"Is it time to bake the pies yet?" asked Maddie, tromping into the office this morning. "It's cold outside, this would be a good day for pie."

"Pies?" I responded, looking down at her. "We weren't planning to do any baking today."

"But isn't pie why we bought all those pumpkins last weekend?" asked Maddie. "Besides, I heard you and Jennifer talking about the pumpkins earlier, saying you were going to do something with them today. We're going to bake pies, right?"

"No, Maddie," I said. "Those pumpkins are for jack-o'-lanterns. Not pie."

"Oh, foo!" exclaimed Maddie. "I've been looking at those pumpkins all week hoping for pie. Not jackal lanterns. Pie." She dropped to the ground, resting her head on her front paws in a pronounced pout.

"Jack-o'-lanterns, Maddie," I replied, reaching down and scratching the top of her head. "They're a Halloween tradition."

"So's pie," she said hopefully, looking up at me.

"So it is. Do you know where jack-o'-lanterns come from, Maddie?"

"That's easy," said Maddie. "Pumpkins."

"Actually, turnips."

Maddie screwed up her face. "Yuck, turnips are gross."

"No argument there, but hear me out. There's an old Irish legend about a farmer named Jack. Now Jack was a lazy fellow, but somehow, over the course of his life, he managed to pull a prank or two on the devil. After Jack died, well, he couldn't get in to heaven through the front gate because he'd been too much of a slacker. When he tried to get into hell, Jack found out that the devil was still mad about the prank, and wouldn't let him in either. In fact, the devil was so mad at Jack that he threw a few burning coals at Jack. Jack hollowed out a turnip, put the coals inside, and used it to light his way as he searched the earth hoping to find a back entrance to heaven. Part of why we carve jack-o'-lanterns and put candles in them is to help Jack find his way."

"That's a weird story," said Maddie.

"Yeah," I said. "But aren't you glad that we use pumpkins now instead of turnips. After all, who'd want turnip pie?"

"Not me," said Maddie. "But maybe after we carve our pumpkins we can get the stuff to make pie."

"Hey," asked Maddie, tapping me on the leg. "Can we get tamales again this weekend?" I had been reading, getting ready to discuss Jacques Tourneur's Out of the Past with my noir class later tonight (Maddie and I have been watching the DVD on repeat for the last couple of days). I stuck an index card into my copy of The Dark Side of the Screen, set it on my desk, and looked down at Maddie. "Well, can we?" she asked. "They were really good."

"What? Tamales?" I say, trying to back my train of thought from Robert Mitchum and Kirk Douglas's tough-guy stand-off to hungry dog station. "Didn't we just have lunch?"

"Yeah," said Maddie. "But I was just thinking, while you were looking at your book, and tamales sounded good. Can we go back down to the museum and get some more?"

"Oh, Maddie," I said, leaning down and scratching her head. "They only sell tamales at the museum once a year. It's something special they do to kick off the annual Dia de los Muertos celebrations."

"Annual? Nuts," said Maddie, lying down and placing her head on her front paws. "You mean I've got to wait a whole year? What's a day lost muerto, anyway?"

"Día de los Muertos," I said. "It means 'Day of the Dead.' It's a traditional Mexican holiday where people celebrate the lives of friends and family members who have died. It's a way of honoring people's lives with art, food, and storytelling. Supposedly, the tradition goes back hundreds of years, all the way back to the Aztecs."

"Wow," said Maddie. "Hundreds of years? That's a long time. What do people do to celebrate?"

"Well, they make special altars called 'ofrendas,' and they decorate them with pictures, candles, marigolds, candy skulls called 'calaveras,' and little skeleton figures known as 'calacas.' You saw the altars around town when we were out walking this weekend, right?"

"Oh, yeah. I wondered about those." A puzzled look crossed Maddie's face. She scratched at an ear pensively for a few moments. "You said Día de los Muertos was a Mexican holiday, right?"

"Right," I answered.

"Then how come we're celebrating it all the way up here in Petaluma? I mean, Mexico is really far south, right? It's even farther south than Grandma's house."

"Yes, Mexico is pretty far away, but since the holiday helps to remind us that life, as tough as it can be sometimes, is still better than the alternative, it's grown, evolved into a cross-cultural experience. Besides, around the world, different cultures have similar celebrations, the ancient Celts celebrated Samhain, the Chinese have a Ghost Festival, and of course there's Halloween. It's no coincidence that all of these holidays occur near the end of the year, when things start to get cold and spooky."

Maddie looked up. "I never knew holidays could be so big." She cocked her head to one side for a moment, thinking. "Hey, I just realized something, in that movie we were watching this morning, they were down in Mexico, right?"

"Yes, why?" I asked.

"I'll bet they got to have tamales any time they wanted," said Maddie.

"Okay," I said. "Hint taken. But we're not getting tamales now. Maybe this weekend."

"Hurrah!" exclaimed Maddie.

