Watching the Guys

There are no ghosts, but sometimes there are. This is Rebel who sometimes pops up out of nowhere just to see what's up with us. Not to worry; he's a friendly little ghost, sort of like Casper.

Today was a good day because one of the neighbors' New Year's Eve relatives parked his car right outside the front-yard fence and decided to diddle with the motor with three other guy relatives. One of the gal relatives just stared at them for the entire time; she's my kind of gal. The motor men tried to pretend Shane and I weren't there, even though Shane let loose a few deep and threatening barks that probably made them wish they hadn't parked there. But, they played it cool, you know, the way humans do when they trip on themselves and then glare at an imaginary culprit on the ground.

It's fun to watch people work on cars because they don't move around a lot; they just bend and uncap something, bend and screw something, bend and drain something, bend and peer, bend and peer again. You don't have to follow them anywhere. Too bad Shane can't learn to relax, because Joan made him go inside to settle his nerves. She probably gave him a carrot. No big deal. I'm holding out for the Milk Bone anyway.

Wishing all my dog and cat friends (okay, I don't have any cat friends, just cat acquaintances) a 2007 filled with feasts. I hope the humans don't make too much noise at midnight.

Joan hasn't forgotten you, Rebel, wherever you are.

Juno

A Walk in the Neighborhood

Here we are during the pre-walk phase. I'm not sure I want to go. I'm tired; we could get attacked; a loud noise could tear down the street; I'd rather eat and watch Animal Planet.

There was a time when I could refuse a walk just by planting my 130-pound rear end on the pavement. Joan would hug me, coax me, ask me if I wanted to get some exercise or go in the opposite direction (I had a bad period during which I couldn't make a left, just like Zoolander). Now, she says, "I'm the leader of this pack. You will get up and move." And I do.

Loud noises frighten me; that's why I don't like to walk. Short men drive by in very loud cars to prove they're taller than they are; scared teenagers gather in groups and whoop and scream to prove they're not scared; and sometimes stupid people set off firecrackers to prove they're not stupid—especially during the summer and just before every new year. Dogs don't care about new years or even about old years. Dogs run from loud noises because loud noises signal extreme danger and make hearing creatures deaf.

However, once I'm on the walk, it's intriguing and I wonder what my big problem was. There are wild smells, leaping squirrels, people who say I'm pretty, and barking dogs who feel bad because we're out walking and they're chained up.

(Hey, ASPCA and Dog Whisperer, why don't you educate the humans about the cruelty of leaving their dogs chained up? Speak up, will you?)

Anyway, little kids run out of their yards and yell, "I like your dogs!" Joan always says "Thank you" for us as though we can't speak for ourselves. We always pass Freddy, the black and brown dog behind the red house; Max, the black dog on Hilltop Avenue; Poopsy, the little dog with a tiny bark and stubby gray tail that looks like an ear; Mario and Luigi, the two dogs on Straight Path who bark at each other every time we pass by; and, finally, there's that white toy poodle, Perrito, who runs down his driveway yapping and yelping with his tiny toy voice threatening to attack Shane. His owner always gets mad at him and slaps him, and Joan always says, "No, no! Està bien. Don't hit the dog!" Our walks are never dull—not from a dog's perspective.

Happy Birthday to Joan's old dog Geordie and best wishes from Juno

Map Along With Juno : Where the Dogs Are

From Where I'm Looking

Yummmmmmmmmmmmm.
What Shane saw as I lay sleeping!

Christmas was fun. There was food everywhere—homemade rainbow cookies (aka la bandiera italiana) topped with Ghiradelli dark chocolate, a box of Godiva chocolates (hogged up by Joan), Chix Patties with barbecue sauce, baked potatoes, breaded eggplant, even corn chips and salsa. But the best part was having Ari and Kyla rub my belly and even Shane's. Ari took pictures of the food. She's my kind of girl.

The kids across the street must have gotten a skate board, because they were slipping and sliding all over the street, which gave me the opportunity to let out a few good barks before Joan did her Cesar Millan imitation. I don't know. Things aren't the same since she watched those DVDs. Now, she thinks she's the leader.

