Slowing Down

Nap time is any time.

It's over, park. It's over. Shane can't take that long walk anymore, and neither can I. The winding road through the woods, the big hill behind the lake, all those steps; and once you've reached the half-way point, there's no turning back. Panic. Got to keep going. Alas.

But, on occasion, I permit myself a little walk around the block. Shane and I plod, slowly, slowly, each on one side of Joan; Saki runs ahead, not understanding, not appreciating our aches, our huffing and puffing. We have to go really slowly or Shane's legs will just give out.

So Saki gets to go to the park for a real walk, and then we all go together on a sort of old-timer shuffle though the old neighborhood. It's okay. The sun still shines; the early spring flowers still strut their stuff. Well, maybe strut's the wrong word.

Best wishes, Juno

When the Cat's Away

" Whoops."

(When no one was looking.)

Saki hasn’t learned that quilts aren’t for eating. I’m sure he knows that on some deep level, but, really, I don’t get it. I mean, what’s so tasty about a quilt? Okay, I admit I once at a remote control, but I was young and inexperienced.

Or, maybe there's some logic to his appetite for that particular quilt. Perhaps he's driven by someone’s scent. Jaaron's? Kyla's? Or is it a memory? A fantasy of some sort?

Everyone loves Saki. But you’ve got to keep your eye on him or the naughty side of him takes over.

Saki & Buddy

If they look like dogs and act like dogs, they must be Saki and Buddy.

Buddy is our backyard neighbor who barks every single morning until he gets his biscuit from Joan. When he was young, he got himself arrested a number of times—see his history here—but he’s calmed down a lot since he’s gotten older. For a while, I thought he was maturing, you know, like me. But, today, I know better.

When Joan came home for lunch, she let Buddy in the yard so he could play dog games with us. Well, as it turned out, he and Saki ran around and around hopping and flipping and falling in the snow for an entire lunch hour. It was crazy. I barked so much, Joan brought me inside, you know, so I wouldn’t get all stressed out. And those dogs never stopped.

I think they must have had an excellent time together. Of course, Shane wasn’t allowed out. Wow, talk about stress. That would have been very bad news, indeed. But, he seemed happy enough to watch the proceedings from the safety of the house.

Yes, snow is sitting over the land like a great vanilla cake, but spring is in the air. I can smell its perfume and feel the barely perceptible rumble of its promise.

Best wishes, Juno

Dog In the Dark

Ah, what a bed of snow is March. It’s got to be 10 inches. I’m in heaven. Don’t want to go inside. If I keep my back to Joan, she'll never guess I’m out here sitting in this great swath of dark, in this soft and snowy world where silence rules and people run for shelter into their homes, into their recliners, into their make-believe television lands.

Oh to be a dog now that March is here. (Wait! I am a dog! It is March! Wow. It’s all true about the universe making your dreams come true.) Shhhhh. Don’t tell anyone I’m here in my nighttime paradise of crunchy snow.

Best wishes, Juno

PS: Shane's going to try to stick it out.

Shane, What Are You Trying To Say?

Shane, Shane, with your head hung down in a dark silhouette, what are you trying to say? Is it your time to live or is it your time to die? Are you ready, are you willing, to give it all up? Shane, Shane, with your eyes downcast, what are you trying to say?

Food is still good, and you gobble it up, and water still cools your tongue. And the sun, the same bright sun that we’ve always known, drapes its rays across your brown-black back. Yet, the light never shines from your eyes. You can’t look up or protest or complain. Yet the day still follows on the heels of your night. You lie, so still, we think you’re dead, as you stare across the wood-grainy floor, as you wait for we don’t know what, as you see what we still can’t see.

And everyone says your time is up, but we’re not sure about that. It seems that you smile when it’s breakfast time or when the crocuses reach through the snow. And we think you remember last year’s azaleas—how they were all fired up in pink—and bumblebees sucking up their nectar while buzzing all around in a dance. We think you remember that ice-cream truck tootling up and down through the town, and the streets all ripe with sound. We think you remember how the oak trees stretch, how they reach all the way up, and how they play and how they sway in the white symphony of clouds racing across the blue summer sky. We think you might want one last look, and maybe you’ll give it a try.

So, Shane, what do you want us to do for you? Shall we decide or will you decide? Shane, just tell us and it’s already done. Shane, what do you want us to do? What are you trying to say?

The bad days were few; now the good days are gone, or so it seems, or is this all a lie? But shadows always skip out from their hiding places, and wind still cools the fever in your eyes, and the crocuses will get here yet.

Shane, Shane, with your head hanging low, your muzzle nuzzling the ground, what are you trying to say?