One thing's for certain, for a little dog, Maddie's got a big attitude. Now, that's not uncommon, and I wouldn't necessarily describe it as a bad attitude, especially when compared to other small dogs, say, Chihuahuas with Napoleon-complexes, run-amok Pomeranians, or pugnacious Pugs; still, once in a while, it's all about what Maddie wants, and (to pinch and paraphrase a title from Richard Adler and Jerry Ross) whatever Maddie wants, Maddie gets. It's a simple equation:

Little Dog + Big Attitude = Maddietude

Here's an example of Maddietude in action: Earlier this week while Maddie and were out for our morning walk in Wickersham Park, fellow Argus-Courier blogger Carolyn Coquillette and her big, friendly Lab, Castro, came over to say "hello." Now we'd met Castro once before, but that time he was in the company of his other human, Tammy. That time, Maddie was a little bit vocal, but she was close to home, so I assumed she was merely informing Castro that he was on her territory and that he ought to remain on his best behavior. This time, perhaps due to my insistence that we walk in one direction instead of, like Maddie wanted, go exploring in another entirely, Maddie decided upon a course of action better suited to an ill-mannered adolescent than a charming little dog. While I tried to get a decent picture of the two dogs socializing, Maddie stomped off to the end of her fifteen-foot leash, sat down facing away from Castro, Carolyn, and I, and pouted. Fortunately, Maddie remains cute even when being belligerent, so I was able to shrug off her antisocial behavior with a smile and a nod and spend a few minutes chatting with Carolyn and Castro. When the two of them headed back home (to finish packing, but you're going to have to hit up Carolyn's blog for that whole story), I gathered up Maddie and we started back to the course of our walk. "What's wrong? Weren't you happy to see Castro again?" I asked Maddie as we walked along.

"Yeah," she said, stopping to scratch at an ear. "It was cool to see Castro again, and to meet Carolyn. She seems nice."

"Then what's with all the attitude, Maddie?" I asked, bending down and smoothing back the hair that she'd mussed with her scratching.

"I was just being coy," said Maddie. "Do you think Castro noticed?"

"Oh, Maddie," I said, petting her head. "Sometimes you are just too much."

Jennifer and I were both working in our office on Sunday afternoon when Maddie came tearing in from the hallway. "You guys, come quick," she barked. "The biggest, freakiest bug I ever saw is in the back yard eating Abby's head."

Confused, we followed Maddie back out through the hallway, the kitchen and out into the back yard. There stood Abby, Jan and Randy's armless mannequin, leaning against the side of the house, looking like something out of a China Miéville novel, a gigantic papier-maché insect head where her noggin ought normally to be. Nearby, a bearded young man in a ratty straw hat stood manipulating a 4X6 camera on a tripod, snapping Polaroid shot after shot of the unfortunate Abby.

"I'll bet that's the guy who brought over the bug," accused Maddie, hiding behind my legs. "I think he might be in league with the pod-people."

"It's okay, Maddie," I reassured, bending down to scratch her ears. "He's okay. Jennifer and I met him last night at Janine's party. That's Michael Garlington. He's a photographer. He must be over here hanging out with Randy."

"B-but where'd the big bug come from?" she asked.

"It's a prop," I answered. "It's fake, pretend. Come on, I'll introduce you."

Maddie cautiously followed me down the stairs as Randy emerged from the opposite doorway, black paint covering one of his hands (he'd been working on a backdrop). I introduced Maddie to Michael, and she managed a salutary tail wag while suspiciously regarding the bug head. We all stood around chatting for a while, and Maddie ventured over to sniff Abby's feet. Eventually she decided that the bug head posed no threat, so she and I followed Randy and Michael back into the church (and Jennifer headed back to our office) to watch the two photographers compare notes and "play" (that is, take lots of pictures).

Inside, Cooper ran around sniffing at the various props and insisting that she was Randy's official assistant. Maddie stood on the sidelines, watching with fascination as Michael made faces and manipulated props for Randy's camera. I wandered around the room, snapping shots of the two at play while helping myself to leftover Jell-O shooters from the previous night's party. Eventually, time came for Michael to load his toys (the bug head, a huge mushroom, a stuffed lizard) back into his portrait-covered Volkswagen van and head off into the sunset.

Maddie wagged her tail as Michael drove away. "I liked him, he was fun," she said. "But when he comes back, ask him to leave his bug head in the car. It gives me the creeps."

For about half a minute, as the wailing sirens approached, I was convinced that they were coming to my house. After all, it had only been about fifteen minutes since I'd managed yet again to set off our smoke detector with the steam from my morning shower, and since I'd just last night changed the battery in the confounded thing hoping to correct the problem, this morning's unnecessary alarm was loud. As has become almost routine, Maddie hid around the corner in our office, barking at the screeching menace until I set up the ladder, climbed up, and wrenched the confounded thing from the ceiling. Fortunately, the screaming fire engine and the ambulance that pursued it careened around the corner without slowing, so I knew they weren't out to deal with my trivial false alarm; however, the sirens stopped rather quickly after they turned, so I knew that someone in the neighborhood was having a very bad day.