But, there are still lots of other temptations lying in wait. Life from a dog's perspective is much more intriguing than life from a person's perspective. You're all too tall, too far from the ground, and your eyes aren't able to look straight downwards without putting a strain on your neck. Besides, even if you did look at the ground all the time, your shoulders would slope, which would make you look weak and depressed, and people would always tell you: "Chin up!" No one says, "Chin up" to a dog. My favorite pastime is sticking my face in the grocery bags (check out that picture). Shane's is sticking his face in the Milk Bone Dog Biscuits. Joan keeps forgetting to put the box out of his reach. No wonder he's getting a little chunky around the middle. Me? I just look. Shane—he scores big time.

Happy Boxing Day & first day of Kwanza, Juno

We Don't Say What They Say We're Saying

Hey, television newspeople, everyone’s NOT talking about it—not in our house and not on our block.

I guess the people on TV are always saying things like, “everyone wants to know,” “everyone’s talking about it,” “people can’t get enough of Fill in the Blank,” and things like that, because Joan keeps announcing to the television that she’s one of everyone, and she doesn’t care about the things the people on television say she cares about. What's more, she doesn't know anyone else who talks about the things TV people say people talk about.
On my block, people talk about who got arrested last, the problem with winter grass turning brown, taxes, the weather, or whose dog is running loose, and things like that. No one talks about TV programs or the wars or rock stars.

I'll bet you're just itching to know what dogs talk about. Well, I've been hanging out in the backyard so I can keep Buddy company, because he's always on the other side of the bushes looking for some good conversation. 

We don't. Dogs don't talk about misery. We just put up with it, and then we die. In the meantime, we just share good smells, bark appropriately when someone walks by, and generally take life as it comes. Shane always needs to be near Joan, so he doesn't hang out with me and Buddy. But, when Joan comes outside to talk to Buddy or give him a biscuit, the fur stands up on Shane's back. It's like he's been electrified, or is it electrocuted? Maybe both. Anyway, it's funny.

Kyla gave me and Shane some "Dog Poo" for Christmas (see the picture?)—it's really an all-natural dog shampoo. It smells really clean. I'll be sure to report on it the next time I get a bath. It was nice of her to think of us. Wait! Does she think we stink? Because we don't.

So, Merry Christmas. Lots of good smells in the house. I hope the same goes for you all.

Juno

UPS Doesn't Deliver: Dogs in Yard

Yesterday, Joan was waiting for a package from UPS. She was on her way out the door just as the UPS truck came tootling down the road. Inside the truck were two giant men with bulging muscles and Joan’s little old package. The truck slowed down in front of the house, and the giant men took one look at Shane and me, got all pale looking, and gunned the engine without ever having come to a full stop. And we weren’t even barking! We were just lazing out in the low afternoon sun waiting for the Winter Solstice (see photo as evidence). They could have dropped the package over the fence; that’s what they usually do when we’re outside. But, I guess the Christmas spirit was upon them, and they were in a hurry to find a delivery site without dogs. Joan wasn’t exactly smiling about not getting her package, but I felt kind of special and proud about the whole event. It’s the first time I’ve gotten to scare someone away.

My bark is much higher than Shane's. Usually, people just laugh when I bark, even when I'm feeling serious. And then their voices climb a few octaves, and they ask, "What's the matter, Big Girl?" But, Shane's bark is a real guy bark. If you were looking for its key on the piano, it would be way over to the left. Everyone runs for cover when Shane barks—especially the rabbits and cats. I have to admire him for that.

Best Wishes for the Holiday Season, Juno

"Jasmina Uber North Olympus" aka JUNO ( that's moi)

I like to watch Animal Planet. You can’t believe how much barking fills that channel, especially when they have the la-de-da dog shows. I’d never be allowed in one of those shows; I bet the producers wouldn’t even give me a job doling out paper napkins in the ladies room. I know they look down their pinched noses at a dogus mixus like me—not enough inbreeding to suit their taste. But, that’s okay. I’m not the beauty pageant type. Shane isn’t either. He’d probably bite the judge, like that dog in Best in Show—the best film ever made. And the director didn’t try to get me to cry like Disney always does. When I saw Old Yeller and Dumbo, I almost fainted from all my heartache. Christopher Guest doesn't play around with my emotions that way. Christopher Guest is my hero. Joan’s favorite is Waiting for Guffman, but I like his animal movie.

