Basset Hound Rescue of Southern California runs an event every year called the Spring Games. All proceeds benefit homeless hounds. There are several events, delicious hot dogs to buy, a fabulous raffle. You can get your hound’s ears measured. Make a plaster paw print. Competitions include the kissing contest (yes, owners smear peanut butter or tuna water on their cheeks. And you know they practice at home). There’s a contest for the lowest belly (that’s a tough one is this crowd). The Basset boxer relay: the boxers go on the Bassets, with the tails coming out the holes, then you run to the other side of the ring.

But something was missing. I have an excellent massage therapist, Shawn French. After my massage, Shawn moves on to massage the dogs. So in 2001 we decided to run a massage booth at the Spring Games. After all, what could go wrong?

Of course, we had to do it up right. The low massage table had leopard sheets and was surrounded by pillows. Festive sarongs surrounded the canopy for privacy. A scented candle provided aromatherapy. Soothing new age music played in the background. Wind chimes announced each, um, client. We had a canine acupressure chart for reference. There was a tip jar. It was $5 for 5 minutes minimum, and $5 for a souvenir Polaroid photo. As I told each human, “You have to buy a photo, otherwise no one will ever believe you did this!”

Many people were unsure whether their dog would like a massage. They all did. One poor guy who had been abused was terrified of men. He was shaking when he got on the table, so we had his little girl get up with him. About 30 seconds into the massage, he was completely relaxed. His owner cried and told me he’d never let a man touch him before then.

We had a long line waiting all day. The only unhappy hound was when my Hennessy realized her personal massage therapist was massaging other dogs. After a hot dog she decided it was all right and took a long nap (oh, yes, there’s a napping contest, too. Competition is stiff). A lot of people told me they’d never had a massage themselves. I sold them a photo or two. More than one hound reached up to give Shawn a kiss. We had to remind them it wasn’t that kind of massage. Lots of people bought extra minutes. One hound escaped from his owner, came in the back of the canopy, and jumped up on the table.

The event is held at Arcadia Park, which is a large public park, and we’re not the only event that day. At first puzzled visitors noticed an awful lot of those short dogs in the parking lot. Imagine their delight when they found the massage booth. I let them take photos and video, as long as they fed the tip jar. People were throwing $20 bills in. We made hundreds of dollars in just a few hours.

There was some regrettable nudity, but that’s to be expected. It turns out Bassets really like massages. If it benefits the homeless, even better.

We went back in 2002, and were delighted how many dogs remembered Shawn. And then we had to retire. Shawn has asthma and, even though we changed the sheets, all day in the booth with all that dog hair almost did him in. But if anyone else would like to try it, I’ve got some sarongs and leopard sheets I could lend you.

© 2010 by Janine Smith Not to be reproduced without permission.

When my Basset, Hennessy, died in 2009, I started searching the Internet for a young female Basset. None of them really caught my eye until I saw Rita. Then I realized she was with Dawn Smith at Daphneyland. I’ve known Dawn for a million years. I asked her if she thought Rita would be a good fit. She said, “Come and get her.” Rita had come into ASPCA Fresno a year before, starving, without any hair. They were going to put her down, but Dawn had room and took her in. She’s probably a Basset/Springer Spaniel, which is why she caught my eye (my first dog was a Springer). I took the big dog and drove up to meet her.

My favorite moment was when Johnnie and I went in the gate and forty Bassets came running at him, barking and howling. Dawn has up to 100 Bassets (with a few mixes and other breeds) at the ranch. Rita was a little timid, but she and Johnnie got along just fine. She came home and became Stella, named after the beer. For those of you keeping track of my boozy dog names, they’ve been Chandon, Moet, Hennessy, Bailey, Johnnie (Walker Red), now Stella (Artois). It turns out there used to be a French breed called the Artois Hound, and it was formerly called the Picard, which is my maiden name.

