It’s been a while, again. First off, it’s Facebook’s fault. That’s right, I joined Facebook and I can’t seem to stop checking in every day to update my “status” message and see how many friends my friend Lauren has. But, that’s not the purpose of this post. Discussion on the insanely silly endeavor of Facebook will surely follow, maybe after Thanksgiving.

Anyway, Brenda has been working crazy hours again, and it all came to a head over the last couple-few weeks, and finally ended this past Thursday, when the show she was building some suits for opened at the University of Colorado. And it turns out that the guy who she was working for has a condo in the mountains that was going unused this weekend, so we loaded up the truck and moved to Keystone… resort that is; snowbarders, movie stars…

Brenda & I (and Hooper) had not been in the mountains in the winter yet since moving to Colorado, and it was fantastic. So far this year, old man winter has not really visited the near mountains but that’s ok with us since we’re not skiers or snowboarders. But this gave us a chance to experience a typical Colorado mountain resort town at the beginning of the high season, and it was certainly entertaining for us.

With Hooper settled in the condo, we headed out into the village to find some lunch. As we walked through “town” (Keystone resort is home to several fabricated centers of Starbucks and clothiers and liquor stores situated maze-like, Disney-style, around the lifts) we started to absorb the amalgam of skier/snowboarder fashion/lingo/gait/attitude. At one point Brenda said “uh, yeah, we’ve definitely entered a foreign world”, and I could only laugh and agree. I have been soaking up some of the lingo just from listening to office conversations about ski conditions (apparently the amount of base is important, and for some, a nice run of groomers is awesome, but that definitely outs you as a skier and the boarders will, like, totally frown on you), and I caught some glimpses of the fashions in the sale circulars every week last year, but it wasn’t until we walked through a living breathing throng of True Believers that I really came to grips with the odd, different, and let’s face it, totally cool world of alpine sports.

There’s a certain swagger that the snowboarders have; it almost seems like they’re fully conscious of the outlandishly baggy nylon clothes they’re wearing, emblazoned with obviously targeted graphics that they’ve paid a lot of money for, but don’t care (and to those of you that truly don’t care, I salute you; especially those that can’t really afford all that shit.

The skiers, then: they have this cool way of slinging their skis over one shoulder and hooking their arms over the end of the skis, backing that up with a swagger all their own, a more muted swagger that seems to say “we were her first, assholes, don’t fuck with us (but boy, it sure does seem like you guys are having a simpler, cooler time of things)”.

I was struck by the sense that this was one big party that I had no idea was going on (god dammit); at every bar (of which there were several), there were racks out front where people would leave their boards or skis, after a hard day of sliding down the slopes. My initial reaction was to look for some sort of locking mechanism, but there was none; these people were leaving their high priced equipment at the door, unlocked! This did not compute for this northeasterner. Inside, people sat around and ate and drank in the gear they wore all day as they careened down mountains on slippery planks of various sizes with no brakes. I felt inadequate. I ordered a beer. Here’s what we woke up to, out the front door of our place:

Brenda, Hooper and I made the best of our abilities by going on a couple of short hikes, punctuated with Hooper discovering his love of snow (or perhaps re-discovering; Hooper was a stray from Utah and we figure he was born around early February of 2007, so he’s probably no stranger to snow, but who knows?).

We left early on Sunday, took a scenic way home along the Peak-to-peak Highway, and got home in time to enjoy an early dinner at Zolo Grill, one of our favorite restaurants in Boulder. All in all, a great way to spend Brenda’s first free weekend in a long time.

DDC. Doggie Day Care. Hooper’s there right now. See for yourself right here; click the link for the webcams, and check out the action in play area two. It’s a full house today, and there are half a dozen black labs to boot, but you can still spot him; he’s the cutest one in the bunch.

Six hours, that’s what it takes to tire him out. Like, I mean, really tire him out. Hooper spent six hours at Camp Bow-Wow today, his first experience with this so-called doggie day care deal. What a friggin’ hoot.

