Dog Days in Ancient Rome: Siriusly

Everyone is saying, “It’s a dog day afternoon.” It’s never a dog day day or a dog day morning or a dog day night. It’s always a dog day afternoon. Some people say the ancient Romans made up the expression, “dog days of summer” up in honor of Sirius, the Dog Star (that’s why it’s never a cat day afternoon). They say that a Roman afternoon gets so hot that all the people take a nap and all the dogs take to the streets and go crazy. But, that doesn’t make sense. Dogs get sleepy in the heat just like people do.

Take yesterday. I was looking forward to a walk. The afternoon had been a real Roman afternoon—the kind of heat that makes you think you’re locked in a brick-oven kitchen with no hope of getting out. So, you just lie there and pant and try not to think about life's trials. But, at around 7 o’clock, there was a cooling breeze, so I thought, “Okay, let’s go for a walk.”

At first it was nice. A little boy about as big as me ran after us calling, “Did you know that I like dogs?” “Did you know that I like dogs?” “Did you know that I like dogs?”

He said it about ten times. Joan asked him if he had a dog. He said his sister had had a dog, but the dog died. Joan told the little boy that he could pet me, but he just smiled and shook his head. He was a little scared, so I made sure to sit very quietly to show him that I was no one to be afraid of. He stared and smiled a great big smile.

Then he said, “Bye, Dog,” and ran back to his friends.

We kept walking, but I started to feel kind of dog-day-afternoonish, so we slowed down. Shane didn’t feel anything. He was just happy to be out enjoying the smells, the air, the rhythm of our steps against the gray asphalt. The rain from the day before had made a skinny jagged crack right down the middle of the road. Block after block, I stared at the new crack and wondered how such a big crack could sneak into such a new road. The Romans must have been great road builders, because their roads don’t crack and their roads are way more than a few years old. Of course, if our roads didn’t crack, our road builders would have to get trained for other jobs.

Suddenly, I heard a noise in the distance, and I planted myself right in the middle of the road. Was it a firecracker? A truck? Did someone drop something? Did someone get hurt? Would I be next?

There were a bunch of people laughing because Joan couldn’t make me move. She tried to bribe me with a biscuit, but I didn’t fall for it, and I didn’t even care when she gave it to Shane. She tried to lift me up from behind, but I ground my butt into the street. She didn’t know what to do.

“Does she always do this?” one of the women asked.

“Hey, look at the dog. She won’t move!”

“Hey, Mom. Look at the dog. She won’t get up.”

All the people watched and laughed and smiled. I was like their street theater.

Joan knew I was scared of something. But, she didn’t realize how hot it was. And that just made things worse. But, after ten minutes of nonviolent protestations, I realized that the only way to get home would be to get up and walk. So, I did.

We got back to our own yard, and I ran to the patch of mint and sat there panting for a long time while Joan took the clothes off the line and put out the garbage and brushed Shane. The mint was very cooling. The smell made breathing easier and my lungs felt lighter and cooler with each minty inhalation. I started to feel better. The dog day retreated into a memory and I was ready to go inside.

No, dogs don’t go crazy in the heat unless they’re very unhappy. And, basically, I’m a happy dog. What’s more, if I lived in Rome, I would do what the Romans do.

Best wishes, Juno

And Suddenly It's Night

Ognuno sta solo sul cuor della terra
trafitto da un raggio di sole:
ed è subito sera. Salvatore Quasimodo

Last night’s walk around the block was a double loop. I’m up to the tricks Joan uses to whip me into shape, as she puts it. Sure, she calls it a walk around the block, but it’s really a walk around many blocks, each one longer than the other.

Well, two days ago, we piled into the car and drove to Babylon Animal Hospital to get our nails done. That’s right—hospital; we get our nails done by professionals. Shane wore his muzzle, because it reminds him to stay calm and refrain from accidental biting. They took me first. I guess they needed time to build up their courage before they worked on Shane.

Most of the people who work at the Animal Hospital are really friendly, but they don’t remember anyone. We’ve been going there for almost four years, and every time we walk in the door, the same people wonder who we are. And even if Joan tells them who we are and why we’re there, they forget two minutes later and ask who we are and why we’re there.

And the woman at the front desk always talks in the first person plural: “Oh, are we here to get our nails done?”

Joan, the wicked maven of word choice, can’t resist replying that only Juno and Shane need their nails done, thank you very much all the same. (Get over it, Joan.)

