Buddy is my pal Jimbo’s dog. Or Jimbo is Buddy’s person; it depends on how one looks at it.
Buddy and Jimbo live in a small town in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains. This is gold country, not far from Sutter’s Mill, and Nevada City and Grass Valley. In the 1850s and 60s, this area was the financial center of California. Nevada City and Grass Valley both have the historic downtowns, chock-a-block full of Victorian houses, to prove it. The road that passes along one side of Jimbo’s house turns to dirt a mile or so to the east, then goes all the way to Nevada. It was once the main route over the Sierras. I was told that at one point in the 1850s, a wagon or stage passed by every twenty minutes, twenty-four hours a day.
In the week I was there, we took several nice long off-leash dog walks.
This walk is on the hill above a reservoir.
Neutral towards other dogs is just fine, in fact it makes me very happy.
We found a place where there had been a fire, and some huge logs were cut and stacked.
The dogs sniffed their way into a tight space around the logs,
Situation diffused by getting Chico out of there quickly, releasing the pressure on him. That he put on himself. Sigh. Buddy was, once again, a social genius, making up for poor Chico’s social deficits.
On the way home, we got a stark picture of just how bad the cuurent drought really is.
I’m going to save the walk along the Yuba River for another day. Please stay tuned.