If dogs had something like a Westminster People Show, the winner would probably be Shreck in the best-in-show category. Wait. Joan says Shreck's not a person. I have to pick humans. Nuts. Well, in terms of walk, attitude, all-around friskiness, skin quality, and just-right white teeth, I’d have to pick George Clooney. In the cutest category, it would have to be Steven Chow of Shaolin Soccer fame—a good-guy-wins action film for both dog and human. And, in honor of this week's Donald Trump impression, the funniest would have to be Rosie O’Donnell. But, who am I to judge? It’s all such frivolity, isn’t it?

Best wishes, Juno

Cesar Millan, Wherefore Art Thou?

Cesar Millan! Which one art thou?

So, Joan practically has us doing back flips over this Dog Whisperer guy, Cesar Millan. She’s trying all this new stuff on us like walking through the door before we do and making us sit before she gives us a treat. Yikes. What is he, her new best guru? Cesar’s right about some things. Like, he says that dogs live in the moment. That’s true for most of us, and it’s because, in some ways, we’re smarter than people. We don’t create wars or yank gold chains from each other’s necks or drool just because some rich dog has a 200-dollar sweater or pays big bucks for someone to throw a tissue over his poop. We don’t care. In that sense, we’re like Nirvana experts; and it all just comes natural to us. No special silk robes, no meditating in Himalayan caves, no begging for alms, no buying a Mercedes for some Maharishi or Shamin or TV Evangelist.

Actually, I think Shane could do with a fifty-minute hour on Cesar’s dog couch, because he’s definitely not able to stay in the moment. Someone must have done something very mean to him when he was a puppy, because he’s really not focused on life's possibilities. It’s in the genes, and I don’t think Caesar could do a lot about the tension that gnaws on his nerve endings. Someone did really mean things to me also; but, I’m just more philosophical than Shane. Life’s too short—especially for dogs—to spend it all worried that someone’s going to hit you again. One paw in front of the other; that’s what I say.

Best wishes, Juno

Moon Over Me

Breathing is serious business, especially for dogs. I have very specific breathing styles, each with its own purpose. Shane has fewer breathing styles than I do. I mean, he’s got your basic pant—HHA-HHA—and the regular quiet inhale-exhale, just like humans. Me? I have the steady throb-pant—hha-hha-hha-hha-hha—which means I’m reflecting on the day. Then there’s the louder HHA-hha-HHA-hha—which translates as “Let me out, quick!” But, my specialty is the one I do when Joan’s asleep: HHA-HHHHHHA-HHHA-HHHHHA. It wakes her up every time, and I get to go out in the middle of the night, my favorite time.

I don’t know, maybe I’m part cat, but night time is my time. It’s very still in the yard, but every now and then, I feel the ground vibrate from a twelve-wheeler traveling along five miles away or maybe from a bad dream in the next house. On moonlit nights, I get to watch the cats across the street tip-toeing in the frosty grass into the moon rays that sometimes stretch from my yard to theirs. When one of them perches up on the high fence, it looks like she’s nesting on the doorsill of some smiling orange planet. At times, I think the moon is there to remind the world that it’s connected; other times, I think the moon throws its light on no one else but me and the cats.

When the wind lifts my fur, it’s like a cool hand along my back. It’s so peaceful, I start to feel sleepy, and I wonder why anyone would want to trade in this kind of peace for the morning noise, the traffic, the arguments over burned toast or a wrong look or a different god or way of walking through life. Joan must sense my thinking, because just when I’m getting my fill of night air, she calls me back inside to my comfy bed where it’s safe and soft and she doesn’t have to worry about my getting arthritis—whatever that is.

Best Wishes, Juno

O sole mio!

Is it still there?

Call me insecure, but I've got to wonder why yet another pet is in the house. This one's a singing pet who, fortunately for me, doesn't eat. He just sings "O sole mio" and moves his head around. Well, everyone goes "Ooooh" and "Aaaaaah" and "Isn't he cute?" and forgets I'm alive. Joan even took him to work today. She's never taken me or Shane to work. Then, while she was gone, the phone rang and the answering machine went off, and there was Gloria on the line telling me how I, too, could buy one of these pets. No more pets! I'm going to erase the message before Joan gets home. It's easy. I know which buttons to push.

