Meditation on Fear

"Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . . "

I never pretend to be what I’m not. Some dogs pretend to be mean when they’re really just frightened; and, in that sense, they’re just like people. Other dogs do the opposite—they pretend to be friendly when they’re really just frightened, and isn’t that just so human?

But, no dogs pretend to be friendly when they’re feeling unfriendly, and that’s the opposite of human behavior. Shane never does that. He is what he is. Sometimes, though, I think he would like to be friendlier. When people say hello to me, he hides behind Joan, but sometimes he peeks out and I can see his tail move with just a hint of friendly attitude.

Now, when I’m afraid, the whole block knows it. I just sit down in the middle of the road and get a stunned look on my face—you know, my eyes get all round and my breathing gets shallow and I stare at Joan hoping she’ll get it. That’s what happened on the day someone put that big blue tarp over his car and parked it, nose first, in the woods. How was I to know it was a car? I thought the Loch Ness Monster had come up on dry land. It’s not like the guy left a note on the car telling people what was under there.

Then, there was the time those kids buzzed by us on their whiny scooters, and I thought they were insects. How was I supposed to know they were kids on scooters? No one tells me these things. It’s up to me to figure it all out.

Then, there are the things I hear that only dogs can hear—people’s thoughts, their arguments on the Parkway, their garbage cans being dragged down driveways, something sizzling in their frying pans.

Again, it’s up to me to figure it all out. I guess that’s part of living my dog’s life.

Best wishes, Juno

Walking Under Full Moons

On the night of a full moon, people say strange things happen. Well, the moon is always full, isn’t it? We just don’t see it that way. Tonight we have a full moon that everyone can see, and is it bright!

Around the block we walked, and no one was acting any stranger than usual.

Okay, I did succumb to a temporary fear of turning left, just like Zoolander. That used to happen a lot more in the past; however, the old fear still takes me by surprise—but only once in a blue moon.

And, there was a vibrating noise under the pavement that no one heard but me. I had to sit still and ponder the matter before deciding to turn around and go back the other way. We all made an about-face to the right and retraced our steps.

And, then there was that gray striped cat who followed my every move. She kept hiding behind trees, under cars, between garbage cans, and even inside someone’s house. I saw her staring at me from an upstairs window. I think she made fun of my fear of turning left, but I didn’t mind. Shane didn’t notice the cat; neither did Joan; but she was there alright.

There’s one part of the walk that always causes a little trepidation, and sometimes Joan puts her arms over her head when we pass there because there are so many bats darting around under the trees.

See? Everything was pretty much the same as it always is.

When we got back to the yard, Shane thought he saw a ghost. He turned his back to it so he wouldn’t have to think about it, but eventually curiosity got the better of him and he glanced over his shoulder. It was still there. Of course, it wasn’t a ghost at all; it was only the moon.

Shane thinks the earth revolves around the moon. That’s so cute. Everyone knows the earth revolves around the sun, but, I don’t tell Shane that. He’d be so disillusioned.

Best wishes, Juno

Treats from a Trainer

See Shane's Nice White Smile!

I watched the Westminster Dog Show on television this morning, and I saw so many dogs—really beautiful dogs, some with long fur, some with short fur, and a few were almost bald. The one thing all the dogs had in common was that they had trainers, and before the dogs strutted their doggy stuff before the cheering crowd, their trainers gave them a treat and pulled their leashes up at a 90-degree angle. Oh, the other thing they had in common was that everyone said how spectacular they were.

Shane and I get treats every time Joan goes out. That way we don’t have an anxiety attack or have to struggle with feelings of abandonment. We also get treats when Joan has dinner; that way we don’t feel excluded from the fun.

But, we don’t have a trainer, so we never have to roll over or strut or have our teeth checked by a dog judge—which is just as well, what with Shane’s tendency to overreact when people try to put their fingers in his mouth. Actually, Shane’s teeth are pretty nice looking. But, I advise you to take my word for it. As for me, you can check them out any time you like.

I think it’s great that all those people love dogs so much that they get all dressed up and cheer for them. But, I like getting treats just because I’m me.

Best wishes, Juno

PS: White teeth by LEBA III. Expensive, but worth it.

