Canine Culture

The first thing I ever noticed about Sage was her underbite—proud, prominent, perpetual. Second was her set of beautiful, bulging eyes the color of a caramel blondie or the Sahara Desert at sunrise. On a quiet workday in April, as I had been searching through numerous pictures of adoptable dogs on a website for a West L.A. animal rescue, I immediately stopped scrolling when I caught sight of the seven-pound pup called “Eggs” (which I later learned was in theme with the approaching Easter holiday). I proceeded to watch her adoption video, which really should have been called “audition video” since she was a class act—an amalgam of Gloria Swanson—a spritely, dramatic dame ready for her closeup, Amy Poehler—a comedy-savvy firecracker, and Audrey Hepburn—a wise and loving little treasure. “Eggs” wiggled with gusto and urgency in the arms of the volunteer holding her and effortlessly wagged that six-inch tail of hers. As the camera went into a close-up, zeroing in on that tail, I saw a tiny patch of white fur on the tip that looked like a speck of cream amidst her pumpkin spice latte-colored coat. That was it. I was done searching. I had to meet “Eggs”—and only “Eggs.” That evening after work, I drove as fast as L.A. traffic would let me to the animal rescue, where I met the ball of curious, unbridled energy, renamed her “Sage” (as I sensed her unspoken wisdom would somehow change my life), and walked out the door with her in under an hour. When I brought her home to my studio apartment, she excitedly ran around in circles as if to scream: “I’m free!” She surely knew that, as well as the fact that she was finally and irrevocably home.

Flash forward five years to 2020—year one of the pandemic, where we’re wearing masks, sanitizing ourselves, working and learning remotely, social distancing, Zooming, all under chaotic and near-maniacal leadership like we’re in every sci-fi dystopian movie ever made. I’ve moved with Sage to New York and transferred with my desk job that is now an at-home desk job, and while I absolutely love working from home, the uncertainty of the social and political milieu (not to mention the future of humanity) is slowly but surely eroding my emotional sanity. Sage, sensing my discontent, establishes a very sensible and targeted schedule for me and my specific needs that is filled with work, play, exercise, and holistic wellness. It becomes clear that she is not just an emPAWyee; she is the boss. She models this enlightened company culture and lifestyle methodology for me in a number of ways. A typical workday, per Sage, looks something like this:

8:00am. Rise with an effortless giddiness at the endless possibilities set before you, most notably the likelihood of food.

8:01am. Eat a nutritional yet tasty breakfast.

8:03am. Lick bowl until every microscopic particle of breakfast residue is eradicated.

8:05am. Rest on couch until body converts every microscopic particle into energy.

8:30am. Yoga. Stretch with eagerness. (Sage has mastered the Downward Dog—obviously—and The Cobra—much more surprising.)

8:45am. Meditate on all things soothing: belly rubs, self love, synergy with all living things, and inner peace. (Sage could write the book on inner peace. It comes inexplicably natural to her).

9:00am. Take a good walk, smelling all the scents that New York City has to offer, including but not limited to: sweating garbage, stale urine (animal or human—you may never know), discarded paper cups stained with black coffee, cigarette butts…and, if you’re lucky, you may catch the wafting scent of a jogger who forgot to apply his Axe body spray. (While Sage loves the summer for its pungent olfactory assaults, I prefer the spring and fall for their abundance of sweet and rustic flora.)

9:30am. Review schedule for the day. Commando crawl on the area rug to physically and mentally prepare for said schedule. Check and answer emails.

10:30am. Zoom.

11:00am. Break to take inventory of possessions that bring you joy. (I proceed to water my twelve plants while Sage removes toys one-by-one from her knitted basket. I’m always curious to see which one she lands on for playtime. Will it be Toy Story’s own Woody, now an amputee, his skinny right leg gnawed off by tiny molars, his cowboy hat a tattered excuse for a cranial accoutrement? Or what about her pink Piggie with its extra durable, chew-resistant skin and taut stitching? Or perhaps Slothie—that poor bloke with fluffy innards no longer…inner? But more often than not, Sage ditches that fine rogue’s gallery of toys and settles on her Penn tennis ball, in all its neon yellow splendor. Once she latches onto it, everlasting Gobstopper-style, she hoards it on the couch and side-eyes me as if she’s outsmarted me.)

11:30am. Zoom again. If it gets boring, just inconspicuously indulge in some entertainment. (As I stare at the screen, I watch Sage roll around on her back on the couch behind me, which makes me smile. Sometimes new colleagues notice her and comment, proving once and for all that a cute and uninhibited dog is still the greatest ice breaker there is.)

12:00pm. Watch content for work, but make sure to steal kisses and snuggles from pooch on lap.

2:00pm. Take a little rest—nap even—just to get that burst of energy you need to carry you through the second half of the day.

3:00pm-5:00pm. Try to get through the second half of the day. Zoom once again.

5:01pm. Finish emails while already planning dinner. There’s no greater multi-task than one that involves food or the prospect of it.

6:00pm. Close laptop and make dinner (while Sage jumps up repeatedly as if spring-loaded).

6:30pm. Eat dinner like your life depends on it. Lick bowl. See 8:03am entry for reference.

7:30pm. Take an evening walk, soaking up the mephitic vapors of New York City exhaust, refuse, butcher shop meat, as well as the delightfully intoxicating scents of bakery goods and restaurant concoctions.

8:00pm. Cuddle while watching the latest Netflix, Hulu, Prime, HBOMax, or Disney+ recommendation.

9:30pm. Part from electronic devices. Light candles. Read. (Sage usually suggests White Fang or The Call of the Wild to inspire me to think bigger than traditional domesticity).

10:00pm. Curl up into a content ball and drift to sleep. Another productive day in the bag! Another day you were alive, which is a blessing humans sometimes forget. (But Sage never does. She reminds me every day, probably every moment, how precious life is and how to throw a little helpful DOGma into the everyday grind to make the work better and the worker more happy, balanced, and whole.)

An acquaintance of mine (also a Chihuahua parent), recently told me: "Dogs comfort us on a level we don’t even realize.” I would agree—and for now, on the level I can realize, I am immensely grateful for this near-perfect canine companion, co-worker, EmPAWyee of my life.