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‘Coffee with a Canine’ Interview

dorriolds — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 14:48:41 +0000

Coffee with a Canine is an entertaining blog by Zeringue Marshal. It’s a great place for dog lovers like me. Buddy James Olds and I were honored to be interviewed. Enjoy!

Zeringue Marshal: Who is in the photo at right?

Dorri Olds: First, let me say, it’s an honor to be on your blog Coffee with a Canine! The photo is me standing in my New York City apartment building’s large private garden. I’m holding my beloved hairy son, Buddy James. He was the best gift I ever received from anyone!

He is a 7-year-old purebred Cavalier King Charles Spaniel imported from Germany. I’m a native New Yorker born on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I work in my home/office in Chelsea as a freelance writer and web designer.

What’s the occasion for today’s Coffee with a Canine?

My favorite boys! Buddy James* & Steve Geng*

Every morning is a coffee date with my canine. I open my eyes to Buddy, and my husband Steve Geng* sleeping peacefully. I sit up and Buddy’s head pops up like a periscope and he leaps from the bed to shadow me to the kitchen.

What’s brewing?

I make my eye-opening cappuccino with 2 shots of Lavazza espresso, and cinnamon and chocolate powder sprinkled on top. Bud stares at me watching, waiting. He knows that after my first sip he gets to eat.

Any treat for Buddy on this ‘Coffee with a Canine’ occasion?

’Lil Bud gets plenty of daily eats, but during the morning coffee ritual he over-acts. He likes to portray starvation. It’s so adorable I toss him a pre-java treat, usually a Milk-Bone.

Once I’ve placed his food bowl on the floor, within seconds he has inhaled his Science Diet beef breakfast then runs back to bed for Steve to rub his belly. When I sit down with my cuppa joe and a banana, Buddy rushes back to my feet. I serve him stringy pieces of banana from inside the peel.

How were you and Buddy united?

Buddy came into my life on New Year’s Eve of 2003. He was 2 months old, weighed 4 pounds and looked like a Beanie Baby. Brendan, my friend, knew she would break my heart when she broke the news she was moving to the West Coast. To soften the blow she bought me Buddy.

Does Buddy James have any influence on your work?

Yes! If I’m at my computer in a work-trance too long, Buddy trots over. He climbs his doggie steps and plops down on the edge of the bed. Then he stares at me making this weird whimpery sound. His facial expression is like, “Hey! What am I, chopped liver?”

How did you come up with Buddy Jame’s name?

He was named after my Uncle Buddy, a portrait painter who died when I was 5. Growing up, I spent hours staring at his self-portrait on the wall of my parent’s home. Now the painting hangs opposite my bed where I see it every morning.

Buddy’s middle name came from my childhood fantasy. I yearned to be filthy rich, own a Rolls Royce, and have a chauffeur named James. My dream was to say, “Home, James.” The chauffeur never materialized, nor did the millions, but what I got is love.

I never knew I’d treasure anyone to the depths I do little Bud-Bud. His dark brown Bambi eyes and soulful ’tude made me christen him the lovechild of Rhythm ’n Blues singers, Buddy Guy and Etta James.

Does he get along with, or get especially agitated, by cats, squirrels, postmen, or other creatures?

The Budmeister gets along with everybody. I enjoy bringing him along for an afternoon coffee in my garden. He sticks close by hoping there will be something to lick from my cup.

He greets neighbors’ dogs cheerfully, watches birds and squirrels with mild interest, but really perks up for humans. Bud’s a people-person.

What are his favorite toys and/or games?

He’s fond of cigarette shaped rawhide treats and enjoys them even more if I try to grab them out of his mouth. He’ll growl and yank the treat away from me, but if I lose interest in this repetitive game he lets out a “humph” then nudges my hand until I resume.

Where is Buddy’s favorite place for outings?

Our typical walk covers a few city blocks during which he wags his tail, sniffs trees and hydrants, and tries to swipe food remnants—no matter how congealed and disgusting—off the street. He attempts to be sneaky by closing his eyes into beady slits, tucking his mouth down to hide the forbidden scrap of food, then hunching over like a cartoon villain. He gives himself away every time and I’m left to yank the bacteria-ridden morsel out of his mouth and toss it into the trash. Wherever we go I stuff my pockets with plastic bags and tissues.

Is he a city dog, or does the country appeal as well?

As long as we’re together, Buddy is happy anywhere. We both enjoy my Aunt Norma’s house upstate. It has a large fenced-in yard so he can run around and piddle wherever he pleases. He usually hangs around near me though, either by the pool or at my feet during Scrabble games. He can’t stand not being able to see me.

At home he prefers doors open so he can follow me around. Using the word “heel” with him would be silly and unnecessary.

Who are Buddy’s best pet-pals?

Thankfully, Buddy’s godmother Brendan moved back to NYC a few years ago. Bud’s best friend is her Cavalier, Harry Rex. He also loves my Aunt Norma’s golden retriever, Zack, who isn’t golden—he’s blonde.

What is Buddy’s best quality?

I can’t choose just one. He’s devoted and loyal, mischievous and entertaining, snuggly, cuddly, and beautiful to look at. Bud makes friends everywhere. He’s enthusiastic and gleeful 99 percent of the time.

What is Buddy’s proudest moment? His most embarrassing?

Buddy feels neither pride nor shame. I’ve witnessed a number of emotions: joy, fear, disgruntledness (if that’s a word). I once asked my cousin Charlie what he imagines Buddy is thinking. Charlie guessed, “I love you, I love you, I love you. Got something to eat?” I think Charlie nailed it.