Tides and Roses

We have it, practically in writing—we’re not going to have a bath for a long time to come. That’s thanks to Joan’s back injury. Whoopie!

Oh, sorry.

I don’t like to see anyone in pain, really. I was just trying to think of the positive aspects of the situation. Besides, it was really Pam who came up with the idea. Pam just had knee surgery, so she is trying to think of affirmative things to say about life and pain. And to help Joan pluck a rose from the thorn bush of life, she said, “Well, at least the dogs won’t have to have another bath for a while.”

Now, on the positive side of the matter for all of us, Joan says it helps to walk, so we’ve be taking slow walks—really slow; I mean a turtle could get around the block three times to our one time. And when I succumb to the old fear-of-noise issue and refuse to walk any farther, Joan hurts too much to pull her leader-of-the-pack-Cesar-Milan maneuver. In fact, she does just the opposite. She pets me and just stands there waiting for my psychological trauma to pass. And, eventually, it does. Sometimes, traumas remind me of the tide. They crash into our lives, do a few back flips, and then, poof, they rush back to the open sea.

Shane is very patient with Joan’s backache and with my trepidation. He just sits and waits. I’m telling you—despite his nervous condition, I think he has Buddha potential.

Best wishes, Juno

In the Thicket of Things

The thicket is behind that huge clump of greenery behind Shane. Shhhh. Don't tell.

There I was in my hiding place, shaded from the insistent summer sun, far from the maddening crowd, sheltered from the noise, the buzz and hum, of life—traffic, lawn mowers, baths. It was all good. I could see the house but the house couldn’t see me. I could watch the goings on about the yard, but the goings on couldn’t watch me. It was my thicket, and I was happy there.

Then, Joan found me. “Juno, you’re all dirty,” she said, sounding disappointed.

So, what’s a little dirt? I’m a dog!

“Oh, Juno, now you need a bath.”

I had a feeling I was due.

“Okay, you stay in the dirt, and I’ll bathe Shane first,” she said, throwing me a figurative bone, for she knows how I relish a good hiding spot.

Of course, it’s not dirt; it’s earth. And as far as staying in it while Shane had his bath, that was fine by me. But, if a bath was indeed in the cards, well, I was going to roll in the earth, eat the earth, paw the earth, become the earth. Earth is purer than shampoo, cooler than air-conditioning, softer than the couch in the living room. So, I rolled around, dug little trenches, and licked the dark stuff that had given me such solace.

Eventually, the joy ended. I sat dutifully for the bath, and then we all walked down the block in the sunlight to dry us off. (Joan was a soggy mess and had a major backache from washing us.)

When we got back, she took bunches of cut vines and mint and soft leaves that smell like peanut butter and laid them over the earthen floor of my thicket. So, I still have my hiding place, but now it has a mint-peanut-butter floor. Hmmmmm. Rather interesting.

Wait! What’s this other smell? Dog shampoo? Oh, that’s me. Not to worry; it won’t last. Everything passes. This smell, too, shall pass, and I’ll be back in the thicket of things.

Best wishes, Juno

Thorny Trails and a Man Who Wants My Baby

Shane After the Fall.
(He's thinking of taking up Latin. Dogus smartus.)

There’s a trail that cuts through a clump of woods near the house. Sounds nice, huh? Well, it could be nice, but the people throw their garbage there. And not just the usual MacDonald’s cheeseburger wrappers or Wendy’s French fry containers or Big Burger's Styrofoam cups—they throw tree limbs and nasty plastic bags filled with things so stinky that they burn my nose. I mean, I like a good strong smell just like any other dog, but this is could make a skunk run for cover.

We used to cut through the trail all the time, only now it’s hard to make it over all the tree branches and rotting putrid things. But, today, we did cut through, because I was just too hot and tired to go all away around Cape Horn at the end of the road. Besides, the trail comes out right across the street from Buddy’s house, and I wanted to see if he was still alive behind the new white plastic fence.

Well, poor Shane tripped and fell into a hole; Joan’s new “Inspi(red)” t-shirt got caught on the thorns and so did her finger. Wow, can her blood drip. I had a little trouble too, but I was walking behind Shane and Joan, so they kind of beat down the path for me.