Well, the fun thing about the Babylon Animal Hospital is that it always takes forever in the waiting room. The phone rings, receptionists run here and there, often escaping into the "back" for long minutes; new animals enter—some disappear behind the blue door; some sit and pant. Deliveries are made—large brown boxes smelling like food and medicine; bells ring; barking dogs wonder what’s going on. Questions bounce against the ceiling like balloons. Muffled answers hang unpunctuated in the air. No one ever seems to be sure of anything. And no one ever seems to leave. So, there’s a lot to see and so much to smell. So many sensations; so much time to appreciate them.

As soon as we walked in, a little girl took one look at Shane’s muzzle and asked what was wrong with him.

“Oh, he has issues in life,” replied Joan.

“Does he bite?” she wanted to know, looking a little anxious.

“Only when he’s afraid; just like people.”

“Does he wear his muzzle at home, too?” she inquired. (So cute. So inquisitive.)

Joan assured her that the muzzle was something special, reserved for nail clippings and immunization shots.

Lots of people said how beautiful Shane and I were. Joan said that their dogs were beautiful, too. There was a basketball-sized cat in a cage. His name was Barracuda, and we admired his dark orange beauty from afar.

Well, all prettied up, my nails done, and ready to face a little exercise, I allowed last night’s walk around the block. We stopped by Buddy’s yard where his people are putting up a tall shiny white plastic fence. When they’re done, we won’t be able to see Buddy ever again. Soon, we’re going to have the only yard in the neighborhood without a white plastic fence. I guess we’ll have to talk to ourselves because all the neighbors will be encamped behind their protective white plastic.

It was a hot night, so it was difficult for me to recover after the exercise. When we finally got back the coolness of the house, I pulled my crazy barking act and flopped into my favorite spot on the couch next to Joan. Shane loudly lapped his fill of water, made a little circle of himself in front of the air conditioner, and conked out. Joan fell asleep with one foot propped up on my back and the other one tucked under my chin. All I could hear was the soft hum of the air conditioner and the in-and-out breathing of Shane and Joan. I kept my eyes open and looked around as the room grew darker. And, suddenly it was night.

Best wishes, Juno

PS: Quasimodo was such a pessimist.

Venturing Forth

The past two days have seen a change in me. I’ve taken two—count them—two walks around the block with Joan and Shane. Yesterday, I got to sniff a baby’s foot and give it a little kiss. Babies don’t smell like humans—they smell all soft, like a carvel cake.

Then, we passed a great big man with tattoos all over his arms and neck. He sounded mad and he was yelling at someone—I guess a relative, since that’s how some humans treat their relatives—who was trying to parallel park a huge old van with big gashes and dents all over it. His voice was his personal, built-in loudspeaker: “Okay, okay. Not so fast. Watch it. Watch it!”

Joan felt obliged to point out a simple truth: “Yeah, you wouldn’t want to dent it or anything.”

The man looked surprised. He looked at us and then he looked at all the dents in the van, and let out a big friendly laugh. I guess he had to because Shane can look quite the scary dog when he wants.

Around the block we went. A lot of people weren’t outside. Not many kids in the street, which is too bad, since the kids are the best part of my day. But, much to my relief, I didn’t hear one firecracker. I guess the neighborhood ran out of them. Whew.

Tonight, after a day of rain, rain, rain, we walked around the block again. This time, a miniature dog named Hijo ran into the street to say hello. Hijo has a high-pitched little "yap-yap-yap." It’s sort of funny. Hijo’s owner came running out to the street, I guess, to save us from fluffy white Hijo. He picked him up and put him on his big shelf of a belly and Hijo’s yap-yap got even thinner and funnier. We all laughed together.

Yup. It’s good to be back in the world. I had forgotten that as long as you can manage to see the funny side of it, it’s not all that scary.

Best wishes, Juno

LIfe's a Mint

When I don’t feel well, I like to eat mint.

Lucky me, there’s a big patch of mint in the corner of the yard, and here I sit biting off pieces of fresh leaves, chewing, drooling, and staring at the neighbors’ huge oak, hoping my stomach will stop flip-flopping.

The mint patch is better than a spa, more refreshing than iced tea, more peaceful than a night on the couch.

Our neighbors don’t like their oak tree because it’s tall and green and shades their house against the sun and provides oxygen to the air. They think there are too many trees. That’s what they say: “Too many trees around here.”

They don’t have a mint patch like this. I love my mint patch and I love their oak tree for it’s tall and green and shades our house against the sun and provides oxygen to the air. We think there aren’t enough trees.

I sit calmly in my mint patch and think about yin and yang.

