Cookie

Cookie was, perhaps, the only ‘person’ skinnier than me in all Bolinas. She was mostly gray with a black mask, and whitish whiskers surrounding her comical face - a bit like 'Tramp' from the Disney story. She had a long, whip-like tail that wagged at the slightest provocation, and spindly legs that lifted her to a little more than knee-height. She had more fleas than I did, but not many more.

When I found her I was living in a tent tucked away in the bushes, across from the town gas station, where now sits a lumber yard.

Cookie had been living in a crawl space under a house next to Smiley’s Bar. She was nursing a litter of eleven puppies, which I shimmied under the crawl space to evacuate and then brought them all to my tent. There, Cookie and I together ate scraps from the butcher barrel at the general store, until the puppies were old enough to wean. I managed to get them all adopted out, just in time for her to go into heat again. She had ‘flea allergies’ and had chewed away the fur on her haunches - though her long whiskers and intelligent eyes managed to prevent her from being completely unattractive. As a matter of fact, she somehow seemed to know that she looked a bit pathetic. She played on the sympathies of Smiley’s patrons – frequently being fed hard boiled eggs by soft hearted folks, out the front door where she faithfully waited for me while I drank inside.

Cookie became the most devoted dog… When I began to wash dishes in Scowley's, she’d wait outside the door for me, often sneaking in when the door would be opened by customers, then creeping under the back of the counter until she could peek out from the end where she could watch me as I busted suds. Eventually she’d get spotted and eighty-six'd – though not usually for long before she’d sneak back in. Several times daily Greg or Randy Fontan would yell at me “Keep that dog outside, Backyard!” She got the leavings from plates after the breakfast rush though, and I felt good that she and I were both better fed.

Cookie had more friends than I did. Sometimes, she’d go off visiting, and I’d hear later that she’d been to Jeanne Greenberg’s place, or Bobby Jean D’Accardo’s, or any number of others she knew. At each stop she’d be fed, though she never seemed to gain an ounce.

To my disgrace, there were times I’d leave her closed in my cabin, coming home drunk to find that she’d fouled the den. On a couple occasions I dealt her beatings in my drunken stupor. For this, I have carried great shame throughout my days. I did not deserve the love this wonderful dog lavished upon me.

Cookie ‘sang’ while I played harmonica, chased sticks into the surf, and loved nothing more than endless games of fetch and keep away. She was my constant companion - laying down off the shoulder of the road as I hitched across the country, staying low until a ride would stop.
“My dog okay?” I’d ask before we jumped in… if the answer was ‘no’, I’d wave ‘em on.

Cookie seemed to understand English better than most people. I’d give her complex instructions that she’d never heard before – she’d do her best… “Go over there and sit until I come back…” I’d say.
She’d dutifully go to the exact spot I’d indicate, and do exactly as I said.

There were times my drinking did nothing to endear me to other humans. I was scruffy, aimless and sometimes a mooch. Scowleys wouldn’t always have work for me, and I wouldn’t always want to work. Sometimes I’d get drunk early in the day, and be a bother to people visiting the store or the other businesses downtown. I seemed to never have my own cigarettes, though I did have a serious habit. Even when I felt most alone and inept in the world, Cookie loved me like no other.

After her fourth litter of puppies Bobby Jean pitched in to have her sterilized. Cookie gained weight and grew all her fur in after this. I was so grateful, though I may have never adequately expressed it.

We lived for five years under the West Marin summer sun, and through the chilled, misty winters. We were a fixture, Cookie & I. I painted my famous mural on the bathroom wall in Scowleys, learned a few tricks and skills, played piano and wrote songs. Backyard Steve started to find a life, and Cookie was well-loved and happy.

One day a transient called 'Crazy Patrick' drifted in. He was last seen on Bolinas-Olema Road with Cookie on a rope, hitching out of town. I searched for her endlessly – getting up at 4 am to clean Scowleys so that I could get an early start. I’d visit every shelter and dog pound from Sonoma to San Francisco, day after day. I was gut-shot grief stricken. I’d lost my closest friend.

One day, George Marzacchi found me, and told me that he’d encountered Cookie while driving cab in Mill Valley. He put her in his cab and drove her around throughout the day. At the end of the day, he transferred her into his VW convertible, and stopped at the store to buy her food. Panicked, she clawed her way out of his car while he was in the store, and ran off again.

For four months I searched Mill Valley, every day. Cookie was never seen again. I was inconsolable, and felt a void that never really healed. Damned dog... I miss that pup with an aching heart to this day. She was one for a lifetime.

I left Bolinas after a few years, determined to find my potential. I went to work helping developmentally disabled people in a group home, and quickly found my aptitude for that field. I went on to work at an administrative level, building agencies and programs, and 30 years later still work in a helping capacity. I also played a great deal of music along the way, formed a sound and production company, and became a certified Diver. I began going to Southern Mexico, where I became concerned for the plight of the street dogs there, and formed a successful nonprofit to help them. This remains among my greatest passions, and my life's work.

One is a skinny waif named Poco.

When Poco came to me, she was 12 weeks old. She’d never been socialized. She’d been scooped up by a member of our team at the last second, as she was being chased through a field in a small pueblo by a man with a shotgun.

She was terrified of humans, having spent her first weeks of life being chased, stomped kicked and starved. When she was picked up, she would not yip or yelp as dogs do, but would scream like a child – piercing and prolonged. Yet, on first sight, she came to me and laid her trembling chin in my outstretched hand.

Poco is a spoiled little princess now, here in Denver. She sleeps under the bed, while the others sleep in their runs. She always seems to get a little extra – even though all the dogs are greatly loved. She doesn’t trust many people, but she adores me and wants to be wherever I am. Sometimes when I see her looking wistfully at me, I see the spirit of another dog from long ago. She is brown, where Cookie was gray. She has no mask or whiskers, but she has deep, intelligent eyes. She's thin, even though well fed.
I haven’t had a drink or a toke of smoke in more than 17 years, and Poco’s never taken another blow from human hands or feet, since coming under my wing. May I somehow, through her, atone for the times I betrayed the love of that other devoted soul, a lifetime ago.

I carry Bolinas in my DNA, even though I lived there for only a few years, three decades ago. I live a privileged life now, surrounded by a rich and diverse orchard of family and friends. Backyard Steve is a story told to people who can’t envision me ever sleeping in the rain, begging for a smoke, or slugging down bad wine under a tree outside the town bar.

In a box, in a closet, there’s still an old Honer Blues Harp. The reeds are blown out, and it hasn’t been played for a long, long time. Last time it was played, Mean Jean Greenberg, Dean Greenstreet, and Backyard Steve (a.k.a.: ‘Will Do Anything, Inc.’) drank under the Bolinas full moon while Cookie howled the blues.