Then we met a nice man who wanted to know if I could have babies. When Joan told him no, he said that if he couldn’t have my baby, he would like to have a dog just like me. Imagine that!

Shane didn’t feel at all jealous. He was contemplating his embarrassing fall, and he just sat and stared at Joan and panted. Not me; I sat and smiled at the nice man.

Joan told him he could find a nice dog at the animal shelter. And then, just to be sure he wasn’t thinking of tying anyone up for life, she told him New York State was going to pass a law making it a crime to tie a dog up for more than three hours a day. “Hurray,” I thought, quietly thinking about the dogs who live without life.

If it hadn’t been for the heat, the garbage, and the thorns, it would have been a perfect walk.

Best wishes, Juno

P.S. to Owen Johnson (R-4) and Charles Fuschillo (R-8): You are going to pass that law, right?

Seen Around Town

Top: Lily licks her dainty chops on her queenly throne.

Below: Shane and I ponder life on our floorly beds.

Yesterday, Shane and I did the rounds both in the neighborhood and in a great circle surrounding the neighborhood. What a whirlwind of social interaction!

To start the day, which was nothing like the dog days I wrote about last week, Judith came out for a visit. She’s a cat lover, so I wasn’t able to get much enthusiasm out of her. But, she didn’t mind it when we all got in the car together to bring her to Arthur’s house. Well, when we got to Arthur’s, Lily the Terrier jumped on Shane’s face—I think she just wanted to see what he was about. A squabble ensued. One human took Lily off Shane’s face; another human took Shane off her neck. It was all over in five seconds.

Arthur is my man, because, instead of getting all huffy that Shane the intruder had salivated on his dog, he went and got two soup bones from the freezer and gave one to me and one to Shane so we’d have something to do while Joan visited inside.

Joan weakly objected, “But, Arthur, my dogs are vegetarians.”

Arthur smiled and patted her on the head, “Not any more.”

He’s a sensible man for whom I have great respect. Then, we went to David and Gloria’s where we sat on the slate patio and drank water and listened to the humans talking inside. Gloria is in love with Shane. David finally admitted that I’m sweet. They didn’t know that Shane and I were listening to the secretive murmur of their conversation. They think dogs can only comprehend words like sit, dinner, and walk. Ha! Language isn’t the exclusive domain of humans. Humans don’t get that simple fact. But, dogs get it.

When we got home, we took a nap and then went for our evening walk. Joan chatted it up for about an hour with Shellavon, the nice neighbor down the block. Eventually, Shane stopped being nervous and he lay down beside me waiting for the two of them to finish their observations about life. Dogs live life; humans talk about life. It’s a wonder we get along so well.

Best wishes, Juno

August Nights & Talking Trees

August nights can surprise. An August day is like the ruler, the big boss, the head honcho, the bully that turns up the oven from sunrise to sunset just to make you feel all helpless and clammy. But, the night doesn’t always copy the day. Sure, sometimes it can be just as mean, just as uncaring; but, other times, it gets all gentle and even a little apologetic for some of its past behavior. Tonight was one of those nights, so I went outside to bask in its kindness.

I sat for hours under the spell of the night breeze, my belly resting against the spongy carpet of cool grass. Tonight the grass was extra soft because Joan had just mowed it, which left it feeling a little damp and smelling like—well—freshly cut grass. Every time the wind picked up, the trees would wave their leafy arms and whisper secrets to one another; and not even a dog can understand the storytelling of trees, especially the ancient ones. The perfume from the mint patch in the back yard drifted into the front yard and fell asleep right under my nose. Sometimes, the breeze would stop and silence ruled the yard. Then, a car would pass or someone in a distant house would crack open a can of beer or a smile. I could hear it all.

Shane sat at the side of the walk and pretended he was enjoying the peace. But, he kept looking back at Joan, hoping she wouldn’t go inside without him. He’s still dealing with his abandonment issues. Me, I’m secure. It’s in the genes. What can I tell you? I’m a lucky dog. Shane is, too. Sometimes he knows it.