"Can we go see? Can we go see?" asked Maddie, pawing at my leg. "Fire trucks are so exciting."

We'd already been getting ready to head out for our morning walk, so I clipped on her harness, saying, "Sure, we can go see what's going on, but we're only going to go as close as is safe, and I might have to carry you."

"Hurrah!" shouted Maddie, and rocketed out the front door the moment I opened it. She trotted along, leading me down 5th to F Street, then turned on 6th Street towards E, where we saw two fire engines waiting with their lights spinning. "I wonder what's going on," said Maddie.

"Looks like the excitement is up on E Street," I said, and we walked down to the corner and turned to walk up the street. Midway down the block sat an ambulance with another fire engine a few yards further up. Across the street from the big red engine, a Petaluma Fire Department SUV sat idling in a driveway. Men in uniform wandered between the vehicles and a house, engaged in the process of assessing the situation.

Maddie nervously peeked around a tree. "I hope nobody got hurt," she said, sniffing at the air. "I don't smell anything bad."

"Same here," I answered. "Come on." We continued walking down towards the SUV, and I noticed another fire engine and ambulance waiting at the other end of E Street. A total of four fire engines, two ambulances, and one big red SUV sat clustered around whatever was going on. "I guess they're not taking any chances," I observed.

As Maddie and I passed the SUV, one of the firemen walked past us, carrying a big axe in one of his hands. He stopped, then glanced down at Maddie and smiled. "How's it going?" he asked amiably.

"We're good," I replied. "How about yourself?" Maddie grinned back up at him and wagged her tail.

"Pretty good," said the fireman. "We had a little scare, but it looks like everything is going to be okay." He sauntered toward the truck, where he hung the axe on a pair of hooks.

"Right on," I said. "Come on, Maddie. Let's get out of the way." The two of us resumed walking down to the end of the block.

When we got there, Maddie stopped, then looked back over her shoulder at the firemen. "That was exciting," she said. "And that fireman was nice." She scratched at an ear. "Maybe I could become a fire dog."

"What would you do if you were a fire dog?"

"I'd ride on one of those big trucks," said Maddie. "And I already know where all of the hydrants in the neighborhood are."

"That's important, I guess," I said. "But you're scared of loud noises, and those sirens are pretty loud."

"Oh," said Maddie, looking down at her feet. "I hadn't thought of that."

We continued walking down E to 7th Street, then we turned on F Street and started back towards home. One of the trucks rumbled past, and a fireman waved at Maddie. "Why do firemen have dogs, anyway?" asked Maddie.

"In the old days," I replied. "Back when fire engines were pulled by horses, the dogs would protect the horses."

"Protect them from what?" asked Maddie.

"Bad dogs, bad people, other fire companies. If there was trouble, they'd fight it off. They had to be tough, Mike the Bulldog tough. These days, I don't think there are too many fire dogs."

"Oh," said Maddie. "I don't want to have to fight anybody; I just wanted to ride on the truck and help people if there's an emergency."

I bent down and scratched her ears. "You helped me this morning when I set off the smoke alarm. You barked to let me know it was beeping. And if you want, we can go for a ride in the car later this afternoon. So even though you're not a fire dog, I like you just the way you are."

"Look," said Maddie, stopping and pointing with her paw as we wandered through Wickersham Park. "Somebody lost their ball over there." Sure enough, on the ground between a puddle and a park bench sat a well-gnawed tennis ball, looking lonely and abandoned in the morning dew. Maddie led me over to investigate. First she circled the ball, sniffing at the rubber and cloth sphere, and then, when that didn't provide any answers, she leaned over the nearby puddle and addressed her reflection. "Excuse me, miss," said Maddie. "Is this your ball? Do you know whose ball this is?"

"Maddie," I said. "Why are you asking your reflection questions?"

Maddie glanced up at me, then back down at her reflection, then back up at me and wagged her tail. "I was just being silly," she said. She sat down, then looked up at me. "How did the ball get here?"

"What's your guess?" I asked.

"I think it came from the new ballpark," said Maddie.

"Oh, really?" I asked, sitting down on the park bench next to Maddie and scratching her ears. "What do you know about the new ballpark?"

"Charlie told me all about it. He says that it's brand new and that all the dogs in Petaluma can go there and play ball all day long. Cool, huh?"

"But Maddie," I said. "You don't even like to play ball."

"Yeah, that's true," she looked down at her feet. "But it's the idea that's cool, right?"