Brenda has a bunch of deadlines to meet, and since she’s been working from home, half her energy and time is spent managing Hooper during the day. So today we thought it might be a good idea for me to take Hooper off her hands and let her make some headway without poop and and chew-toy distractions. Now, Hoop’s spent half-days with me in the office before, but knowing that he starts getting cranky and rambunctious around 3pm we thought maybe today we’d try a new program: morning with Rob in the office, and afternoon at dogie day care. It couldn’t have worked out better.

To begin the day, my co-worker Mike dropped by my office with his two dogs Hoodabai and Snap around 9am. I’d met “Hooda” before, as he’s brought her in in the past, but Mike’s wife had both Hoodabai and Snap—their other dog, a beautiful Red Tick Coonhound—in the car when she dropped Mike off at work, and he wanted me to meet him. And so it was in the hallway outside my office that the three dogs had an impromptu meet-n-greet while half the office looked on from the kitchen at the end of the hall.

The rest of the morning was the usual ADD experience of work peppered with visits by co-workers (generally brought about by yours truly IM’ing co-workers to alert them of Hooper’s office attendance) and checks to make sure Hooper wasn’t eating anything he wasn’t supposed to. But at noon, it was time for Hooper’s life to change.

We walked down the street to Camp Bow-wow, the doggy daycare facility; and while Hoop sniffed and chewed, I filled out paperwork. A dog was brought out, and the two of them sniffed some more. Then the two of them went into the play area with the other inmates, and the warden came out saying Hoop had passed the “interview” with flying colors. Hooper was gonna spend the rest of the afternoon in a large indoor/outdoor area with about 15 other dogs, and all I needed to do was show up before 7PM to bring him home. And, as an added bonus, I could watch the proceedings on a webcam.

We’ve had Hooper for two months now, and we know that he has no off-switch. If a dog is in the room, he will play with it, so I was wondering how he would do in a room full of dogs without me to say “enough” and clip a leash on him. Turns out, he just keeps on going, and going, and going, until I show up to bring him home and the staff at the doggy daycare all breathe a sigh of relief. Seriously. The webcam—which is like crack for canine owners—told the whole story; the picture updates every three seconds or so, so you get this sort-of flipbook glimpse of the proceedings at the facility. The thing is, some dogs will change position a little bit each update, but Hooper would be in-frame one minute and completely gone by the next update, indicating a dog in constant and rapid motion. This continued throughout the afternoon, as I took continuous deep and long hits on the doggy daycare webcam crackpipe.

When I picked him up at the end of the day, the “camp counselor” was smiling ear-to-ear and said “Hooper was great, he played with with everyone, all day; he messed with the big dogs, and played with the smaller dogs, he didn’t discriminate”. Hooper emerged looking like a teenager coming down off an extacy high after an all-night rave, which is about the canine equivalent of doggy day care as far as I can tell. His usually shiny coat took on a dull patina of dog saliva and dirt. He sniffed randomly and had the eyes of a partier; he was in the throes of denial that the party was over.

When we got home, he slumped down and went to sleep, and for the remainder of the evening it’s been as if we have a Pug in the house, not a Lab/Border Collie mix. It’s been awesome. I’m sold.

Best dog picture ever, for now:

All he wanted to do was to bring happiness and teething relief to a little puppy someplace. Endorsed by the American Kennel Club, this little bear toy came into our home courtesy of my sister Christina. While I thanked her for the gift, I predicted a short stay in the house.

The following pictures were taken over the course of ten minutes; swear to god. And Hooper was kinda mellow tonight.

If you ever get a squeaky thingy stuck in your anus, Hooper is the guy to get it out in record time:
And there you have it, the deconstruction of Teddy. What a great night.

Hooper has been hanging around the joint for a month now. He’s changed our lives.