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

The Trickster

Aha. A new trick to make me walk.

I’m afraid. Sorry, but that’s all there is to it. But, I can be tricked into forgetting my fear, and it doesn’t take our hero Cesar Milan to pull it off. Tonight, Joan tried to get me to take a walk, but I panicked as soon as we were outside the gate. The six-year-old girl who lives across the street watched me grind my butt into the street and refuse to move. She was laughing at Joan’s sorry attempts to make me walk and kept asking if she could help.

“Hey, Neighbor” (that’s what she and her mom call Joan), “Do you want me to help?”

“Oh, that’s okay,” said Joan, thinking there was no way a skinny little six-year-old could move a 125-pound dog.

Joan promised me a ride in the car, but I wouldn’t move.

She told me how much fun the walk would be, but I stayed anchored to the blacktop.

She predicted that I’d get all sorts of attention from the neighborhood kids, but I looked away and pretended not to hear.

Finally, Joan told me to go say hello to the little girl, who was still laughing at her. And I did.

The little girl took my leash and walked me on her lawn, up the steps to her porch—which scared the big boy who was sitting there; he didn’t realize how little interest I have in scaring people.

And I had so much fun, I forgot to be afraid. Joan took my leash and off we went on our walk. On the walk, lots of kids petted me and even some grownups smiled at me. What was I so worried about? And how did that little neighbor girl pull it off. That’s what Joan would like to know, but I’m not talking.

Best wishes, Juno

Cushion My Ride for Comfort

See us in the picture? We're sitting on a car hammock just for dogs! Just for me and Shane. If you go directly to http://www.perfectdogbeds.com, you’ll see much better pictures. Only without me or Shane as models. But, still, you’ll get a better idea of how cool this is.

You’ll remember our recent trip into the city, which left me not a little aching and exhausted after several hours crammed into the backseat of Joan’s dopey little car. Well, due to my discomfort, Joan started hunting for ways to make these little excursions more comfy and appealing for Shane and me. She found a few websites that sell car beds for dogs and settled on the nicest, friendliest one, http://www.ihelppets.com, which sells Perfect Dog Beds among lots of other dog friendly items. She called the nice people on Sunday morning, and the woman who answered was soooooooo accommodating and polite that Joan almost swooned from shock (just kidding).

Well, she ordered our present right away, and it arrived this very morning. And since we had to go up to Trader Joe’s anyway, we had a perfect excuse for burning gas.

I’m telling you, the dog hammock’s a hit. This gray cloud of comfort (whoops, that’s sort of a mixed metaphor with the gray color, which we’ll now re-name dark silver, even though it’s called “smoke”) cushioned our ride in the plushiest way imaginable. Now I won’t be slipping on the floor every time the car slows down. And it’s so pillow-soft, so just right for an adventurous dog like me or for a homebody like Shane.

And the company is really nice, if you can believe that any company can be nice. They give “One Hundred Percent of [their] Profits” to help homeless animals. Since Shane and I both used to be homeless animals, we think that’s reason enough to check them out. Joan’s putting them on her links section ‘cause she’s loves their attitude.

Here’s to comfort in the back of any car!

Best wishes, Juno

Vanity, Thy Name is Dog Owner

Another bath? Look at the picture. Four bottles of shampoo! Well, we’re big dogs.

Even Shane got a bath. To be precise, we got outdoor showers with the garden hose attached to the kitchen sink.

Just because I’m having skin problems, Joan thinks more bathing will help. Okay, so it feels better after it’s over; but, the whole process of wetting me down, lathering me up, rinsing me off, brushing, clipping, poking, prodding, telling me to stay, telling me to shake it out, telling me to be patient. It’s like being at the dentist office—at least, that’s what I imagine, never having been at the dentist’s office.

I think the real reason for the baths was in anticipation of the new car hammock for dogs that’s in the mail at this very moment. God, the things we dogs do to satisfy human whim and, yes, vanity. Alas.

Best wishes from a very clean Juno & Shane

What You Wish For

Back home in the yard again.

