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
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
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