Best wishes, Juno

Where the Dogs Are

Neurotic Behavior: It Works for Me

I’m only neurotic when I can be neurotic and when I see it as a shortcut to a greater good—like attention, like getting to hog up the couch. I mean, if no one were around to take care of me, I’d have to work a lot harder just to stay alive, and there’d be no time for problems. So, neurosis is kind of a luxury, isn't it?

The thing is, I still can’t go for a walk in this neighborhood after all those firecrackers. I just can’t. We drove into Northport the other day and walked in the park. They allow dogs there—not because they like dogs—because the townspeople think the dogs will chase away the geese. See? It’s a choice between geese and dogs. Now, you can force a human to clean up after a dog, but you can’t find anyone who will clean up after a goose.

So, we walked through the park and looked at the harbor. Everything was all pretty and idyllic. No firecrackers, no screaming people, no motorbikes, no worry. Walking was a so much fun and so very replete with the attractive scents of phantom dogs, night cats, and, yes, a few geese droppings.

And since I had had such a good time during that walk, Joan thought I’d be willing to take a walk in our own neighborhood yesterday evening. Ha. I’m not that reckless. So, she gave up trying and went to work on her computer.

Nevertheless, I did have a yearning—you know, I wanted something, but couldn’t decide what it was. So, I barked. Yup. I went in to the computer room and barked at Joan.

“What is it?” she asked. Then Shane came in and got all breathy. “What’s going on?” she asked again. “Would you like to try going for a walk?”

No way! I tried to hide under the computer desk, but there were too many wires. I tried to leave the room, but Shane was in the way. He wanted a walk. So, I barked.

“Okay, do you want to go in the car?”

Well, no, I hadn’t thought of that one, but, okay, I’d go along with that.

So, we rode to the library and then to the post office—that way we wouldn’t be burning gas without some sort of reason. With the windows open, I got all the pleasures of walking except the exercise—the sights, the smells, the wind on my face, the dogs and humans in other cars.

When we got home, I sat at the far end of the driveway and absolutely refused to go for an actual walk, and so we came into the house.

Joan sat on the couch and picked up a book. I barked at her.

“What’s with you?” she asked, completely perplexed. “Are you having a neurosis attack? Do you need some attention?” she wanted to know.

She got up to move the coffee table out of the way so I could sit near her, but I fooled her, because as soon as she went to sit down again, I snagged her spot on the couch. Ah, now I was happy. So, Joan sat with me for an hour or so. She petted me. Shane was too sleepy to notice, and he didn’t even try to get in the way.

Then Joan went to bed and it was lonely in the living room. I got up and went to sleep on my little bed next to Shane’s little bed next to Joan’s big bed. It was comforting.

Best wishes from Juno

Bathing for Modernity

Another bath for me and, this time, even for Shane. During bath time, I acted very respectful and sat patiently for the first ten—well, five—minutes, and then I ran away. But, just my luck, the yard is fenced in, and very quickly I figured out that the inevitable would soon rear its ugly shower head and I’d have to get all submissive again.

It was worth running away just to see the look of surprise on Joan’s face. She had been so sure of me. Yes, I had put on the big calm act and sat there while she sprayed me down and lathered me up. Oh, yeah. I had her so fooled that she got a little lackadaisical and forgot to remind me to be patient, to be a good dog—you know, all the things people say when they’re trying to wash a dog my size.

Then, she turned around for a second to get the dog comb and off I went, escaping with rare wild abandon into the green cushion of backyard grass. I couldn’t run into the front yard or the neighbors would have seen all those shampoo bubbles bubbling and popping along the tufts of my wet fur, and, wow, that would have been embarrassing.

Shane cheered me on at first, but Joan looked at him and said, “Don’t laugh, Shaney Boy. You’re next.” Shane looked away as though he hadn’t heard; but, he also stopped smiling.

Joan did that thing where she points to the ground and says, “Juno, come, now.” The spot she’s pointing to is where I know I’m supposed to arrive. I hesitated, just to let her know I didn’t have to come. But, then she said it again, and, anyway, the shampoo was starting to make me smell too un-dog-like, and so I went back to her and got it rinsed off. I have to admit that the water was warm and soothing, but I don’t have to admit that I like this washing thing that people do.