Humans are weird. First they're loping through their awkward prehistoric years, and someone gets the bright idea to capture a bunch of perfectly happy wild dogs and turn them into softie pets. It was a piece of cake to get dogs used to the easy life of chasing rats out of the cave and eating leftover mammoth. And the minute they got done breeding all that sexy hot wildness out of us, they start making stuffed versions of us and even got them to sing. What's next for the domesticated dog? Some Astroturf-lined zoo? Sure, the stuffed versions are cute, but they don't wash well. In the end, the real thing will be back in style. We've got staying power, and we eat your leftovers.

Best wishes from Juno, all dog and proud of it

Hey, I Can Be Tough When I Want

I'm too nice. No one is afraid of me. Well, sometimes a little kid will hide behind a bigger kid as I walk by, but it only lasts a few seconds and they realize I'm not going to do anything but wag my tail. Joan's always saying she's glad Shane is a little "off," because if anyone ever tried to hurt her, he would pounce on the guy's jugular in a nanosecond, that's for sure. So would I, really. But, no one has any real faith in my protective instincts. Look at that picture of me with my teeth showing. Grrrrrrr. Arghhhhh. Yeah. See, I can be just as protective as your next dog. Now, look at the picture of Shane wearing that stupid ribbon. He doesn't look so tough.

Anyway, I think it's better to be nice all the time. It's no fun having friends or relatives who give you a hug one minute and push you out the door a minute later. I love you I hate you I love you. Lots of us have friends and relatives like that, and they're a drag. You might see them and they say, "Oh, hi. Nice to see you. Call me any time." Then you call them and they act like you're a wet towel in their beach-bingo lives. So, if you're smart, you don't call them again. Then you get some dumb greeting card from them telling you to have a Happy Holiday. I don't get it.

Now, at least Shane is predictable. I mean, you just know he's going to go after you, especially if he thinks you're going to touch him on the neck. I'm predictable, too. But, since I'm always nice, I might turn out to be a better protector because of the element of surprise. It's something to remember the next time you think about attacking someone with a dog or sending one of those phony greeting cards to someone you don't really want to know.

Best Wishes, Juno

Dog Words: There Are No Bad Dogs, Just Bad Dog Words

Why are there so many negative references to dogs? Look at this short list and then look at that cute little doggy in the picture:

doggoned
dogma
dogmatic
dogbolt
to dog someone
dogger
to turn dog on someone
sitting in the doghouse
dogfaced
dog's life
going to the dogs
dogs of war
haven't got a dog's chance
doggerel
dog in the manger
don't dog on me
yo, sup dog?
you dog you
dog-eared
dog days
dog-eat-dog world
dogie
boonDOGgle
he's one hot dog

And dog references aren't just in English. Every language has some negative references to the noble canine. No one says, "You haven't got a cow's chance in hell" or complains about a snakematic professor or accuses anyone of turning cat on them. Well, there used to be "cool cats," but now they're just plain, "Dog" or "Yo Dog."

I think it's a classic case of transference of anger. You can't kick your life or your boss, so you kick the next person below you; and if no one is below you at work or play, you kick your relatives, and if they don't let you kick them anymore, you have no choice to but find someone else to kick. And who's the likely candidate? Your dog. You kick your dog because you know your dog will forgive you. Try kicking your cat or your bird and see if they'll come back at you with their tails wagging and their tongues hanging out ready to kiss your hand. It's not happening. Right, so you kick the dog. And, when you can't kick the dog because you don't have a dog, you make up expressions that dog the dog.

I know what you're thinking. "Juno, they're only words." Sure, that's what everyone says. But, I still don't get it. Why the dog words? I mean, okay, there are some nice dog words: dogwood, dog love (whoops, that's puppy love), chilidog (the meatless kind, I hope), dogberry, endogens, steroidogenic, but most dog words aren't so nice.

You know what the most popular dog names are? Max, Maggie, Buddy, Jake, Sadie, Lady, and Charlie. See, they're not Boondoggle or Dog-Eared or Dogma; they're people friendly names.

I could go on and on about this, but I'm willing to let sleeping dogs lie.

Best wishes, Juno