First off, Brenda now gets up at 6:30 a.m. regardless of whether she wants to or not. She’s the designated dog driver in the morning, and she’s seen some amazing sunrises and met freakish yoga people. Me, I have the night shift, and walk Hooper immediately after arriving home from work. We’ve met cyclists and weirdo dalmatian owners.

We’ve met a lot of dogs and dog owners in fact, and I know more of the neighborhood dogs by name than the owners; Morgan, Shylo, Hannah, Buster, they are all familiar faces. So are those of their owners, but I’ll be damned if they are anything other than The Lady who Owns Morgan and Hates Hooper for his Goddamned Energy, The Dude Who Owns Shylo, The Grad Student Who Owns Gorgeous Hannah, and The Self-Appointed Dog Training Genius Who Owns Bratty Buster.

Speaking of the use of the word “owner” in the context of dogs and their, uh, owners, it seems that hippie town Boulder prefers the term “guardian” for people who own their dogs. Whatever. Look, hippie, I love Hooper more than you ever will love your Grateful Dead mix tape, and besides, I have a receipt for Hoop. A receipt. So, shut the fuck up.

Hooper knows stuff. He looks to us for permission to eat and to walk through a door. He also just took a piss in the guest bedroom, so he knows how to do that too. This is unfortunate.

Hoop has gained some weight, but I think he will top out at fifty or so pounds, which is perfect. I think he will end up looking like a perpetual Lab puppy, which is perfect.

Did you know that they give out treats at the Good Times in Boulder? Well, they do. Hooper & I found this out today, mostly to Hooper’s delight. Most people driving around town also seem to melt in the presence of Hooper’s little face gazing out the rear quarter window of our Golf.

Hooper’s looking fairly dead on the floor right now, and Brenda’s looking equally expired on the couch eighteen inches from me as I type this. Currently, life is good.

Announcement:
Friends and family members, who may be thinking of buying a DVD copy or one-sheet for the 1978 film “Hooper”, thinking it would be a great gag gift for us, don’t do it. Because I already did.

Kinda makes me want to get him a cape and name him Underdog.

ANNOUNCEMENT:

After half a day as Primo, Hooper is once again Hooper, the name he was granted at the shelter. It just fits, we’ve decided. And, we can call him HooperSuperDuperPooper this way, which is like, excellent.

Besides, unlike most people, when I first heard his name I did not first think of lovable Mister Hooper from Sesame Street, I of course thought of the beer-swilling, bar-fighting rocket car-jumping stuntman Sonny Hooper, played by Burt Reynolds in the 1978 film by the same name. You probably didn’t see it. That’s OK, but I still recall the credits rolling to a song with the lyric “there ain’t nothing like the life of a Hollywood stuntman”. And Hooper the Dog definitely resembles a stuntman when he goes barreling down the stairs; a successful outcome usually seems unlikely.

So, yeah. Hooper. Hooper Primo King-Guglielmetti. Now all we have to do is train him to wear a cowboy hat, blow bubbles with gum, and drive a rocket car.

We brought him home today. He was manic for an hour and I thought we’d made a huge mistake, but he calmed down and he’s sleeping in his crate in the bedroom right now. I’m downstairs typing this because I don’t want to wake anyone.

He’s adorable. He’s afraid of his own reflection in the oven door; he walked into the sliding glass door and the glass around the gas fireplace, but to his credit he only did both of those moves once each. When I go upstairs to pee, he runs downstairs to the front door. He responds to “anh-anh” when he eyes the couch, he’s starting to associate treats with good deeds, and I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing yet. And we also decided on a name, a name I was kicking around today but finally tried out on Brenda just tonight: Primo. Brenda loved it and we started trying it out on our new smelly houseguest.

Primo. First. Emma came first in our lives, but Primo is our first dog, our first boy. And he farts. I love him.

Primo.

(as good a name as Primo is, this dog is Hooper; read on…)