right. Wolfgang is everything I didn’t want in a dog: male, adolescent and tiny. And, since adopting him, I’ve done all those ridiculous things owners of small dogs so often do: carrying him into Walgreens, purchasing a special purse for him to ride in, pricing tiny knit sweaters to keep him warm.

But will Wolfgang be a “bad” dog? That’s up to Matt and I and how much time we’re willing to invest in his training. A dog behaviorist I recently met demonstrated just how important such training is.

Wolfie & Matt

Robert accompanied Marie and I to the beach on Friday so as to evaluate Tommy and his relationship with Billy, a pit bull that frequently lunges and snarls at him. Within 20 minutes, Robert had taught both dogs a “settle” command and had bewitched them into interacting peacefully.

Dog training is difficult because it requires the dog to suppress its natural instincts, Robert said. For example, a dog in the wild would starve if it wasn’t able to chase a darting rabbit, but domestic dogs are taught to ignore such a distraction.

Robert’s current big assignment is with a Mountain View beer garden; He’s been hired to teach the owner’s Bernese Mountain Dog to pull a cart so as to deliver drinks to customers. So far, the pup can comfortably haul 120 pounds.

I don’t see cart pulling in tiny Wolfgang’s future, but basic commands are forthcoming. He came “pre-programmed” to fetch, and Matt taught him “sit” within a single, 30-minute training session. It’s a start. Just to be safe, I’m thinking our next lesson should focus on perfecting “stay” in preparation for his inaugural Winslow boating trip.

*Names have been changed to protect the guilty