Stella’s had a hard life, and it shows. She’s been slowly gaining confidence, though she’s still shy about strangers and other dogs. So of course we went to the Strut Your Mutt event. 1,000 dogs and their owners, 21 local pet charities, run by Best Friends. Registration was 6:30AM in the parking lot next to the Santa Monica Pier. Being summer in Santa Monica, it was cold and foggy. Registration went smoothly, Dawn arrived with her some hounds and all her gear. After some investigation, I found out the parking lot attendants show up at 7:30, which means all of us had to go back and pay, standing in the dark between the attendants and the cars lined up. Could have paid them to show up an hour early, if you ask me. We were all ready to walk at 8:20, when some woman got up on stage and tried to get us to do yoga. We’re standing in a parking lot, leashes in hand. Not really conducive to yoga. Finally, we started our walk.

One thing you have to know about Dawn. She does things in style. She had a carriage for the King and Queen Bassets, and Karen Rosen, who raised the most money. She had signs with photos of hounds who couldn’t be there. And every hound (and many owners) got a festive plastic lei. It would be hard to miss 45 Bassets on any day, but we sure stood out in the crowd.

Stella did very well. She wasn’t happy, but she stuck with me and Johnnie and we all raised over $8,000 for her former home. Best Friends did a great job running the event (next time, the parking thing, right guys?). 1,000 dogs and their people had a lovely day. But no yoga.

© 2010 Janine Smith. Not to be reproduced or distributed without permission.

It really started at the supermarket. I’ve mentioned before Gelson’s policy of featuring an item, making me fall in love with it, then immediately discontinuing it. This time it was Ridder cheese. It’s a great cheese with a slightly nutty flavor, soft but not quite spreadable. On crackers, with a glass of wine–lovely. I didn’t panic when Gelson’s discontinued it–after all, I’ve been down this road before. Searched all the big stores in LA. At Ralph’s I asked if they carried it. After much consultation, the answer was no. Except there were four packages on the shelf. I’m no fool, I took all four. Life was good.

Until Ralph’s discontinued it two weeks later.

I had pretty much resigned myself to having to fly to Norway or something, then I decided to try the Internet. You’d think the Cheese Store of Beverly Hills would carry it. Nope. But they quickly and politely let me know by email. I did a general search for +cheese +ridder. Sure enough, it turned up on www.cybershop.com. Four pounds for a price far less than first class airfare to Norway. What a deal. I ordered up a big wheel. Which has yet to arrive, two months later. The fact that Cybershop summarily cancelled my order without telling me gave me pause. But I’m an optimist. I believe in the Internet and its ability to supply me with great cheese one of these days.

Which started me thinking about other unobtainable items. Back to search again.

Wondering when Krispy Kreme donuts are coming to your town? Check out www.krispykreme.com and email the nice folks there if you can’t find one near you. Looking for Uggs sheepskin boots without that stupid colored fabric braid they started putting down the back? Hop over to www.uggs.com. It’s a breeze! The world is your oyster (I’m sure they’re available online, I didn’t look)!

Now onto the Tragedy. Dunkin’ Donuts phased out of Los Angeles a few years ago. Disappeared from the airport. My local Mobil station. Even, at last, the store on Pico near Doheny. I didn’t even bother to check on the older store in Torrance. I was just too disheartened. I mostly grew up back east, where (in my memory, at least) they have Dunkin’ Donuts on every corner. In New Jersey they have DRIVE-THRU Dunkin’ Donuts! I’m sure Krispy Kreme donuts are very nice. But they’re not Dunkin’ Donuts. The apples & cinnamon. The plain donuts with the little handle to hold onto while you dunk. Skip the Bavarian Cream and go right for the Vanilla Cream. You’ll be happier.

That’s not the only recent tragedy in my life. Someone shot out a glass door on the north side of my house. Looks like a BB gun, though we couldn’t find a pellet. I assumed I’d pissed off the nuns across the street. The police told me the exact same thing happened to the Kenny Rogers restaurant down the hill. I have no idea how Kenny pissed off the nuns. Or, for that matter, when they became armed. Fortunately, Archie McPhee is currently selling a plastic nun lawn ornament. I’ll put it on that side of the house. It’ll scare off the snipers. Or at least give ‘em something to aim at.

So I decided to check out DD’s website. Who knows, there might be a store in Vegas or Phoenix or somewhere I might drive through someday. It’d be good to know. Let’s face it, it might just factor into one’s vacation plans. Kansas isn’t THAT far out of the way, when it comes right down to it. The website, www.dunkindonuts.com, of course. is very nicely designed. The familiar pink-and-orange logo brought a little mistiness to my eyes, but I went on. Just for the hell of it, I decided to search for stores in California. What’s a five- or six-hour drive now and then?
The store in Torrance was listed.

