PLASTIC BALLOON PEOPLE WELCOME HERE

I'm so happy when Joan is sick. Not the stupid sick that sends her crawling into work even though she's at the brink of collapse and not the kind that sends her to the hospital overnight. I like it when she's just sick enough to lie on the living room couch with just enough energy to pet me and apologize for not taking the daily walk. Ah, yes. That was yesterday. Today, she went back to work with an earache. I tried to stop her with sad glances at the ceiling and a few punctuated sighs, but it didn't work.

I did a lot of barking this evening at the blow-up snow guys across the street. It was freaky. All of a sudden, they popped up out of the ground, and Shane ran right back into the house with his tail dragging on the ground. Not me. I stayed outside to stare them down; but no matter how much barking I did or how many grimacing looks I conjured up, all they did was smile and bob up and down, keeping time with the breeze.

Joan came outside about six times to say calmati (which I think means cool it in Italian) and finally convinced me that the balloon people weren't out to hurt anyone. They don't have psychological quirks and quandaries that compel them to write angry e-mails, like some of Joan's relatives and blog readers; they don't give people the finger like that hairy guy in the in the municipal parking lot; and, even more important, they don't take drugs like those guys who park down the street for hours at a time, sucking crack into their lungs and drooling and throwing their garbage out the car window. After watching these strange visitors across the street for the last two or three hours, I realize that plastic snow people are easier to get along with than angry relatives and guys in parking lots, and they make much better neighbors than drug addicts. It's all good.

Best wishes, Juno

Knock, Knock. Who's There?

Just when I thought things were getting back to normal after the holiday, they did. Normal means someone knocks on the door and Joan says, "Come on in; I'll make some cappuccino." Shane and I have it all planned out; it's a sort of system reserved for visitors. If we're annoying enough when company comes, Joan gives us a bribe, like a biscuit or a carrot, to keep us quiet. It always works. The more trouble we cause, the more treats we get.

But, today, we had a visitor—one I've never seen before—and the system broke down. I barked and Shane walked in circles and tried to knock him down, but nothing happened. The visitor didn't trip and we didn't get any treats. That was three hours ago, and he's still here, I guess, waiting for his cappuccino. He doesn't play or talk or give reassurance or say bad things, but he sure is a colorful character. Yikes! Maybe he's the new pet! How's he going to fit in the car with us? And what about the sleeping arrangements? I'm not sharing. It's not that I want to be mean or anything, but I'm a little too big to be sharing my bed with anyone. I'd better go sit in front of Joan and look sad. No, I'd better go stretch out on my bed before he gets any bright ideas.

Come on, Shane. Hurry! Sorry. Gotta go.

Best wishes, Juno

Going, Going To Furky

1. Shane & Reflection

2. Me, Kyla, & Cappuccino

3. Jaaron, Joan, Kyla, Shana, Ari, & Moi

4. The evil intruder—Tofurky

Thanksgiving was saved. Whew! Shana made a turkey and brought it over. I was getting scared because all I saw going into the oven was a brownish log that came out of a box called Tofurky. Yuk. And the dressing! Sure it had almonds and celery; but, Joan put in some weird veggie sausage stuff. What? Does she really think Shane and I don't know the difference? We know how she sometimes tries to trick us with that veggie "ground round" she mixes in with our food. Just to be polite, we gobble it up and pretend it's the real thing. But, we know.

It's not easy living with Veggie Woman. But, I have to be greatful that she's not a soybean-hugging vegan. They're the worst. No milk for the cappuccino! Whoa. That's just nuts. No one dies if you drink milk, you know. I mean, I can see not wanting to eat an animal. I get that, because if I had been born in China or Korea, I'd have been stew and a fur-lined jacket a long time ago. But, I don't get giving up fresh mozzarella with olive oil and fresh basil or unfertilized egg salad or ice-cream.

So, Thanksgiving turned out to be a riot of food and compliments to me, for being beautiful, and to Joan, for cooking everything but the turkey. So what if it rained all day and Joan kept checking the attic for leaks and found one or two. In terms of family days, it was still a "ten." Ari, Shana, Jaaron, Kyla, and their dad Charles came over and everyone talked and petted me and drank wine—Charles sure knows his California cabernets—and ate a lot and said many mmmmmmmmmmm's. Shane had to stay in the bedroom for most of the day because Jaaron was afraid he'd try to bite her again. No one else thought he'd bite them again, but Joan thought it was better to be safe than sorry. He had lots of bones to eat, and for the most part, he slept on his comfy bed. Me, I got treats by looking hungry and uncared for, which isn't easy to do since I still smell so nice from my last bath and, well, what the weight issue, it's not easy to look hungry, but I'm pretty good at it.

