I've always taken pride in eventually, if not immediately, being a friend to any dog. Previous neighbors had a very bright and beloved Shepherd named Spike who sounded me out through the chain link fence the first few times. Then as I chatted with someone he'd already approved he simply switched in a second---and not a portion of dog years---to wagging mode.

The next folks next door acquired Simba, a verging on feral Pomeranian, well back in the 2000's and with its slightly crimson brow furrowed as if the creature operates basically from pro forma mode, always has barked at me. You can bribe her plentiful and larger companions with treats but she wouldn't give in. She'd yelp, "Hey," as I'd pet the others but turning attention to her simply gave her the attention she needed to do the auto-yap.

Early Thanksgiving morning I set out down the street for croissants from the local donut joint and there was the man of the house, giving me a nice wave, walking Simba. I've always figured true proximity coupled with a change of venue often turns a pooch but they were too far away and heading a different path. Maybe another time.

Several hours later I was at my "clarinet" friends' house as we mobilized for a fine day in the south bay. They've been through several dachshunds and the latest pair were new to me or may as well have been. They followed the ritual of determined barking while with their humans it was greetings after a year. But not only did they quiet down, the younger, Samson, pretty much planted his flag and colonized my lap. Definitely noted by the owners.

When it came time to go, well, Jerry had trouble calling him and my stirring didn't get its share of his attention. Indeed, he growled as he was hoisted to the "dachs"-room.

Other people didn't get this approval, I was told as we toted the victuals to the vehicle. Alliteration? Sure, it's a Volvo that has done the service since the mid 90's. And that affirmation of my first sentence definitely rated a K-9 plus.