Dear Simon Schama

Dear Simon Schama,

I love your book. It’s not that I fell asleep whilst reading it; I simply closed my eyes and imagined Caravaggio juggling the Janus balls of his Baroque brilliance and attention to fine detail with his many bawdy and drunken misdeeds. You could say I was entranced by Caravaggio's power of art as well as your Power of Art. I can’t wait until the movie comes out.

Oh? It already did?

Best wishes, Juno

Marking Territory & Dog Imperialism

Here's Max. He came to visit us this morning. I remember when he was a puppy, and now look how he’s all grown up and regal with his straight shoulders and fluffy black mane. Even Shane was impressed into silent curiosity—he didn't make a sound, not even when Joan gave Max a biscuit. Wow. There’s a first. But, Max did a great deal of territory marking around the entire perimeter of our fence. God, that's such a very male thing to do.

I don’t get it, though, because he lives two blocks from here, so it’s kind of imperialistic of him to come all this way to claim my yard; also, we’ve walked past his yard maybe three or four hundred times, and we’ve never marked territory there. Shane and I are like, say, Switzerland; we mind our own business. Taking over territory is such a human thing; I guess the activity was bound to rub off on dogs, especially the male dogs.

Well, it’s Christmas Eve, so I’ll try to be more accepting of such behavior. It’s a sunny day. The house smells of cookies and ironing and shampoo. Joan’s thinking of giving me a bath, which would be a bit too much work for her, don’t you think? Later on, we’ll take a walk past Max’s house. I want to sniff out some of his neighbors’ yards to see if he’s got his eye on their places as well as ours. Males. They want it all.

Wishing the world a Merry Christmas. And, just in case wishes actually come true, I wish for peace in the world—of course, before that happens, everyone will have to give up the marking of territory.
Juno

How To Be A Dog

" Yo, Juno. What do I do to get inside? I forget."

Shane doesn’t know how to ask for things, so he’s not really a dog. Dogs know how to get the things they want by various means that include barking at the door or at a box of dog biscuits; looking sad by drooping the eyes or staring at the floor; looking cute by perhaps cocking the head or lifting one ear or just staring politely at a human while said human is eating—the cute factor, by the way, is the most powerful of all—looking enormously intelligent by following a piece of food as it goes from a plate into a human mouth or sitting when told to do so.

It’s really easy, but Shane doesn’t get it. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Take our neighbor, Buddy. Now Buddy knows how to get one, two, or even three biscuits a day from Joan. He simply stands on his hind legs by the back hedge and barks. Joan says, “Okay Buddy; here’s your treat.” And he gets a treat. (You can read more about Buddy by clicking here.)

It’s the same way for every other dog who hangs around the fence. Joan says, “Hi Doggie. Would you like a biscuit?” And she hands over a biscuit.

Now, when Shane is outside and wants to go inside, he sits and stares at the door. So, if you go by our house when Shane and I are both outside, you’ll see me staring at all the neighborhood activity, and you’ll see Shane staring at the front door. He doesn’t know he’s supposed to bark to get in. By now, it’s been hundreds of times that he’s witnessed the getting-inside process. I go to the door and bark; Joan opens the door; we go inside. But, he never does it. I have to do all his barking for him.

That’s why I’m not so sure he’s a real dog. Sure, he smells like one; he’s got four legs and dog breath; but that’s where the canine qualities begin to ebb. Yet, whatever he is, he’s pretty nice to me, and I’m nice to him. I guess that’s more important than fitting into a neat category. Besides, dogs aren’t very good at categorizing. That’s more of a human urge.

Best wishes, Juno

My Life Story

It just kills Joan that she didn’t know me as a puppy and that she doesn’t know what happened to me to make me end up in the care of the Little Shelter in Huntington. Someone brought me to the Little Shelter from Queens, they fixed all my injuries, and then Joan walked in and said, “I need that dog!” and she took me home.

Isn’t that enough of a story?

I guess humans feel more secure when they have a solid and detailed rundown of every aspect of life. Not dogs. We’re very good at feeling and smelling all the tiny and big things around us; we’re excellent at sniffing all the corners and crannies of every moment and every hour—even the sleeping hours. If we ever react to a past moment, it’s only a reflex. Then, we shake ourselves back into the present and life goes on. I think we’re that way because we don’t live very long. What a waste of hours it would be to think about past injuries.

The only thing I reflect on is Joan’s morning cappuccino. But, I reflect on it only in anticipation—never in retrospect. When it’s gone, it’s gone; and I look forward to the next morning knowing I’ll have another whiff of coffee flavor and another lick of cappuccino foam. Now, that’s living in the present.

Best wishes, Juno

They're Back

We try not to stare, which would be rude. But, aren't they staring at us?

They’re back. Last year, the neighbors across the street had a visit—or maybe it was a visitation—from some smiling otherworldly creatures that lit up every night and bobbled around with the breezes, and then collapsed into flat white shadows after everyone fell asleep. Then, one day, they were gone. At first, I thought about them; but, then, they disappeared from my memory.

Well, today, they popped up again, and it's as though they never left, as though the twelve months since their last appearance never existed. At first, Shane got frightened and barked at them. Not me. I try to be way cooler than that.

They ignored us last year, but this year, I feel their eyes on us. And even when we're inside the house, I think they're trying to see what's going on. Maybe they want to be friends. Maybe they're just curious. Maybe they feel bad about snubbing us last year.

I'm a little concerned about saying the first hello, because they might get the wrong idea, might think I'm being too friendly, too in need of friends. Whenever we walk through the neighborhood, Joan says hello to everyone we pass. Most of the time, the people say hello back. But, lots of times, they just look at the ground or grunt. If I say the first hello to these visitors, they might grunt, too; and then my feelings would be hurt. So, until I get a little better at handling rejection, I'm just going to play it cool.

Best wishes, Juno

First Snow on Autumn Leaves

The first snow of the season, and I’m so happy to spend the day lying in snow, licking snow, treading through snow, sleeping in snow. But, Joan thinks I’ll get frost bite. Frost bite! I’m a dog, you know. (She forgets. La vecchiaia è corogna.)

Usually, the snow lies still over the sleeping grass of winter, but this time, it settles on the fallen leaves. And the leaves are trapped and don't know what to do with themselves; so they tremble and wave their yellow fingers just above the white shroud.

Shane doesn’t really like the snow. This morning, he ran out the door as usual, and then he stopped when he discovered that the ground had turned white and cold. He always does things like that. You know, he leaps before he looks. Then, he wants to go back and do it all over again the right way. But, by then, it’s too late.

Best wishes, Juno