"Well, there's nothing wrong with liking an idea in principal, but not in practice," I said. "But Charlie heard wrong. First off, the ballpark is a baseball stadium, not a dog park. Second, they haven't even built it yet."

"Oh," said Maddie. "Charlie's going to be disappointed." She scratched at an ear. "Where are they going to build it?"

"Out at the fairground. They're planning to tear down the racetrack to do it."

"Why would they do that?" asked Maddie. "The racetrack has been there forever."

"Because some carpetbagger from New York has managed to bamboozle the mayor and the city council and the people that own the fairgrounds into thinking they'll make all kinds of money if they bring a minor league baseball team to Petaluma. Never mind that it's going to completely snarl traffic in the area. Never mind the precedent set by the Sonoma County Crushers, who never made a dime for Rohnert Park. They'll wave flags, and talk about how it's going to be good for the kids, but in the long run, it's just another step in turning Petaluma into a big, ugly urban sprawl."

Maddie made a face. "That's lame," she said.

"Yeah, it is," I replied. "What's even lamer is that they're going to stick the guy that owns the racetrack with the bill for cleaning it up. But that's neither here nor there, because that ball isn't a baseball."

Maddie looked at the ball. "What kind of ball is it?"

"It's a tennis ball."

"Oh," said Maddie. She thought for a minute. "There were tennis balls in that movie we watched last week. Those guys started a big fight in the mud because of a box full of tennis balls."

"Good memory. That was Shakespeare's Henry V."

"I liked that movie; it had lots of mud in it."

"Do you want to go home and watch it?" I asked, standing up and stretching.

"Maybe," suggested Maddie. "Hold on, though." She wandered back over to the puddle. I thought she might be planning to say goodbye to the ball or her reflection, but instead she bent down and took a big drink, lapping up the water. "I was thirsty" said Maddie, looking back up at me.

"You've got a bit of mud on your chin," I said, pointing at my own chin.

Maddie licked her lips, then wagged her tail. "I'm Henry the Fifth, I am."

I bent down and scratched her ears, then tried to clean some of the mud out of her whiskers. "You sure are," I said. "Come on, let's go home." I pointed towards the house. "Once more unto the breach, dear friend."

"Oh, that is so cool!" exclaimed Maddie as we ascended the steps of Walnut Park's bandstand. "Now we can watch T.V. down here any time we want to." Sure enough, there was a T.V. on the bandstand. Someone had dragged an old wood-covered console television (one that had been sitting across the street from the park for the previous week, broken down and apparently abandoned) through the park and up the stairs of the bandstand and had even gone to the trouble of plugging it in to one of the park's discrete power outlets. Maddie wagged her tail, grinning. "Did you put this T.V. here? Was this a surprise for me?" she asked. I shook my head. "Turn it on, okay?"

I glanced around, making sure that nobody that had any sort of claim to the T.V. was within range, taking note of a group of men playing dominos at one of the tables and a pair of strollergang moms gossiping as their sproglings ran amok on the playground equipment. Satisfied that all was safe, I pulled the T.V.'s on/off knob and sat down with Maddie as the set hummed to life. Unfortunately, humming was all it did; the picture tube remained black.

"I don't think I like this show very much," said Maddie, tilting her head as if to better appraise the dark glass of the blank screen. "Can you change the channel?"

"I don't think it's working, Maddie," I responded. "I think it's broken, and that's why it ended up here."

"Oh, Foo," said Maddie. "That's disappointing. I was hoping we could watch Beneath the Planet of the Apes. I like that movie." She got up, then walked over to the T.V. and sniffed at it, then noticed her reflection against the black glass tube. "Hey," said Maddie, walking back across the bandstand and sitting down next to me. "I'm on T.V., and so are you. When did they make a show about us?"

I scratched her ears. "That's not a show, Maddie. That's just our reflection."

"What's a reflection?" asked Maddie.

"You know, like in a mirror or puddle. Particles of light called 'photons' bounce off the surface and make it possible for us to see an image of ourselves." I waved at the T.V., demonstrating to Maddie the way the reflection imitated my movement.

Maddie studied her reflection. "I thought there was somebody on the other side of the mirror, like in that scary story you read me or that silly movie you and me watched last week, the one with the three guys that had the big moustaches and funny glasses."

"That story was China Miéville's 'The Tain,' and the movie was called Duck Soup. Those guys with the moustaches were the Marx Brothers. That mirror gag is famous; it's been imitated on everything from I Love Lucy to The X-Files."

"Oh," said Maddie. "Could we watch that on this T.V.?"

"No," I replied. "This T.V. is broken. If you want, we can go home and watch it, since we've got it on DVD."

Maddie sat there for a few moments, thinking. Finally she spoke up. "Okay, since this T.V. is broken, we can go home and watch a movie. But I don't want to watch the moustache guy movie; I want to watch Beneath the Planet of the Apes. That's my favorite."