Basking in the spring Sunday sun at the Berkeley Pagan Festival, I surveyed the surreal scene.
Probably the only place you’ll see security guards wearing pixie wings, or a hip-hop band that includes a cello and a banjo plugged into a wah-wah pedal. Thank the Druid gods the lead singer wasn’t saggin’ like a lot of rappers do, because he was wearing a kilt and I had no interest in finding out where he stood on the undergarment-free part of that tradition.
According to one of the speakers that day, you don’t have to be a gnome-hugger or a wicca wonk to be a pagan. You just “have to be your authentic self.” No wonder there were so many dogs in attendance. It makes sense that authenticity advocates would hang out with pets who are always shamelessly real. Made for a great day of dog watching.
I saw one family with the loveliest pair of Afghan hounds. Another couple brought their three pugs (maybe they misread “pagan” on the flyer and thought it was a “pug-in”). But my favorite witch-loving bitch was a huge and gangly mutt reclining on the lawn whose owner was draped all over her like she was one big furry pillow. You could tell by her toothy grin that the pooch was really diggin’ on her little pagan puppy pile.
For something completely different, we caught the Cartier exhibit while it was in town. Only camping in the Sierras on a clear, moonless night could one see a more stunning display of sparklers.
I was pleased to discover that royalty prized their pets as much as the jewelry they spent so many millions on. Queen Alexandria of Edwardian England, for example, had her beloved bulldogs immortalized in smoky quartz with gold collars and diamond eyes.
As lavish an expression of love as that may have been, I’ll bet her dogs would have preferred something from the caterer to something from Cartier. Forget ivory and rubies. Even the most well-heeled pooch knows anything carved from cow bone is in the best of taste.
Speaking of queens and their dogs, that Limey comic on the Daily Show announced that if the Brits hadn’t been able to form a government from their wacky election results, the queen might have been forced to appoint one of her Yorkies to serve as interim Prime Minister. Interesting thought. To keep up with the latest in PM couture, dignitaries might have been commanded to wear tails to every function.
We end with the continuing adventures of Sophie, the Walker Hound mix, and her irrepressible owner Ben, Bay Woof distribution czar. Ben recently took a second job as live-in caretaker for an elderly woman with Alzheimer’s. (When you’re as fine a fine artist as Ben, sometimes you have to take the oddest odd jobs to keep yourself stocked up on paints and Purina.) Ben says there is one little problem with this new gig: although the woman loves Sophie (who wouldn’t?), she hates cats. Did I mention that Ben also owns a cute little tabby named Spaz? So Ben is forced to sneak the cat in at night and sneak it out by day, never breathing a word to his charge about the feline.
The fun starts when he and Sophie and the woman go for walks and Spaz prances up to tag along. “It’s amazing!” says the woman. “That cat has no fear of Sophie whatsoever.” Or “That cat almost acts as if it knows you.” Ben feigns equal amazement.
My theory is that anyone with a soft spot for dogs could develop one for cats in the right circumstances. If Ben were to teach Spaz a few doggy tricks, like chewing up the newspaper or chasing the mailman, it just might get the cat out of the doghouse.
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