People always ask me, “What kind of dog is that?” Impossible to tell, really. We were told: Australian Terrier and Miniature Poodle. No sign of poodle in the actual dog, though. So, Olive is some kind of terrier mix that also is reminiscent of a tiny German Shepherd. Here in the land of Yorkies, Chorkies, Havanese, and many hyphenations of poo, we never see a dog that looks like her.
Until we met Hercules. (Hercules! I know! The names of dogs are a coffee table book waiting to happen.) Hercules’ human, Florence, rescued him from a sad and bad situation, so she doesn’t know what he is. But he is something like what Olive is. Longer legs. Blonder. A terrier-Bjorn Borg cross.
I think a separate blog might be needed, to give me somewhere to direct the overflow of dog photos. The Many Moods of Olive Bergmann.com, or something. Viewing Olive would be a strictly voluntary act, instead of a poor second to More Garter Stitch. I am thinking about this very deeply. (By which I mean, for the first 5 minutes it seemed like a good idea; for the second 5 minutes it started to seem like a lot of work.)
The pictures do not show it clearly, but Hercules has a natural mohawk of wiry, longer curls down his spine. His vulnerability and shyness make him all the more appealing. He is a sensitive, New Age dog.
A couple of weeks ago, I finally went inside the Chelsea Hotel and got to take this picture from a balcony on the front. In 1985 or so, I lived in a similarly seedy, but far less storied former hotel on the same block, at #208. The Chelsea is full of fascinating art and objects. It also smells really strongly of citrus-scented disinfectant, like a bad taxi ride. I am just not cool enough for that. I awarded my visiting friends the title, “Coolest People in Omaha.” May their reign be long and just.