I don't usually recall my dreams, but last night's seems worth remembering and sharing: Jennifer and I are traveling, by Hybrid automobile (Not your average, ordinary Toyota Prius, but a car that transforms, if need be, into a high-speed tracked vehicle that resembles a cross between the Panzers from Walter Jon Williams's Hardwired and the Cobra H.I.S.S. Tanks from G.I. Joe.), across the ruins of Middle America. It's some sort of blogging-related thing, as I'm taking pictures of radioactive wreckage and writing down notes as we go. Apparently we boarded Maddie before we left on our trip, as she doesn't appear in the dream.

After we stop at a roadside motel (modeled, naturally, after the Bates Motel in Psycho), Jennifer is kidnapped by a mutant polygamist cult (shades of The Omega Man - I'm not sure which of the three elements bothered me most, that they were mutants, polygamists, or a cult). Of course I track her down, then have to fight (and kill, but that goes without saying in genre dreams) their leader (the biggest, meanest mutant of them all) in hand-to-hand combat in order to rescue her, and end up with my right side full of birdshot for my trouble. Ouch.

This painful turn of events leads to a full-on high-speed cross-country race back to civilization in our Hybrid (in full-on tank mode, chased by motorcycle mutants) as I, bleeding profusely, attempt to pilot us to a well-stocked hospital in time as Jennifer tends my wound. Oh, and there's a little black cat following us throughout the dream, but you shouldn't try to pet him, as tiny albino parasites (mutant parasites?) are prone to leaping off of him while he rubs up against people's legs.

Any clues what it might mean?

---

While we were out walking this morning, Maddie and I were accosted by a mischievous puppy near the corner of 4th and F Streets (right across from where we saw the Pit Bull on the roof - what is it with that intersection and dogs?), interrupting out planned excursion to the Post Office. The precocious pooch, who resembled the sort of Terrier you typically see in pictures of English fox hunts, was not just loose (a pet peeve of both Maddie and me - people, please don't let your dogs run amok), but being a puppy, wanted to play. This put Maddie, properly leashed, at a severe disadvantage, as the young whippersnapper's entire idea of fun (after the obligatory butt-sniff, Maddie's least-favorite ritual of dogness) was to rush at, and attempt to tackle, the littlest dog in the vicinity (that is, Maddie).

"Hey, cut that out!" shouted Maddie as the Terrier pounced, knocking her down.

"Stop it! Go home," I said to the rascal, baring my teeth and shaking a finger. The dog, oblivious, just jumped at us again.

"I'm trying to go home, but this nitwit won't let me," said Maddie, looking up at me, confused.

I moved to block the Terrier and shield Maddie, shouting "Stop! No! Down!" at him as I tried to push Maddie towards the house.

"Yeah, cut it out," said Maddie, peeking out from behind my legs.

We moved along slowly, trying every tactic we could think of to avoid the rascal, I picked up Maddie, hoping he'd ignore her, but he merely took it as an opportunity to jump at her.

"Sit!" I shouted. The Terrier ignored me, but beside me, Maddie perfectly planted her tail on the ground, hopeful that I'd come up with some clever way of banishing the bruiser.

After that, we both tried ignoring him, but that's too hard to do when a beast keeps nipping at your heels, so Maddie's resolve gave, and she started barking at him. Finally, we just gave up and let him follow us back to the house.

I opened the door slightly and let Maddie retreat to the safe zone under the coffee table, then closed it behind her, grabbing the Terrier's collar so that I could read his tag. "Jackson," it read, followed by an address on Front Street (is there even a Front Street in Petaluma?) and a phone number. I wrestled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed, getting an answering machine. "Hi, my name's Ross," I said. "Are you missing a dog? He's on my porch, my phone number is-" and so on.

Then I got an idea. I wasn't about to let a dirty, hyperactive, male dog into my house, so I pointed at Jackson's nose. "Stay," I said, then let myself through the door, petted Maddie on the head, and then went to find one of Maddie's spare leashes. I figured I'd at least secure the dog until I heard something, and maybe call the Animal Shelter if I didn't.

Unfortunately, Jackson's conception of "stay" was only about as good as his grasp of "stop," "down," and "sit," and when I arrived back at the door, mere moments later, he was gone, vanished.

I hit redial on my phone. "Hi," I say. "I just called you about your dog. He escaped right after I left the message. He's somewhere in the neighborhood of 5th and F Streets. Sorry about that. Hopefully he headed home, but I'll keep my eyes open for him. Good luck."

I went back inside, sat down next to Maddie, handed her a treat, and scratched her ears as she munched away.

"Puppies," she lamented, after a few moments. "Why do they always have to be so pushy? I don't want to play dogpile; I'd much rather just sit down, eat treats, socialize, and maybe watch a movie."

"Yeah," I replied, stroking Maddie's back. "Me too."