Best wishes, Juno

unHAAPpy BATH day TO meee; unhapPY BATH day TO meee; hap..

Yesterday I had a bath, and I don't know what I did to deserve it.

Shane didn't get a bath. Just because he gets all nervous and quivers, Joan thinks he'll bite her by mistake, and then he'll feel contrite and worthless. Come on, Joan, you're so in denial about those so-called "mistakes" he makes with his teeth and your hand. Me, I'm all calm and nice, so I get the bath. Unfair.

Life is so capricious. I mean, you could go through it doing everything right, saying hey to everyone in the hood, paying your taxes, doing your homework, not tipping over garbage pails or stealing or biting or getting in anyone's face, and life just passes you by without so much as a quick peck on the cheek. Yet, you could bite off someone's ear or wiggle your ass while singing "Baby Baby Do Me" or marry a rich guy or have a perfect nose like Cleopatra's, and life licks you all over.

So, what's my crime? I've got big white fur that collects more dirt than a backhoe in a garbage dump. Dirt likes me. Is that my fault? Shane's got fur like a seal; the dirt bounces right back into the atmosphere as soon as it touches him, like a reverse electrical charge. And, oh, the toenail clipping! That's the worst. I'm so scared Joan will miss the end of the nail and cut into my toe. I should be more neurotic, like Shane. I should do some growling and snapping and charging at small animals. Maybe that would keep me out of the bathtub.

Well, I admit it feels good getting massaged, but why does she have to use all that shampoo? Okay, it smells good, and after I'm dry, everyone in the hood says how nice I look, all fluffy, and with the sun's rays dancing on my glorious black-and-white coat, which brings out its natural red highlights while revving up the lowlights. And while I'm in the bathtub, Joan tells me what a good girl I am for not biting her face off even though I'm obviously unhappy with the situation. And she tells me I'll be the most beautiful girl in the entire world, and all the boys will ask me on dates and all the girls will want to be me. And, actually, I do look rather modelesque in a plus-size sort of way after the Joan works her wonders with the hairdryer and fluff brush.

Sometimes, I wonder if it's worth the ordeal of the monthly bath. But, in the end, I realize it's a sacrifice I have to make—you know, for my people, for my dog public. They expect me to look a certain way, and I don't want to disappoint. Yes, life is tricky. I can never figure out why some dogs have nice soft beds and others get tied to a tree for their entire life, or why some dogs get shampooed and coiffed while others get eaten for dinner, or why some get public adulation and others get thrown into dog-fighting rinks. Fine. I guess, given my circumstances, I’ll submit to the monthly bath. But, I’m not going to stop making my chin quiver or pretend that it’s all fun and games. Joan can’t get off without feeling a little bit guilty about all this obsession with cleanliness, especially if Shane gets out of participating every other month.

Oh, what price beauty!

Best wishes, Juno

Ziggy and Zion: Rolling Over and Moving Around

Here are Ziggy and Zion. They stayed with us for a few months when our human sister Jaaron first moved up to New York from Virginia. But then Zion and Shane got into a big fight and almost killed each other, so Jaaron took Ziggy and Zion to her new apartment in New York. It was nice for them because they had missed Jaaron a lot and also Kyla, Shana, and Ari were living there. They all love Ziggy and Zion, even if they think they're a little spoiled.

Jaaron had gotten Zion from some guy on the street when she was still in college. He was just handing out puppies to anyone who wanted one. "Yo, anyone wanna a free puppy?" Lucky for Zion, she didn't end up with some psycho dog-fighter guy. Anyway, Jaaron was supposed to give Zion to Joan, but in about two minutes, she loved Zion too much to give her up, so Joan never got her, which worked out really well for me and Shane. Zion was only six weeks old at the time, and that's a so-cute stage in any dog's life, even if they turn out to be all drooling and fat and mangy when they get older. I guess that's the same for people, isn't it? Even George Bush and Saddam Hussein used to be six weeks old. I don't know if they were cute, but I bet their mothers thought they were.