Not only that, but if you request it, the website gives you complete directions right from your house. It was Martin Luther King day. I thought about calling to see if they were open, but that would show a lack of faith in my Dunkin’ friends. Of course they’re open on holidays. They’re always there for you. That’s the kind of folks they are. Torrance is only about 25 minutes from my house. Suddenly life looked much brighter.

I didn’t find the store right away because there are a bunch of shopping centers in the same area and I wasn’t sure which one it was. No problemo, a noble quest can’t be expected to be easy. Before I turned around, I zipped through Jack in the Box for a Super Quencher Diet Coke (just the thing for a powdered-sugar binge, no?). The giant drinks fit in the Jaguar despite its lamentable lack of cup holders. You just cram it in exactly right under the dash. This, however does not work if the cup lid breaks. Which mine did. Leaving me careening down the streets of Torrance with a huge soda sloshing around and threatening to land in my lap. Know what? I didn’t care. When I got my lemon donut, life would be just fine. Maybe a blueberry one, too, just to be safe.

The first shopping center didn’t have my Dunkin’ Donuts. There was a “DK Donuts,” whatever the hell that is. I had a lidless soda to get rid off, so I wandered by on the way to the trashcan. My heart stopped. The display rack looked disturbingly familiar. My Dunkin’ Donuts had become DK Donuts. The dream died once again.

What kind of sadist would promise you raised donuts on a website, knowing full well it was a fool’s errand? Lure you down the freeways of Los Angeles, only to break your heart, on a national civil rights holiday, no less? Evil, heartless, sugar-sated, internet pranksters, that’s who.

Krispy Kreme, it’s time to give you a try. Disillusioned, but ready for a cinnamon donut.

Copyright 1999 by Janine Smith. Not to be reproduced or distributed without permission

But I realize there’s no nutrition there. All you’re really guzzling are artificial flavors, artificial sweeteners, sodium and caffeine. Yum. Not to mention that $1.61 adds up, especially if you’re really hot and busy and might have to get two in the same day. And there’s the embarrassment factor if you have to give someone a ride and they see all the empties rolling around in the back seat. So it’s a no-brainer, right? Give up the DC.

The first week wasn’t that hard. My friend PK and I went out to La Salsa for lunch, and she offered not to drink one in front of me. Not a problem, I insisted, I am a rock. Plus it was Diet Pepsi, so not really a temptation. I hauled my water bottles everywhere. Looked the other way with stern resolve when passing Jack in the Box. It really wasn’t all that hard. But then I hadn’t really been tested yet.

I was headed to Two Bunch Palms for a relaxing week. My room there had a kitchen, but I wasn’t bringing any soda, just healthy water. I rushed around a little getting ready, and was on the freeway on time. Until I hit Pomona, when the 10 freeway came to a complete halt. We sat there. It was hot out. No one was moving. And there, just up the freeway onramp, taunting me, was a Jack in the Box. In the afternoon light, it took on a slight glow. A reassuring, soothing aura. Up there, above the traffic, above the frayed tempers, it shone like a beacon. “Come to me,” it called. “Come to me and be caffeinated.” My Higher Power never stood a chance.

One soda, just to get me to the resort. That’s all I got. It tasted like heaven. But I only needed one. I got off the freeway and drove proudly past the grocery store. No need to get a six-pack for the room, no need at all. But I went a mile out of the way to Carl’s Jr. to get just one more. It was the last one, really.

From there it was just a short slide down the cola gutter. Every morning I woke, full of resolve. Every noon found me in the car on the way to Carl’s Jr. I would not get a six-pack, I wouldn’t, because I was really really quitting after this one. By the end of the week I was in the car, going through the drive-through wearing only a bathrobe and slippers, with leftover facial goop streaked across my face. I had no shame left. I was just grateful they had the drive-through.

I’ll give up Diet Coke very soon. I’m almost ready. In the meantime, don’t sell any of your Jack in the Box or Carl’s Jr. stock, though.

