Ella in Europe An American Dog's International Adventures

Chapter 1 Less than a week after arriving in Los Angeles, I was walking in Runyon Canyon, a nature preserve tucked into the Hollywood Hills, just a few blocks above the lurid electricity of Sunset Boulevard. I was in the canyon primarily for a vigorous weekend hike through unspoiled wilderness and, just as an afterthought, not because I was obsessed or anything, because I had heard that Runyon Canyon was always teeming with dogs. (And their owners, of course.) Which, in my admittedly peculiar view of the world, made it about the loveliest place on the entire planet to take a walk. I was near the end of the loop, coming downhill on a onetime fire road, past the ruins of an old tennis court supposedly owned in the 1920s by the great Irish tenor John McCormack. It had been a fine hike. I'd seen red-tailed hawks circling the canyon, and wild mustard plants, and scampering lizards. And dogs--dozens of them. Golden retrievers and chocolate Labs and short-haired pointers, and all sorts of mongrels, and very many of them had let me pet them and nuzzle them and tell them how irresistibly beautiful they were. I was in a joyous mood because my dad was scheduled to visit my new home in less than a week, and when he arrived we planned to visit the local shelter, where he would help me select my very first Dog of My Own. The house I was renting had a big backyard filled with fruit trees, rosebushes, and, in what I took to be a very promising sign, an old-fashioned wooden doghouse, just like Snoopy's. And in just a few days more, I suspected it might have a new four-legged tenant. As I trundled down the path, marveling at so much wilderness hidden within a bustling city, I saw in the distance another pair of dogs, a big one and a little one, accompanied by their owner and coming my way. As I approached the trio, I could see that the larger dog was an all-black German shepherd, with a dazzlingly shiny coat. The smaller one appeared to be an all-white Jack Russell terrier, with a longer-than-usual tail. Neither dog was on a leash, but when their owner stopped walking, the big black one immediately sat at his master's heel. A few seconds later, the little white one sat down too, as though he were imitating his big brother. I attempted my usual opening gambit. "Beautiful dogs you have," I said to the owner, a handsome and athletic man in his thirties. "Oh, thanks," he said, smiling. Without hesitation, I moved to close the deal. "May I pet them?" "Sure," the man said. "Go ahead." "Hello!" I said to the shepherd. And in classic anthropomorphic style I asked, "What's your name?" His owner spoke for him, as often happens in these cases. "His name is Darryl." I stroked Darryl behind his ears and told his master how many German shepherds had been part of my family as I was growing up. The man politely feigned interest. I noticed then that no matter what Darryl did, the little white Jack Russell did, too. If Darryl stood, so did the terrier. If Darryl presented his butt for scratching, so did the little white one. If Darryl became entranced by something rustling in a nearby tree, so did his diminutive buddy. "They're very cute," I said, which is what I found myself always saying when I spent quality petting time with dogs. But I really meant it. "This little white guy. He's adorable!" "You like her?" the man said. "I mean she. She's adorable. She's so white. And what a face! Look at those eyes!" I caught myself degenerating into goo-goo-ga-ga baby talk. "You're so cute! You're so sweet. Yes, yes, yes, yesKonik, Michael is the author of 'Ella in Europe An American Dog's International Adventures', published 2005 under ISBN 9780385338516 and ISBN 0385338511.