Coffee with a Canine Interview

Hope you enjoyed the post. You can find Dorri Olds at her website dorriolds.com and social media accounts twitter | instagram | youtube | linkedIn I facebook.

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Footnote: This interview was a few years ago. RIP Steve Geng (1943-2020) and RIP Buddy James Olds (2003-2017). Thank you for reading this and sharing my happy memories.

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By Marshal Zeringue for Coffee with a Canine.

The post ‘Coffee with a Canine’ Interview appeared first on Award-Winning Writer and Graphic Designer.

The Curse of Having a Cute Dog

dorriolds — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 15:33:40 +0000

This essay was originally published on NBC Petside
I reached for my iPhone right-handed while holding Buddy’s leash in my left. It was my best friend, Maddy. I launched into a tirade. “If one more person asks me what kind of dog Buddy is I’m going to scream.”
“Why?”
“I’ve walked one block and four people…”
“It’s because he’s so cute.”
I imitated passersby in falsetto, “‘Oooh, what’s his name? How old is he? Where did you get him?’ When they ask what breed he is I have to say, ‘Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.’ It’s a mouthful and they never get it. ‘What kind?’ After three or four times I get so sick of chewing my cabbage twice I start barking, ‘He’s a MUTT!'”
“I think they’re just being friendly.”
“I don’t want friendly. I want to be left alone. For Pete’s sake, I work twelve-hour days. When I take a break I need peace and quiet.”
“Peace and quiet? You live in New York City! Maybe you need to work less so you won’t be so cranky.”
“Cranky? CRANKY?”
* * *
Buddy came into my life seven years ago, right after a devastating split. I’d found out the guy was married and the breakup nearly broke me. I felt splintered, defective, and out-of-order. Depression yanked me down and that’s where I stayed, wallowing.
One day, still telling everyone who’d listen how doomed I was, I ran into a neighbor who said. “You need a puppy. It’ll change everything.” I looked down at her dog. “He’s a Blenheim Cavalier King Charles Spaniel,” she said proudly.”
He had soft white fur with cow-like patches of auburn brown. His ears flopped like a beagle. He looked about the size of a cocker spaniel, but shrunken like a T-shirt in a dryer. His long lashes and dark eyes made him look like Bambi. When I smiled at him his tail wagged frantically and rhythmically like a windshield wiper.
I mulled over my neighbor’s suggestion. I called Maddy to discuss. “Puppies are a huge responsibility. You have to be home all the time.” I said.
“You’re home all the time anyway!”
Hmm, she had a point. I work at my Mac in my living room. My only commute is to trek to the kitchen for snacks. I began to weigh the pros and cons of getting a dog. I thought about my ex and how much I’d wanted a baby with him. I ruminated. Pets are expensive—con. The cost of a dog pales in comparison to raising a kid. There’d be no braces—pro. No college tuition—Pro. He’d never wreck a car—Pro! Pro!

Photo by Paul Wesley

The next time I ran into my neighbor I asked her where she’d gotten her dog. She raved about a high quality breeder.
Instead of What to Expect When You’re Expecting, I read How to Raise Your Cavalier and The Owner’s Guide to the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. I read both books in two days and decided to name the dog after my Uncle Buddy. I was nervous and excited and hopeful, like I’d felt before my first date with my no-good ex.
Preparing for this new pup made life joyful. Sort of—when any couple walked by I still seethed with envy.
My big day arrived. I went to pick up my doggie. The gates were down. I peered in the window and saw a teeny-tiny Cavalier the size of a Beanie Baby. The second our eyes met I knew he was mine. He looked scared and vulnerable and all I wanted to do was keep him safe. The owner pulled up the gate and I bee-lined to the crate. Buddy was placed in my arms. I held him to my chest cradling his itty-bitty head.
I carted him around in my purse and smuggled him into movies. This warm bundle challenged my sulking. On Saturday nights, when loneliness descended like a shroud over my living room, I played with my pup, reconciled to becoming one of those single old ladies who “married” her pet.
Buddy became a balm that soothed. He slept pressed against me and I’d lie awake to listen to his puppy snores.
Sharing him with someone even for an instant, especially a stranger in the street, felt like a band-aid yanked off a burn.
I was accosted when I walked him, like stars and their paparazzi.
“Oh, he’s so cute.”
“Can I pet him?”
“Where did you get him?”
“What kind of dog is that?”
I couldn’t stand all the questions. Sometimes I spoke Russian-sounding gibberish, ‘I g’no shpeak Eenglish.’
Other times I pointed to my mouth like I couldn’t talk because I was eating. People ogled. I snapped, “Move, can’t you see I’m walking here?”
Then one day, for the millionth time, somebody tried to pet my dog. I didn’t even look up. Just yanked Buddy closer to me and grumbled, “Leave us alone, we’re busy.”
As I was walking away I heard the guy mutter, “Geez, I’m busy too. I just wanted to say hello.”
I stopped. Suddenly I saw who I’d become and felt ashamed. I turned to apologize to the man but he was already crossing the street. I watched this handsome man walk away in his tasteful suit and could’ve kicked myself. I’d whined to my friend, Maddy, the day before, “I’ll never meet a man.” Her response now reverberated in my head. “It would be much easier to meet a guy if you weren’t walking around pissed off and in a hurry.”
Buddy and I strolled to Madison Square Park and a breeze went through my hair. I decided that I didn’t want to end up a bitter, irascible, curmudgeon. As we walked toward the dog-run Buddy tugged excitedly toward a nice looking dude with a pooch. My anger and disappointment with the world lifted for a moment. I smiled and found myself saying, “Excuse me, what kind of dog is that?

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