About a year after she adopted Zion, Jaaron decided it was time to get another dog, so she went to a dog prison and found Ziggy . Sad Ziggy was all dirty and her fur was almost as thick as the cage she was locked in, because the prison officials kept the dogs outside, even in winter. Jaaron loved Ziggy the minute she saw her and went to get her boyfriend so he could say yes to another dog, which was kind of dumb since Jaaron was going to get her anyway, no matter what. That's what Jaaron's like, but I guess she was being polite. When she got back to the dog jail, it was locked and there was no way to get Ziggy out of her cage. All she could do was talk to her through the bars and promise to return, which she did, the very next day. But, the prison was still locked. Again, Jaaron promised Ziggy she'd come back. Ziggy just licked Jaaron's fingers and lay down, her somber face between her paws, her brown eyes all teary. It was such a dark, cold day.

Jaaron was really worried that Ziggy would be sent to the death chamber before she could rescue her, because she had already spent almost three months in the cage and no one had come to save her. And even Ziggy was pretty sure she was doomed. She knew she smelled bad and she looked a little outer-space-ish with all that strawberry-blond porcupine fur sticking out all over the place. Life was so bad in the cage, there were times when she thought it would be better to go to the death chamber—not because she wanted to die, but because at least she'd get a little exercise before dying. She got so that she agreed with Mussolini that it was better to live one day as a lion than a hundred years as a caged dog. Sure, Mussolini was an idiot in lots of ways—he liked war and statues of himself—but he had some good ideas about trains running on schedule and about living loudly. He didn't finish up well, but everyone remembers the way he stuck his lips out when he talked.

After going back to get Ziggy three times, Jaaron finally found the jail open, but Ziggy wasn't in her cage. Jaaron got all white and shaky. She tried to keep her voice calm when she asked the jail keeper where Ziggy was, and his mouth dropped open almost to the floor. "She's on her way to get put down. Wait, I'll see if I can get her before they …." And he ran out of the office. Put down means exterminated, which is legal if the State does it. I mean, you can't take a gun and just shoot a dog (well, maybe you can in some states). But, you can bring it to a dog jail and they'll do it for you. That's legal.

Poor Jaaron. She already loved Ziggy because Ziggy was so gentle and had reached through the metal bars of her cage to give out many soft kisses. Also, even though she was way over six weeks old, her cute factor was like out of the ball park. So, after quaking in her stiletto boots for about five minutes and trying to pretend that the scared look on her face was just the sun burning her eyes, Jaaron saw the man come back to the office with Ziggy . She was still alive, but very aware that Death had just told her to sit down and shake hands, and that somehow she had gotten out of its clutches before it told her to roll over and play dead. The man said that in another minute, Ziggy would have been one dead puppy, and he wasn't diddling around with any metaphors.

Eventually, Jaaron loved Zion and Ziggy even more than she loved her boyfriend, so they moved to New York without him. Now, Jaaron has a new boyfriend, Scott, and she's moving to San Francisco to be with him. Ziggy and Zion have already driven across country with him, but they like him a lot and he's very kind to them without mamby-pambying them the way Joan did. Jaaron said the first time Scott let them out of the car without a leash, Zion ran for the nearest pile of cow poop and threw herself in it, belly up, and wiggled her body right to the bottom of the pile, her four paws scratching the air like she was running upside down. Ahhhhhhhh. I bet that was sweeter than a mud pie bath. Poor Ziggy didn't get to her pile of cow poop on time because Scott caught her. She was so disappointed; but, at least she got to smell the goodies on Zion until Scott washed her off at the nearest gas station.

They've done a lot of traveling, but they seem to like it. So, now Ziggy and Zion are off on another adventure. They've lived in Radford Virginia, Fairfax Virginia, Selden New York, Queens New York, Boston Massachusetts, Manhattan New York, and now San Francisco California. I wonder if we'll ever see them again.