Copyright 1999 by Janine Smith. Not to be reproduced or distributed without permission

1. Get Janine’s clothes back from the deranged person.

2. Find the heathen stonecutters.

Let’s start with number two. I’m trying to order a carved stone for a friend’s garden. The catalog company thinks it should say, “Grow, damnit!” I am quite sure the correct spelling is “Grow, dammit!” Isn’t it? (My spellcheck was less than helpful on this issue, suggesting “admit” and “dampish”, among others. Sounds like Bill Clinton’s average week, doesn’t it?)

The plot thickens. We finally convinced the catalog company to go with “dammit.” Then the actual stonecutting company called and refused the order because they are a Christian company and will not use profanity. Even if it’s spelled wrong. Hence the search for the heathen stonecutters. Let me know if you know any.

As for number one, it’s been quite a week here at Chateau Janine. One of my great luxuries is to have a yoga teacher come to the house. No driving to a gym, dealing with other people, she just shows up and we have class here. On Wednesday five o’clock came and went and “Brenda” (not her real name, for reasons that will soon be apparent) didn’t show up. Brenda’s usually very reliable. I called her, but the phone was busy. Two hours later it was still busy. She doesn’t have voice mail, so I couldn’t leave a message. It’s not my business, but I know she lives alone, and I was probably the only one who knew something might be wrong, so….

I found her apartment just as she was being helped up the stairs by some guy. She said she had had an anxiety attack at another student’s house and the student had sent this guy to drive her car home. We couldn’t find her key and managed to pop the door lock. Once we located the run-down cell phone (hence the busy signal), the guy fled.

I helped her into bed. She was clinging to me, crying, asking me to hold her and read to her. This is about the last thing on earth I wanted to do. But she has no family or friends I could call and I just couldn’t leave her in that state. Her apartment is not air-conditioned. About an hour later the doorbell rang. Her massage therapist had arrived for her massage appointment. Words cannot express how glad I was to see him. I was outta there in an instant.

The next day she called me three times between 6 and 6:15AM, begging me to call her back. When I did, she sounded suicidal and begged to come over to my house. I said OK. Got some food into her and took her for a walk. We had to stop several times because she got nauseous from the medication for “the seizures.” Oh boy. When we got back, she asked if she could please stay at my house a little while and go for a swim. I had to leave, but I figured my housekeeper could help her if she needed anything.

Around noon I got a message from Paula that Brenda was making soup in my kitchen. I called Paula and told her to get Brenda out of there before she left for the day. At four Paula called me and told me Brenda refused to leave because she was going to serve me dinner. I called Paula’s voice mail and left this message “Hi, Paula, I guess Brenda left hours ago, she was just going to take a quick swim. I’m staying over here for dinner and will be home late, so be sure to lock up the house and put the burglar alarm on.” Just to be sure, I waited an extra hour before going home.

Later on I found out the rest of the story. When Paula played the voicemail for her, Brenda went into a seizure on my kitchen floor. Paula asked her who to call and Brenda told her “Sidney” (her ex-boyfriend from 5 years ago that she hates!). Sidney agreed to meet them at Brenda’s apartment. Paula drove Brenda’s car over there. When Sidney showed up she got a ride back to my house.

Brenda called me at 6AM the next day to ask if I could get her some drugs, any prescription antidepressant would be fine, since she couldn’t see her doctor until three that afternoon. I didn’t answer that one (no, I don’t happen to be on antidepressants, and no, I would not give prescription drugs to someone who had a seizure on my floor…). She called again at 1PM and said it was OK that I didn’t get her the drugs, and she’d see me on Monday. I left her a message that perhaps we needed a little break from each other. She left me a message (I won’t be answering my phone for quite a while) that taking a break was fine, but could I let her know if this by any chance had anything to do with what happened this week. Because that would be good information for her to have. Later she left another message that she also needed to take a break for her own reasons, but how should she get my clothes back to me? I didn’t know she had my clothes.

When I found the empty tequila bottle in my bar that afternoon it all started to make a little more sense. I threw out the soup and bought some pastries for my employees to thank them for dealing with her. Paula will get my clothes back somehow.

Anyone know a good yoga teacher without a taste for tequila?

Copyright 1998 by Janine Smith. Not to be reproduced or distributed without permission