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