Best wishes to Ziggy and Zion, Juno

Samantha Behind the Fences

On the other side of these two fences lives Samantha the dog. When we first moved here around three years ago, I used to see her tied up outside, and we'd eye each other and exchange some friendly whining and high-pitched barking—you know, just to say hello, since we could never get close enough to sniff each other's rear ends. That dog has never been on a walk, not even around the block, can you believe it? The humans in her house don't do a lot of physical moving around, except when they're barbecuing, and then you can hear their teeth crush and chomp against their blackened burgers as they yell at the kids to get somewhere: Get in the house. Get in the backyard. Get away from the fence. Get away from the car, the curb, the grass, the tree, the green-water pool. Anyway, even from this side of the fence, I've learned their behavior rules for Samantha. They sit; Sam should sit. They yell; Sam should be quiet. They eat; Sam should lie down. But, it's like having a moody parent or teacher or national leader. You never know when you're going to be sent to your room or the principal's office or into a war zone.

Well, two years ago, they decided there were too many foreign dogs and related varmints crossing on to their property through our peek-a-boo chain-link fence, so they hammered up a six-foot wooden fence all around them and put the uglier side toward the neighbors—us on the north side and the guy in the big white house on the south side, but he's been in jail for over a year, so he doesn't care. For me, it doesn't matter that the fence is ugly, because dogs will never understand why humans consider some things beautiful and tasteful and other things ugly and tacky. These are definitely cultural biases particular to humans. Dogs think all that worry about stuff is stupid.

What's ugly is that Sam is stuck behind the fence and never gets to go anywhere. It so sucks. When Shane and I sit in the driveway, we can hear Sam running back and forth on the other side as though she's beating her paws against the edge of some fourth dimension that might not even exist, like in the Twilight Zone: "Pant. Pant. Da-da-dum, da-da-dump. Pant. Pant. Da-da-dum." Then, the human woman starts yelling, "SAM! Get away from there. Get ovah heah!" She always wants Sam to get away from something or other, even in their square hole of a backyard. What could there be to get away from?

The woman always tells her friends how much she loves dogs. "Oh, yeah, me too," they respond. "I looooooooove them dogs." Then they go inside to eat and watch television, and Sam sits alone outside, her short black coat all gray with dust and her ribs showing through. I've even heard the woman say that Sam hates the backyard neighbor, Buddy the ex-con, because when he was free, Buddy used to hang out with Sam, sometimes engaging in rough games like "role in the dirt" and "I saw the bone first." That was before Buddy got tied up and Sam got fenced in. Buddy was Sam's only friend in those days. Now, she doesn't have anyone. Life's not easy when you have no power.

Best wishes, Juno

Buddy the Ex-Con

This is Buddy, my neighbor. He's only three years old and already he's been cuffed and hauled away in a paddy wagon at least three times. Don't be too quick to judge him, though, because his arrests were for misdemeanors only—usually walking without a leashed human or pooping on someone's lawn. He never got into the big stuff, like our other neighbor who got busted for having an inventory of five million dollars worth of dope, not to mention guns and ammo. I mean, which is worse? Anyway, Buddy swears he's not going back to jail; now, when he squeezes under the fence to get a taste of freedom, he does it under cover of night. Lucky for him, he's black, so after the sun goes down, humans have a hard time spotting him.

The first time behind bars was the toughest, because he didn't understand the laws and couldn't figure out what he had done wrong. He said there were lots of hardened dogs in the jail with arrest records the size of Florida, and they advised him to chill; his person would come and bail him out. "At least someone's coming for you," they said. "Most of us are headed for the...." Buddy says no one ever finished that sentence (no pun intended).

Al, his human, did come for him and had to pay fifty bucks and buy some metal tags, which he lost before he got to wear them. The second and third arrests were easier. By then, Buddy knew the ropes, and the guards seemed to remember him. They would pat him on the head and tell him it wasn't his fault that he kept getting thrown in the lockup. Also, if you can get a good look at Buddy behind the bushes in the picture, you can see he has a highly evolved handsome sort of cuteness about him; also, he knows exactly how to use his eyes to get humans to like him. There are lots of perks for a good looking dog. Anyway, each time Buddy got picked up, Al had to go back to the prison, pay an even higher fine, and buy more tags, which he inevitably lost.

Buddy says he never heard the end of it until the day Al died. That was a terrible day. Al cared about Buddy, and he was never mean to him. We dogs are really good about accepting life the way it is, but that doesn't make it easy when we lose someone we love. So, Buddy had a hard time for a while. Al's going really shook him up.

