By MARY KAY RAUMA

For The Beachcomber

Vashon Island has more dogs per capita than any other town in Washington state. OK, I admit I have absolutely no data to back up this claim. However, if the two-mile radius from my house is representative of Vashon households, I bet I’m close to the mark.

I have great neighbors who I wave to and occasionally chat with as I go on my regular jogging route. Mostly, though, I see, and interact with, their dogs.

While we are out and about doing errands or off to work, many of our dogs are left at home to hold down the fort. And, as I’ve come to learn, they are making good use of this time, perhaps even counting the minutes until the taillights of our cars disappear in the distance so they can resume their covert canine operations.

My favorite dog in the neighborhood is a short, scruffy white dog (a Westy mix?) named RJ. I’m not sure if RJ stands for anything, but the name suits him perfectly: short, simple and kind of intimidating.

He’s definitely the town sheriff in our ’hood. He patrols the neighborhood on short legs that move at one speed, a steady clip, as if responding to an aid call. His white tail stands alert from the moment he leaves the end of his driveway to the moment he returns.

Between you and me, I think he is scared as heck when he’s away from his base camp, but he puts on a good show. Whenever he sees me coming, he throws on the brakes, strikes a muscle pose and gives me a steely cold glare.

One day my husband and I were in the car and RJ passed us at his usual pace looking particularly fed up. “There goes RJ,” said my husband, “out kicking ass and taking names!” — and we nearly rolled off the road in laughter.

I know the real truth about RJ. Like so many “tough guys,” underneath that icy veneer is the sweetest, warmest, pushover of a dog. Whenever I see him, I shout out, “Go get ’em, RJ!” Just think what a hard job he has acting tough all day when he’s really a softie at heart.

There are so many other characters in the neighborhood.

Cosmo is a black lab (with a little chili pepper thrown in) who reminds me of the comic strip character Marmaduke.

I think his owners had a stroke of genius when they named him because he is, in a word, very “Cosmo” ­— kind of a cross between a cosmopolitan (the pink drink with a twist of lime) and the word cosmic. If Cosmo could write, HE’D WRITE IN ALL CAPS AND END EVERY SENTENCE WITH AN EXCLAMATION POINT!

This is a dog who lives in the moment, for the moment. He has super-long lean legs, proportionately large feet, big floppy ears, and, I swear, the dog knows how to wink, which sort of leaves the impression that he’s up to something indiscreet. Thankfully, I think he’s on the tail end of his teenage rebellious period and is through with his garbage-can-tipping phase for good.

Down on the corner lot live the snarly lab brothers. Their enclosure, years of patchwork metal fence — double- and triple-enforced in spots — says it all. Or does it?

For years I dreaded rounding this corner with my two large dogs. The mayhem that would erupt from both sides of the fence (my dogs are no angels) was enough to shatter any inner tranquility gained from a walk. I could just feel my muscles and psyche spring-loading as I approached, and yet I was never prepared for the barking, the fangs, the slobber, the heads being thrust through the fence and the leash-pulling that ensued.

One day, I noticed my dogs revving up well before the corner, right in sync with me. It finally dawned on me that my dogs may be picking up my energy. So, I tried some textbook psychology on the “bad” boys on the other side of the fence.

“Hi, sweet boys. Good boys!” I said in the most syrupy, sing-song tone I could muster. The “bad boys” just about stopped dead in their tracks, so shocked were they that someone wasn’t scared of them. My dogs looked at me like I’d gone off the deep end, and immediately toned down their lunging and barking.

Now, we look forward to sweet-talking the boys. Actually, I should say that I look forward to it, since Fargo and Max (my brood) barely take notice as they barrel around the corner on to the next adventure — an adventure with Figgy or Gib or Barney or Dublin or Dea or Starz or Zelda or … a dog near you.

— Mary Kay Rauma is The Beachcomber’s advertising representative.