Circus Time

"I'm not so sure about this," said Maddie. "When you said that we were going to play circus, I pictured elephants and clowns and stuff like that. I didn't think I'd be standing on top of a platform."

"I didn't say we were going to play circus, Maddie," I replied. "I said we were going to take some circus pictures. Now try to look fierce."

"You're joking, right?"

"No, I'm not joking. Randy said we could use his platform, and I thought I might be able to get a good picture for this year's Maddie calendar."

Maddie glanced over the edge of the platform. "If I was meant to be this high off the ground," she grumbled. "I'd have been born a Great Dane."

"Oh, come on, Maddie," I said. "Just look fierce for the camera, let me get a picture, and then I'll set you back down on the ground. I'm not a fan of heights either."

"Fierce, huh?"

"Yeah, give me fierce. Like a lion."

"How humiliating," said Maddie. She leaned toward the camera. "Roar," she mumbled. I snapped a picture, then picked Maddie up from the platform and set her down on the ground.

"See, all done," I said.

Maddie wandered a few feet away. "Solid ground," she said, then flopped down onto the floor nearby. "After that, you'd better have a treat in your pocket, or I may just have to show you fierce."

---

Nothing Quite Like That New T-Shirt Smell

Our latest order from Oddica showed up on Friday, birthday presents for our nephews (Don't tell 'em, okay? After all, It's a pretty safe bet that neither of the kids read my blog, so if you all help us keep it mum, our secret will be safe) and a new shirt for me, Erik Kriek's Zombie Brain Chew. As expected, ZBC is another high-quality shirt with a great graphic (perfect for Halloween - which, as far as I'm concerned, ought to be a year-round holiday), and Oddica still throws in all sorts of extra schwag, like buttons, stickers, and library cards. I'm not sure whether it's the shirts themselves, or the fact that Oddica treats their artists well, or the combination of the two, but as long as they keep doing things right, Jennifer and I are fans. Jan's even become a fan, and can frequently be spotted wearing the "girlie-cut" Bluebird Migraine shirt that Jennifer gave her. Hey, Oddica! Keep up the good work (and let Doug Williams know that we're looking forward to Trainman, and hope he's feeling better soon)!

"Did you ever get the feeling," asked Maddie, pawing at my leg, "that you were being watched?"

"What do you mean, 'watched'?" I asked, unclear whether Maddie's concern was abstract or concrete. We were making our way back towards home after a long morning walk, having looped through Wickersham Park, wandered along Petaluma Boulevard, and sniffed our way down to the waterfront and back, so I guessed that she was simply tired out and feeling apprehensive. Still, there was something suspicious in the air, something I couldn't quite put a finger on.

"You know, watched," said Maddie, sniffing at a fireplug. "Like someone is spying on you, looking down at you from above."

"Is this a rhetorical question?" I asked, glancing back the way we'd come, starting to feel a bit nervous. "Something philosophical?"

"No, nothing like that," said Maddie. "I just feel like we're being watched-"

I looked left, nothing. I looked right, nothing. I looked at the road ahead. "Now that you mention it-" I trailed off, looking up. Staring back at me from the second-floor roof of a white corner house stood a handsome Pit Bull wearing a puzzled expression.

"-maybe it is something philosophical," continued Maddie, eyes closed and unaware of our precariously-placed canine observer. "I mean the Universe is a pretty big place, so maybe there might be some sort of higher-" I started laughing. "What?" insisted Maddie, glaring up at me, indignant. I bent down next to her and pointed up towards the Pit Bull on high. "Holy moley!" exclaimed Maddie. "How the heck did he get all the way up there?"

"I think that may very well be what he's wondering right now."

"Should we call someone?" asked Maddie. "Who do you call about something like that, anyway?"

"Good question," I replied, noticing that a man was coming out of the side entrance of the house. "Come on, Maddie," I said, walking over towards the man. "Excuse me," I hailed, pointing up at the dog. "Did you know that there's a dog on your house?"

The man looked at Maddie and me with the sort of stare I could tell he generally reserved for missionaries and panhandlers then followed the trajectory of my finger to where the dog sat perched atop the roof. We stood there for a few silent seconds before he spoke. "I do now," he said.

"Okay, good," I said. "We just thought you should know." Beside me, Maddie wagged her tail gregariously. The man gawked up at the dog, perplexed.

Maddie started to pull at her leash, resuming the trek towards home, so I followed, realizing that there was nothing more the two of us could do about the dog on the roof. Looking back, I watched as a young couple stopped their car beside the house. "What are you doing up there?" called the woman to the now-wagging Pit Bull.

"That was weird," said Maddie, scratching at an ear with one of her back feet once we'd arrived at our front steps. "Something you don't see every day."

"You've got that right," I replied, sitting down on the step next to her and taking over scratching duty. "Don't you go getting any ideas."

"About climbing on the roof?" asked Maddie, looking up. "You don't have anything to worry about. As far as I'm concerned, the couch is more than high enough for me."