That was two years ago, and now Joy has a new man in her life. He's got a cool Caribbean accent, and he's really nice to Buddy. The trouble is the neighbors started complaining about Buddy running loose all the time, so Buddy's tied in the yard a lot. Joan's always throwing dog biscuits over the fence to him, and I try to keep him company when I'm outside. But, it's not an easy life for a dog who was used to spending time in the streets, hanging out with the gang, marking up the neighborhood with his special stud perfume. I told him to try meditation, but he says he's got his nights, and that's better than nothing. Then he gazes down the garbage-strewn, tree-lined street and adds, "Yeah, and I have my memories."

Best wishes, Juno

Dog and Mouse Game

This is Shane when he was first taken in by the Little Shelter in Huntington, NY. I hadn't met him yet, but I had seen him moping around the Shelter and had no idea we would be spending our post-shelter lives together. You can see how cute he was, but you can also see that he wasn't exactly the happiest puppy on the block. No one would adopt him for another four months because he always nipped at anyone who touched his collar. Something bad must have happened to his neck area, because he still doesn't let anyone but Joan mess with his neck. They're really wonderful, well-meaning humans at the Little Shelter, although I think they didn't have high hopes for me or for Shane, because when we were there, they sent us to confer with a dog psychologist, claiming we didn't know how to play.

Big deal. Life isn't all play, you know. And, if we wanted to, we could play just as well as the next dog. For example, this morning, Shane played "sniff the dead mouse," and I'm not talking about any phony plastic mouse. No way. He had the real thing. It's played just the way it sounds. First you find a dead mouse, then you sniff it and run around it three times; next, you lie down and put your snout about a millimeter away from its open mouth—if you touch it, you're out. Finally, you sniff it again, get up, and run in a circle. It's great for paw-eye coordination and for working out those hard-to-reach quads.

The first time we spotted a dead mouse, about six months ago, Joan said, all weepy, "Oh, the poor little thing" and carried it into the woods across the street so it could return to nature. Since that time, we've found about five more dead mice. Now, she curses and scoops them into the garbage with the poop rake. So much for enduring sensitivity.

It's a little strange that if she finds one little fly in the house, she catches it and brings it outside in a clean napkin-covered glass. But, god forbid there should be twelve of them, because then she'll take out the yellow vacuum cleaner and suck their little bug bodies into the black tube of death where the laws of physics are turned inside out. "Who wants to be a fly anyway?" That's how she rationalizes. When the flies begin to swarm, everyone's a philosopher.

Guard Duty

No M&M's for Don Quixote

Yesterday, I found some M&M's—I guess they were left over from Halloween. The package had been sitting out on the coffee table with no one claiming them the entire first two weeks of November, so I felt I'd be doing everyone a favor by removing it from temptation. Out of sight; out of mind, I always say. By, the way, the bag was the so-called "fun size," so all you humans who think dogs will die if they eat chocolate can just forget about it, because fun size is just another way of saying "not much."

Anyway, I ripped open the bag and the all sorts of green, blue, yellow, and red M&M candy treats rolled everywhere—under the couch, across the floor into the bedroom, under the chair, all over the red living room rug, and one even rolled under the refrigerator. Of course, that's the one Shane had to have. You should have seen him hunched up against the refrigerator with his big black snout shoved up against the floor, his pink tongue darting into the dark underbelly of the white mammoth, desperately trying to retrieve one lousy candy. He was so fixated on getting it, he didn't notice me as I calmly lapped up everything with my long slow tongue.

That's so Shane. I've tried to tell him that some things just aren't worth pursuing, but he puts his paws over his ears and fixes his black-rimmed gaze on the impossible. That dumb M&M is never going to roll itself out from under the refrigerator into his big old salivating mouth. Chocolate's a lot like an old lover; you can chase after it all you like, but it ain't going to do anything but shrivel and sweat under the hot sun—or refrigerator motor. Shane never got his M&M, but he did eat the empty bag. Sometimes, I really feel for him. He's like Don Quixote, but without the armor.

During our walk, a bunch a kids hugged me and told me I was a pretty love bug. They realize that Shane would rather not get slobbered over in quite the same way. One of the kids said that Shane was the bad dog, but another kid corrected him and told him that Shane just has some problems. Now, there's insight for you.

But, just then, one of the little kids let out this horrendous piercing scream because I had drooled on his hand. That scared Shane, and he actually tried to lunge for the screamer's sister. It's a good thing Joan keeps him on a short leash. Actually, he bit Joan's hand by mistake. It's not a big deal, but it could have been. Some dogs get shook up so easily. I try to tell Shane that a dog's life is too short to waste on fear of screams, but he just gets huffy and says I don't get it.