People don’t like to smell like people, and they don’t like dogs to smell like dogs. It must have been so earthy to have lived during the Middle Ages and the Renaissance when people and their dogs smelled really ripe. Well, there were a few exceptions, I’m sure. For instance, Leonardo da Vinci took baths; also he didn’t eat animals. If I had been Leonardo da Vinci’s dog, I probably would have gotten baths, but he certainly wouldn’t have eaten me. But, hey, he was a genius, and geniuses are a rarity, or they wouldn’t be called geniuses.

Yeah, those were the good old days when natural was in vogue, when a person could stink up a room and no one noticed, when a dog could smell like a swamp and everyone would think it was normal.

But, then again, look at that picture of me and Shane right after the bath ordeal. We’re a couple of fine looking dogs, don’t you think? And, even if we don’t care about smelling all girly, I guess our people pleasing smell makes it easier for everyone to show us their love and admiration.

Best wishes, Juno

At Last: A Cure for the Hot Spot Blues!

Maybe it’s too early; maybe it wasn’t soon enough. Maybe it won’t last; maybe it will. For those of you who have been witness to my allergy problems—brave and uncomplaining as I am, I’m sure you read through the lines—and their accompanying miseries: the itching, the bald spots, the constant showers, the expensive shampoos—we might be on the brink of a cure.

Over the last two weeks, Joan has been switching me and Shane to an all-natural, no-by-product, no-food-dye, chemical-less, meatless diet. The switch is almost complete, and I haven’t had any allergy symptoms for at lest a week. Really.

So, it’s with hope and baited breath that I feel the cure, feel the healing, feel hope for a future without constant reminders that life is suffering.

I mean, it’s all very well for humans to embrace a Buddha-like philosophy of life and to look at each hot spot or broken heart or rainy day as some sort of life lesson leading to Nirvana in, like, 20 generations. But, in case you didn't know, I’m a dog, and dogs don’t need life lessons. We already know all the requirements for nirvanic (it’s a new adjective; do you like it?) earthly experiences—an itch-free life with good food, a soft bed, and reliable companionship. Humans want the same things, but they keep messing up.

And, just in case you, too, want to be allergy free (and, no, no one is paying me to say this), you might want to try copying my new diet: “Dick Van Patten’s Natural Balance” (vegetarian formula) dry food mixed with a can of “Nature’s Recipe” (vegetarian). What’s also nice about the canned veggie food is that it doesn't gross Joan out the way the other canned food did. No stinky meat smell, no hard-to-clean residue at the bottom of the can, and, best of all, no one has to die for my meals.

I get the best. I recommend the best. Pass it on.

Best wishes, Juno

Peter's Visit

This is Peter. He’s at ease with statues, cats, and graduate students (unless they have facial piercings), but he’s unsure about entering a house where dogs live. He says that dogs are like four-year-old humans—attention seekers, snack gobblers, man trippers, and, well, just plain exhausting.

On the basis of such timidity, such angst, such energy-draining anticipation, you have to give him credit for visiting at all. But, visit he did.

At first, he sat in the sunroom with his new-found friends, the statues (see the picture). He gazed into their eyes; they gazed into his. All was right with Peter’s world. Shane and I knew right away that he wasn’t interested in us, so we left him be.

Well, after an hour of eating veggie burgers, spooning smoothies, and arguing with Joan about the nature of pretense, Gnosticism’s influence on medieval literature, and the speed of the sunroom fan, he actually thought he’d like to make a friendly gesture toward me and Shane. In other words, just like a man, as soon as he realized we weren’t interested in joining his anti-dog, pro-cat cha-cha-cha, he was ready and eager to have his portrait done with us. And here we are, a happy trio. Yup. We win them over every time.

Best wishes, Juno

Phobias: Not Just for the Priviledged

Confronting my fears. Dr. Phil for dogs?

I am here to announce that phobias and fears are not the exclusive domain of the rich or the purebred canine. I, Juno of uncertain origins, have a near genius for opening the door to phobic visitations. Of course, there’s my longstanding fear of loud noises and my studious refusal to take walks during firecracker season. In addition to these burdens, there’s my non-phobic, but insistent, skin irritation, which we still haven’t managed to whip into submission.

Well, this morning, I discovered a new phobia—fear of hardwood floors. Here’s how it came about.

On Shane’s insistence, I woke up this morning and bounced up from my bed to follow him and Joan to the back door so we could go into the yard. I had no trouble crossing the low-pile of the living room rug, but, suddenly I was confronted with that diagonally laid hardwood floor—a slippery barrier between the rug and the cool kitchen tile where I love to stretch out on a hot day.

