I don't have the answers yet, but I have learned enough to be dangerous, and ask better questions..

Oh this is not a rant on dogs pooping on the beach, although they do way too much here in la la land Santa Barbara, CA. Shame shame shame on you owners who let your dogs crap all over our pristine beaches!

But this is not that rant. This is an entirely different rant.

This morning I took my customary walk on the beach. The dolphins were there, frolicking in the waves, letting me know that the ol' heave-ho of the Universe is somehow still on track, despite the continual headlines of endless despair. And personally, I was feeling more upbeat. Perhaps that cosmic death ray that has been levelled on my little corner of the Universe for so long has finally been turned off.

Or at least turned down a few thousand BTUs.

So I walked quite a ways down, surf pounding the rocks, water swirling over my feet, sun dancing on the water's surface, past the naked silver trees hanging upside down from where their cliff eroded away from them years ago, branches reaching down into the water. That spot always looks to me like where a goddess would hang out, if you were lucky (or unlucky) enough to catch one pausing there. And then I reached my spot out on a little point where I can be, for the most part, alone. I like to do yoga asanas there, at the water's edge because it is far more peaceful there than my cramped home with 2 cats (whose continual need for love has me questioning if they are putting a little recalled Viagra in cat food these days), and a screaming psycho-bird (not my personal pet, but a resident of the house).

The beach is much better for this type of work.

While I was doing my stretches, feeling all the places of resistance in my body, and therefore my soul, dogs came by.

Lots of dogs.

Now, their owners were attached for the most part. But the dogs, not one, not two not three, but 18 - count 'em - 18  - yes I did say 18 - can you fucking believe it?? - 18 dogs felt the need to personally greet me in their doggy way. You know how they do. They come up to you, eyes bright, tongue hanging out, tail wagging, and sniff you. In non-discreet places. Then they stand there for you to pat them on the head, after which they trot off.

Doggy greeting.

But why this particular morning should I be so appealing? Half the time they don't bother with me, but rush into the waves, chase balls, chase seagulls, sniff seaweed, piss on the seaweed - you know, important dog business like that.

At one point I was standing at the water's edge, holding tightly to the backs of my knees to stretch out my back, and a lovely German shepherd just had to get in on this action. She came over and wedged her nose in between my breasts and my knees and gave me a lick on my upside-down face.

Her nice Brit owner, seeing me jerk up unexpectedly and wipe my face with my jacket, apologized profusely. Then he supposed it must be a bit of all right to be out here, bending, and moaning (I wasn't doing that!) as I like with no one about to hear me.

Yes, I suppose it is. I was just a little surprised by the hot breath and wet tongue on the face when deep in concentration here.

And it continued all the way back to the car. Dogs running up to me, greeting me, demanding a return greeting, wanting me to throw their balls for them, and scratch them on their doggie spot (lower back near the tail, for those not in the know).

What am I - wearing pheromes made just for dogs????

That got me thinking, remembering that there was a time, and maybe still is a time, when the men who attracted to me were all dogs. Not dogs in the "you low-down dirty dog" kind of way. No, they were all born in the Chinese years of the dog: 1946, 1958. 1970, and 1982 for those of you with no Chinese restaurant placemat to consult nearby . My ex was a '46 dog, my next lover a '70 dog, the two men that chase me at the Blues Society gigs are '46 and '58 dogs, respectively. And I have a lovely friendship with a '70 dog that keeps trying to erupt into a torrid affair. I am saved only by the fact that he's in San Francisco, and therefore not geographically desireable.

Now, you can laugh at this and say, Sharonella, it's all utter nonsense.

OK fine. But then explain to me why it keeps happening. Why men in dog years zero in on me like a pack of starving mosquitos on pale, plump flesh.

I mean, what is the deal? According to the Chinese restaurant placemat, a well-known ancient source of profound wisdom seconded only by Bazooka wrappers, it is the dashing Dragon, or crafty Rat that can best handle me. I have also learned from experience that I quite like some Oxen with whom I can have a good laugh (like my daughter), although they are a bit staid and stubborn at times for me. And I love passionate Tigers, but woops - we are supposed to be mortal enemies according to the placemat. Oh shit.

But nowhere does it talk about dogs!

So why do all these dogs keep chasing me? Is it my simian sense of humor? My zany antics? My quick wit and silly ways? My wicked ability to do 0-60 right back to instant childhood in 3 seconds or less?

When asked this question, my sage old friend Lorenzo (a Tiger) said, with great patience, "Sweetie,  if it's only dogs that are chasing you, and you don't like it, then for the love of God quit bending over!!!!"

And there you have it.....