Best Wishes from Juno

Rabbits and Cappuccino

This is Shane. This morning, he tore out of the house at 5:30 thinking he was going to catch that rabbit who lives under the shed. As usual, no luck. That rabbit has more escape routes than a Colombian cartel. Now you see me; now you don't. The only difference is, the rabbit just wants a decent meal; drug dealers want a decent meal with a little death and destruction for dessert. They're a little kinky that way. Anyway, Shane misses the rabbit every morning, and then he feels obliged to keep running, you know, as though that's all he wanted to do anyway. He tuckers out within five minutes and then he asks me to bark so we can go in for breakfast.

He always hangs out in the kitchen when Joan prepares our meal; that way he gets to snatch up the pieces of kibble she drops on the floor—I think on purpose. After breakfast, we each get the foamy milk that's left over from Joan's morning cappuccino. If I slurp it down very quickly, I have time to park myself in front of Joan and put on my droopy-eyed hungry face as she's drinking her cappuccino. She falls for it every time, and I get a few fingers of foam. Oh, wow, that's good. Kyla came to visit the other day and left her Starbucks coffee out for me. I swear it was pure heaven. Not as good as Joan's cappuccino, and certainly not as fresh; but, I can understand why rich humans might want to spend their money on it.

A presto, Juno

Weight, Issues, and Local Smells

My name is Juno. I'm about eight years old and weigh 130 pounds. You might think that I have a weight problem, but I don't. My paws are big enough to fit into four small bread baskets, so I was destined to be a pleasingly plus-sized canine. Also, I always say, the bigger the belly the bigger the potential for major scratch sessions. When Joan—the human who adopted me—scratches my belly, I get a monster-sized thrill out of it because it's such a large area. It's like the difference between scratching Rhode Island and scratching China. Scratch Rhode Island's belly, and you'll make a few people happy; scratch China's belly, and you'll make 8 billion people happy. See what I mean? Sure, there have been some vets who've said mean things about my weight breaking their dumb scales, but they're just not into zaftig girls. Besides, they never say that my brother Shane is fat, and he weighs the same as I do. Why don't they call him fat? He's a guy, that's why. Boy dogs are virile; girl dogs are overweight. It just makes me want to grrrrr.

I suppose you're surprised to find a dog writing a blog (dlog?). After all, what could a dog find to say about the world? Well, I have some observations and adventurous stories that I'd like to share. Also, Shane wants to contribute once in a while. Our human is willing to help—you know, with "lexical and syntactical issues" (that's how she talks…. Geez)—but we want to keep her input at a minimum, especially since she tends toward wordiness. No offense, but it's just not our style.

Shane and I are a good balance because we complement each other. I'm quite calm and philosophical; Shane, on the other hand, has "issues," as humans like to say. He still hasn't gotten over his sad puppyhood, and, at this point, change is hopeless. But, he's my brother, and I feel responsible for him.

Today, after Joan left for work, Shane and I settled down for a nap. I only got up once to have a drink of water. Shane got up and walked in a circle three or four times; then he sighed and lay down for another nap. When Joan came home at lunchtime, we went out into the yard. The rain had let up, and there was lots of good sniffing to be had. She leaves the gate open when she goes to work, which is like a written invitation to some neighborhood dogs. "Dear Dogs, The gate is open. Come over and leave your scent." And they do leave lots of scents, including some I'd like to roll in, but Shane always beats me to it.

Anyway, we had a good time for a while. The people across the street are having work done, so we got to watch the helpers smoke and talk on their cell phones. Then, one of them looked at us and yelled, "Arf." Shane got so mad, I thought he was going to hop the fence. God, he's so touchy. Joan came to the door and called him in. Me? I just watched the black cat tiptoeing around under the cars parked across the street. I think she maybe likes me, because she arches her back every time she looks at me. Also, she never tries to make fun of me or Shane by saying "Arf."

Well, it's dinner time. Joan always gives us a little snack when she has dinner. She only gives us one meal a day, but she likes to give us treats when she eats. That way, she doesn't feel so guilty with her three meals a day. Sometimes, Shane farts when she's having dinner. It's his way of giving back. I don't know if Joan realizes that he means well, because she always opens the window and shoos the smell away, saying things like, "I wish I smoked."

A presto, Juno