Was it the diagonal pattern that stopped me in my tracks? I sat down—a slow careful easing of my rear-end into the non-slip security of the red rug. I looked. It was as though the floor had suddenly loomed up from the black hole of the underworld. It threatened. It mocked.

What would happen if I put forth my paw? Would I fall? Would Shane look down on me? Pondering these questions, which were of immediate concern and not in the least rhetorical, I felt Joan’s arms around me.

“It’s okay,” she said. “Nothing’s going to hurt you. It’s just a floor.”

Shane stared, panting, his tongue hanging, dry, anticipatory. “Come on,” he seemed to say. “I really have to go out.”

Picking up on Shane’s developing anxiety, Joan opened the back door for him and then came back to me. I hadn’t moved, and nothing she could do would get me to do so.

She checked my paws, my legs, my hips, searching, I guess, for some sort of injury. Little did she know that the injury was a thought, which, sometimes, can be the most potent and debilitating injury of all. As I suspected, she didn’t find the source of my fear.

When a relieved and smiling Shane came back inside, she gave us our breakfast. Shane always eats in the kitchen, because that’s what he likes. Joan always brings my food to me in the living room.

While we ate, Joan enjoyed her yummy ten-grain cereal with dates, nuts, and raisins, which she never shares with us. Then she made herself her usual giant cappuccino and held it tenderly, her hands encircling the heated cup like she was in love with it or something.

Well, one of my favorite treats in the world is the foam from Joan’s morning cappuccino. Every morning, I go to her when she’s drinking it—always moaning about the brilliance of her cappuccino and how she doesn’t understand why people pay big bucks to places like Starbucks for ready-made cappuccino that’s never as good, or as generous, as homemade—and she gives me three—always three—tastes of foam.

This morning, what with my new phobia and all, I was forced to decide between floundering in the limbo of the handicapped, which would deny me the three fingers of cappuccino foam, or forcing myself into the relatively luxurious paradiso of the psychologically sound. I chose the latter.

Up I struggled. Lifting my head high so as to dispel any suspicion that I had faked this morning’s phobic episode, I crossed the hardwood floor, my eyes fixed on Joan’s huge cappuccino with its aromatic foam peeking over the rim of the cup. Joan pretended everything was normal. I had my three licks and went outside to lie on the cool wet grass.

Another day, another phobia chased into the dark cavern of self-doubt, another three licks of foam. It’s a life. A dog’s life.

Best wishes and corraggio, Juno

Ziggy Rolls It Out in San Francisco

No Walks, No Walks, No Walks for Infinity!

We got as far as the corner and sat down, refusing to budge. I don’t remember how we got home again. It’s all a blurr. Yes, Shane and I both sat down in protest and dismay. It’s a bit much insisting that we exercise during firecracker season. So much for the police department’s big crack down on illegal fireworks. Hrumph.

On a lighter note, we’ve been going for a ride in the car just about every day. The cool wind on my face, the interesting goings on about town, the touring of the parking lots so Joan can find a tree to leave us under when she goes into the stores. And, of course, the flip side of this happiness—the knowing that a hot, sunny day equals no car ride as Joan says it’s too dangerous to go out in a hot car. Hasn’t she ever heard of air-conditioning?

Best Wishes, Juno

July 4th: Little Bombs Slay Silence

We go as far as the fence, and that’s it. I prefer a ride in the car, thank you very much.

Give me a cushion of snow. Give me air so cold my breath turns to droplets of ice. Give me low clouds gray, even black, as long as they’re quiet. Give me walls of trees and bushes and tall weeds.

Give me anything but a summer of firecrackers.

What is it about the people in my neighborhood who spend hundreds of dollars every year on little bombs just so they can hear loud noises? They don’t even make pretty designs in the sky. Just noise and smoke. And sometimes they blow their fingers off, like the man Joan was talking to on the corner of 44^th and 8^th Avenue yesterday. He was smart enough to speak Egyptian Arabic, Spanish, and Italian. But, he still blew off his thumb. But the people don’t care about losing their fingers. They’d rather have loud sounds than fingers. They can set off the bombs with their stubs, with their teeth if they have to, with their toes if that’s all they have left.

And Shane and I hide inside or plant ourselves just outside the gate. Uh-uh. Joan can’t get us to go for a walk. Especially me. She can’t do it. Usually by July 6, the bombs stop. The people have spent all their money and I’m safe again, and, maybe sometime around the middle of July, I’ll venture more than three feet beyond the protection of the fence—unless it’s too hot. Then, just forget the whole thing..

Very strange, these humans. Very strange, indeed.

Best wishes from Juno