There shan't be dogs

But there's always Sequoia

For all those who are wondering and those who are not: there will no be Dogs Dogs Dogs calendar this year. My life is simply too busy. Now in my second year of my MFA at University of Iowa, I’m teaching two classes, living in a new apartment that’s still half-furnished, and trying to write essays that push new growth edges. There’s not been time to illustrate twelve months worth of silly dogs, unfortunately.

But that’s not to say that I haven’t encountered them.

Sequoia the Great and Gentle

This is my new friend Sequoia. She lives a few blocks away from me, near a cemetery on a hill in Iowa City. She looks a little spooky herself sometimes—she’s tall and gangly and a little mangy and large, very very large, and occasionally she prances around like a small pony. One day, Junior and I were strolling past this small brick cottage when I saw a beast rise up from the porch and plod her way over. Junior was not pleased—she likes her dog friends small and Chihuahua-y, and alas, Sequoia fits neither criteria.

Note the size difference and Junior’s side eye

Junior yelled at her for a minute or two before getting distracted by watching for deer and cats, a task that remains her once and future life passion. Sequoia didn’t seem to mind. She likes Junior just fine, but she loves anyone who will stop to pet her. She puts her huge skull in your hands to cradle and looks up at you with these big, soulful eyes that are partially covered by her greasy bangs (the exact look I was shooting for in middle school). Sequoia’s mom is Josephine, an older woman with long white hair who grew up in Iowa City but has lived all over the world. Occasionally she’ll come out and chat when I’m petting Sequoia. I asked her one time why she came back to Iowa City, and she told me it was the same reason everyone else did: because she was chasing “some guy” whom she eventually dumped and then got her first Irish wolfhound. End of story.

Sequoia is “fenced in” by a laughably small garden fence that barely comes up to her knees. The latch to the gate is broken, but there’s a lawn chair turned over on its side, presumably to block Sequoia from just waltzing out onto the street. Once, I asked Sequoia’s mom Josephine if she ever got out. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“Does she ever jump the fence and escape?”

“No,” Josephine said. “She knows she’s not allowed.”

This answer struck me as absurd, and I couldn’t tell if I’d heard correctly. “But she could jump right over!”

Josephine’s eyes narrowed, as if I were trying to persuade Sequoia to commit mutiny behind enemy lines. “She’s not allowed,” is all she said. To have a dog that literally would not step over the tiniest fence because it is technically “against the rules” is beyond my imagination. Junior would be out of that yard in a heartbeat, bad hip notwithstanding.

Josephine told me that she took Sequoia out to the graveyard the other night and let her run off leash. I wish I could have seen her. Watching Irish wolfhounds gallop is an inspiring and terrifying sight. I almost got run over by a pair of them once at a beach in California. Their owner, a strange man who maybe was hitting on me, told me he took them out boar hunting. I remember their names: Mr. Big and Cupcake. And back when I worked at a doggy day care in Oakland (which is a whole different story), there was an Irish Wolfhound puppy named Oscar that kept sitting on plastic furniture that he was far too large for.

Sequoia does not seem fit to hunt a boar, or even a squirrel, but what do I know about potential. From what I can tell, Sequoia spends most of her days lounging around on the porch. Josephine once called her “fat and ungroomed,” only she said it with affection.

I make a point to walk by Sequoia’s house at least once a day to try and pet her. All you have to do is whisper-cry “Sequoia. Sequoia!” and if she’s already outside or the front door is open, she’ll come lumbering out of the house as if she’s been craving the moment for someone to call her name. If you can’t already tell, I love her very much and am trying hard to make an urban legend out of her. I’ve told my writing colleagues, and now all of you, about the friendly Irish wolfhound who appears upon being called like a kind, furry Rumpelstiltskin, only her friendship doesn’t require me to hand over my future firstborn child. But I would, if that’s what it takes.

Featuring Lisa and Sequoia looking longingly at each other, and Junior waiting for something more interesting to happen

I’ve been wondering what to do with this Substack for a while. I’ve mainly used it to announce Dogs calendars and the occasional publication, which is nice and great but also doesn’t happen all that often and feels very business-y, which can feeling depressingly corporate sometimes.

So here’s what I’m proposing: I’m going to try and send out 2 Substacks a month that feature random stories/essays like this. The next essay will feature an underground “pro-wrestling” match that I saw at a bar a few weeks back—stay tuned.