Us In the Neighborhood

Now that’s it’s warm, we take our walks after the sun takes its bow at the edge of the yard and glides behind the trees that line Southern State Parkway. Parkways are so annoying. It used to be that no one took them—everyone wanted to be seen on the Expressway, which is so direct and Mussolini-ish. It was okay, because the Parkway could still breathe. Now the entire world rides on the Parkway and makes terrible noises with their cars. And even though there are leaves on the trees to absorb those noises in summer, it’s not enough to muffle them. So, between the hot sun and the cars, I think it’s better to hide out in the house where the hum of the air-conditioner lulls me to sleep.

But, in the evening, it’s breezy and sort of quiet. We walk around the block, and the kids say hello and ask Joan if they can pet me and ask why they can’t pet Shane.

Yesterday, an entire family of old and young people were sitting on their front-door steps—maybe three of four people on each of the five steps. They were all watching the three of us walk by, so Joan waved and, can you believe it, the entire family waved back. Fifteen or sixteen people raised their right arms and waved and smiled. Joan called out, “Hola” and they said it back. Then one of the men asked her if she would give me or Shane to him. She told him she loved us too much, but she’d let me kiss him if he wanted. They all laughed, and I felt as though I belonged to a very storybook kind of neighborhood.

Then we went home and lay on the cool grass.

Best wishes, Juno

Shane's Dharma

Shane loves to walk around the azalea bush and let its skinny branches scratch against his side. Round and round he goes. Down, down fall the pink flowers, left stunned and quivering on the soft green grass. For them, it’s all over, and they know it.

Shane gets all entranced with the scratching of the branches, with the whooshing sound they make as he pushes his round belly against them, with the click-click-click as they snap back into place, stripped of their pretty flowers.

Some people think Shane is a little, well, off. I think he’s determined, if not a little Buddha-like. Maybe the circle around the azalea is his dharma. Who knows? Maybe he’s on the right path.

Me? I don’t even have a path. I just like to watch everything happen.

Best wishes, Juno

Happy the Way We Are

So, thanks to Jaaron, Joan ordered some colorless organic low-fat senior-citizen food called Flint River Ranch. Oh, it’s good and all. I even like the “vegetarian feast” canned food that she mixes with it. It’s just that I miss the old junk. Where are our big Milk Bone treats? She’s giving us carrots! We’re not horses, you know. Just because she’s into all this health stuff, she thinks we should do the same. I mean, it’s fine for Ziggy and Zion to keep trim out there in San Francisco where everyone tries to stay all buff (except for the junkies, of course); what with the warm weather out there, you can’t hide your jelly under a winter coat. But, we’re here in New York where the bad-weather days outweigh the good. Yikes. I gain one little pound and it’s like some sort of family emergency. Besides, Mark said he thought Shane—not me—had gotten a little chunky.

I’m not saying he is and I’m not saying he isn’t. I’m just saying, Shane and I are happy the way we are. And you should be, too.

Best wishes, Juno

PS: Hi, Taylor.

Under the Azalea: So, I Gained a Pound

Here we are in all our glory immortalizing the azalea bush whose flowers will be gone within the week. Today, I went to the vet and found I had gained a pound. But, I think it was water weight because I had just had a bath and wasn’t fully dry when I got on the scale.

Shane and I get our nails done there because Joan’s afraid of hurting us. People at Babylon Animal Hospital said nice things about me, but, the poor assistants who had the difficult task of trimming Shane’s nails were all tired out by the time they finished with him. He put up his usual big fuss and lots of strong people had to hold him still. When they brought him back out to the waiting room, they were all out of breath, including Shane. I felt bad for him, because, no matter what anyone says or does to encourage him, he throws himself under the train every time one goes by (metaphorically speaking, of course. Oh, Cesar Milan, once again I ask wherefore thou art). It took an entire ten minutes for them to do his nails.

I went next. It took about 30 seconds for them to do my nails, since I don’t put up a fuss about anything, and they weren’t out of breath. They were all smiles.

Then, we went for a ride to take in the sights and sounds of the usual Saturday traffic. Yikes. No wonder Joan hates to drive. All we really did was crawl from one traffic light to the next, and all the time Joan was saying she’d be happy never to drive on Saturday ever again. When we got home, we took a walk. Some people asked me if I was an Oreo cookie. I’m not sure what that means, but if it’s a cookie, it must be good.

Best wishes, Juno

Dandelion Walk

Today, a little boy—he’s so tiny, he’s only comes up to my chin—tried to give me a present, but it blew away. He was playing in a big fenced-in field of overgrown grass smothered by dandelions—all of which had traded their yellow flowers for those gossamer balls of silver seeds. He gathered a bunch of green-stemmed puffballs and ran across the field to the fence as we were walking by.

“Hi, Dog,” he said.

“Hi to you, too,” said Joan, pretending to be me.

“Hi, Dog. You like flowers?”

“Oh, such pretty flowers,” said Joan, pretending to be me.

I went up to the fence and wagged my tail a lot. Shane stayed close to Joan, not sure what the little boy might to do him from behind the fence. (Yikes.)

“You like flowers?” the boy asked again.

And before Joan could pretend to be me, he stuffed the bouquet of dandelion balls through the wire fence. I tried to wrap my tongue around them, but they escaped into the air and separated into tiny silk beads. The little boy and I watched them circle sleepily around our heads, and the sun lit them up like fireflies. Then, poof; they were gone.

“Bye, Dog,” said the boy.

“Bye-bye,” said Joan, pretending to be me.

And we went on our way. I looked back at the boy before we crossed into the next street and were met by two pit bulls who always bark at us when we pass their house. They’re nice pit bulls, and the owner tries to pretend he’s the boss over them. Today, he came to the door and called them into the house when they were barking at us.

When they ignored him, he barked, “Get in here. Did you hear what I said!”

Joan came to their rescue. “They’re just doing their job,” she called protectively.

The guy pretended not to hear her. Instead, he again asked his dogs if they had heard him. Now, that’s a silly question to ask a dog.

I think I heard Joan whisper, “Idiot.”

Best wishes, Juno

Burried Treasures

Sometimes, I come into the house with tell-tale dirt stains on my pristinely black and shiny nose (see picture), and Joan knows right away that I’ve found a digging spot in the yard. Well, I’m here to assure you humans that if you didn’t throw interesting things in the dirt, we dogs wouldn’t be digging up your yards. Sure it’s great to roll ourselves in, say, a recently deceased fish we might pass on a visit to the beach. But, we refrain, because we know you humans don’t like to have big old smells wafting through your house or cars. However, when the stinky treasure is of your own doing and it’s buried under three or four or eight inches of dirt, you can’t expect a healthy dog to sit in the yard and pretend it isn’t there. It’s too enticing. It’s entrapment, that’s what it is! So my nose gets a little sandy; so the grass is dug up in a few spots—doesn’t a healthy lawn need aerating on occasion? Sure it does.

On another subject entirely, there are moments when I think Shane is the coolest friend ever. He had a fever today, and we were worried about him. But, the crisis passed and here we are communicating on the grass in the yard not too far from the two holes I dug while Joan was on the phone. We’re so cute, she didn’t even notice.

Best wishes, Juno

PS: Hi, Scooby!