Please say hi to Allison Lynnette — you can call her Alli.

This little ball of fur and fury turned six months old this month. She’s been part of our fur family now for four of those six months. This selfie was taken in the car after she and I went for a hike at Crane Creek park in Rohnert Park. This picture on the right? Yeah, that’s her on the trail. She looks so cute and calm – tired, maybe? Not even a little. Let me say this: this wasn’t a great walk. What it did, though, is show how far she’s come and how far we have to go.

First, though, how did we get here?

You may remember the Reflection I wrote for Winston after he died. That was a year and a half ago and I’ve missed him every day. I figured I’d get another dog… someday. I had a load of good excuses, but ultimately, I think it all came down to the fact that no dog could live up to Winston. He was that kind of a dog.

When my friend Kirk’s dog, Mishka, went into heat he made the appointment to get her fixed. But that was a week away, and she had already, shall we say, gotten the attention of the neighborhood dogs. One in particular broke out of his house up the street and hid out in the bushes overnight. The next morning when Kirk sent Mishka out to go potty… well, you get it.

Nine puppies survived a rather harrowing birthing. When the runt came out Kirk noted she wasn’t breathing. But there were complications with other puppies and Kirk didn’t have time to work on the apparent still-born. But when he came back a bit later she wasn’t dead, she was nursing. He worked with a service to find homes for all but two. He was going to keep one – a boy puppy he named Ernie. But the runt didn’t have a home.

He’d been sending me pictures since shortly after the puppies were born. They were adorable, of course, but I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready…

I can’t tell you exactly what changed. Akilah blames it on the copious rye whiskey David Erik and I imbibed on his porch in late November. I’ll admit two things: one, it was a lot of rye. Two, I did text Kirk that night saying I’d take the runt. But I do know I’d already decided it was time.

It was time.

The next Saturday we drove up to Redding to Kirk’s house and picked her up.

What in the hell had we gotten ourselves into?

I don’t remember much of Winston’s puppy time. Maybe that’s nature repressing those memories? Alli has been… well, she’s not nicknamed “Alligator” for nothing…

Earlier this month she went in to get fixed (or broken) herself. The vet sent her home with a sedative so she wouldn’t get too excited and inadvertently tear a stitch in exuberance. The directions said she could have half or a whole pill every 12 hours. I need to explain that when Alli isn’t sleeping, she’s generally running at 10 out of 10. Full tilt. Ball of fury. Alligator. So we started in on a whole pill. That took from a 10 to… maybe an eight…. Possibly nine.

This one will not be slowed.

She did manage to heal just fine. We’ve had some little walks, and she’s back to playing with her friends. Today was her first hike since surgery. We’ve got a lot work to do…

I’m not a parent, but I imagine a parent can’t help but compare one child to another, even if it’s not something they’d ever speak aloud. Alli is not Winston. Part of that, of course, is comparing a puppy to a 12-year-old dog, but Winston was just a different soul. I get glimpses of what Alli will grow into, and I think she’s going to be a wonderful companion. Not Winston, though.

And that’s okay. The truth is when we picked Alli up, I wasn’t over Winston. But her crazy licking attacks, her adorable pterodactyl-like yawns, the way she talks back when she doesn’t get her way, how she cants her big old floppy ears this way and that… I’m not going to say she has mended a broken heart. That’s trite and overly simplistic. But for all her puppy faults, for all her wackiness, she acts as a contrast to Winston. In the space in my heart reserved for dogs Winston has made space for Alli to come inside and cuddle up; there’s space enough for both of them — the big gentle black lab with some dalmatian spots, and the young tawny puppy with floppy ears and a black nose. Both tails are wagging. Vigorously.

Mark texted the other day asking if I was interested in going to the Indy car races at Laguna Seca in September. We went in 2019 and had an absolute blast. The race took place last year in Laguna Seca again but, as with most events last year, no spectators were allowed. Early in the conversation he remarked on how weird it is to actually, you know, make plans.

And it is weird. And so, so wonderful.

I don’t know where you’re at in the arc of the pandemic. Myself, I’m one shot into vaccination with the second slated for next week. As it is, I’m about the last person in my bubble to get vaccinated. When Mark and I talked I had an appointment but not yet the shot. But just the appointment was an enormous relief: the end is in sight. There’s a proverbial light at the end of the tunnel and it’s not a train.

We can allow ourselves the extravagance of making plans with people we haven’t seen in a year.

As I write this, California is opening vaccinations up to everyone 16 and older on Thursday. I’ve read reports that nearly half of all adults in the state have had at least one shot. Now, the glass-is-half-empty person reads that and says, “Yeah, well, we need better than 90% in order to reach herd immunity, so we’re way behind.”

Fine.

But it’s a big, divisive state and we’re halfway there with a disease we’ve only been aware of for a little more than a year. The glass is half full, man. A year ago we were locked down with no idea how long it would last. My plans involved a sourdough starter (RIP Tina) and didn’t extend beyond that.  My family, spread like beads on a string stretching from southern California to the top of Washington were keeping in touch with weekly Zoom meetings. Now I’m trying to figure out how and when I can visit them all as soon as possible.

This spring is hopeful.

Akilah and I are setting our sights beyond our comfortable confines in other ways as well. To start with, well, you’re reading a selfie post on Think Dude Think, so that’s a start. I’m planning to get back on track with thrice weekly updates: Selfie posts on Monday, new stories every other Wednesday, and Five Things This Week on Fridays. Beyond that, we’re starting to put together a plan for podcasts. All of this is under the umbrella of Think Dude Think Media which we’re putting together in a formal way (anyone been through the LLC process and have tips, please drop me a line!).

Plans are powerful.

Yesterday I went out to one of my favorite local hiking spots I haven’t been to much since the fall. I really got into hiking last year – outside, away from people (mostly), good for me… perfect pandemic hobby. Owing to daylight savings and the addition of an adorable puppy, I haven’t had a chance to make it to many of my (non-dog-friendly) hiking spots. But this one is special, and I needed to get out.

I was the first and only car in the Shell beach parking lot at first light, and I felt pretty underdressed in my typical hiking shorts and t-shirt in the 38° pre-dawn as I crossed highway 1 and headed up the Pomo Canyon trail. The key word there is “up,” because the first 2/3 of a mile are straight uphill. It gets your blood pumping for sure and warmed me right up. Going up, though, I thought of advice I was given years ago in Boy Scouts: when going up a long uphill, don’t look up. Keep your gaze within ten or fifteen feet of you, but looking up just makes you tired seeing how much farther you have to go.

That was how 2020 felt. Don’t look up. Just keep going. We’ll get up this hill.

The Pomo Canyon trail intersects with the tail end of the Red Hill trail just before it drops down into the eponymous Pomo Canyon and back down to near-sea level. Normally I take that opportunity to head up to the top of Red Hill, and yesterday was no exception. And, goddamnit, I looked up the entire time. At the top there’s a picnic bench and I planned ahead and made myself a really great cup of coffee as I looked out on the serpentine Russian River as it met the ocean and traced the coast down towards Bodega. I had the windswept hillside to myself with the sun rising behind me.

Right now, friends, it’s okay to look towards the top. We’re opening up slowly, safely, and, crucially importantly, we’re making plans again.

Stick around, there’s going to be a lot more content around these parts.