Last night, I got what I wished for, and it was exhausting. Well, as I’ve mentioned, as soon as the people with nothing to do start setting off “July 4^th” firecrackers the day before Memorial Day, my nerves quiver whenever I have to leave the yard on paw. Those walks I so enjoy the rest of the year loom before me like raucous green monsters.

It’s no use trying to analyze why humans are constantly searching for excuses to re-stage the original big bang, but they do. Oh, it’s the day before Memorial Day. Let’s make loud noises in honor of the dead soldiers. Oh, it’s midnight—one minute until we change numbers on the calendar. Let’s make loud noises. Oh, duh. It’s a day to celebrate democracy. Let’s make more loud noises. And I’m not even talking about the people with the loud cars and boom boxes. Or the people who are just—well—loud. You know. They’re just loud people, even when they’re being friendly. HEY, YOU. I’M FRIENDLY. Well, I’m friendly, too. But, I’m not loud. Except when I bark to get attention. Oh, is that why people make loud noises?

Back to last night.

Joan was taking Kyla back to the city, so, since I wouldn’t go for a walk before they left, Joan said, “Okay, you can have your wish. Get in the car.” And we did.

Some people honked their horn and waved to us on the Parkway. Other people were trying to kill each other by going really fast in and out of lanes.

We got into the city and dropped Kyla off, and then we drove all the way down the West Side Highway to around 53 Street and crossed over to the 34^th Street tunnel. The best part was stopping at red lights, because I got a really good look at all the interesting people—the Menschenmassen; that’s what Joan kept saying.

At one light, I was gazing at a man smoking a cigarette outside of a bar. He looked at me, you know, like he wanted to hug me. Joan called out, “Two beers and a bag of chips, please!” And the man called back, “You got it.” But, then the light changed, and we never got the beer or the chips.

Lots of people were going to the theater. My head was hanging out the driver’s side window; Shane's head was hanging out the rear passenger’s window. So, in a way, we were theater. Only, no one had to pay to see us. Theater should be free, don’t you think? Like Shakespeare in the Park with a trunk near the stage. You put money in when you can. Joseph Papp was a genius.

We finally got to the tunnel, which is so bright, I thought it was morning. But, no. We came out of the tunnel into the night and went home. Wow. Was I tired. Shane wasn’t. But, I was. Now, I’m not too sure if I want such a long ride, thank you very much. However, a good time was had by all.

Best wishes, Juno

PS: Joan's trying to find some doggy car beds so we can make similar and longer trips, but in greater comfort.

Waiting for the Spirit

I don’t know what my problem is. I have no stick-to-it-tive-ness. I love taking walks, really. Everyone talks to me in their high-pitchy voices; all sorts of kids run after me and pet me with their smooth stubby hands; smells beckon me from the bushes along the parkway with their steamy, yet subtle, perfumes; squirrels tempt me to run after them, but I don’t take the bait. And yet, I put up such a fuss every single day that sometimes we just stay in because Joan’s too tired to play Dog-Whisperer Clone.

It’s the fire-crackers. You never know when one’s going to go off. It’s the loud motors. You never know when they’re going to lose control and hit me or Shane. It’s the . . . Oh, I’m just making excuses. I’m like a human on a diet, a human on a get-in-shape plan. Diets don’t work. Getting in shape doesn’t work. You’ve got to change your life, your attitude, your list of priorities.

All this will I ponder as Shane waits, as Joan waits, as all the people who like to say hello to me wait, as I wait . . . for the spirit . . . to move . . . me. Any minute now.

Best wishes, Juno

Bosslike Powers

This evening, Shane decided he could attack a pit bull. He didn’t. He just thought he could. Joan had him by the collar and kept asserting her bosslike power over him—you know the routine from observing wolf packs and listening to Cesar Milan. I guess Joan didn’t believe her own lie. Shane sure didn’t believe it, because he kept making whiny sounds and drooling. The pit bull is a lot stronger than Shane. But that’s only when things are normal. Shane’s so fearful that it makes him stronger, or maybe crazier. He’s so afraid that he loses his ability to reason like a sensible dog, which makes him forget to be afraid. That’s the most dangerous kind of dog.

Anyway, the pit bull and the man with him kept walking and so did we. But, wouldn’t you know it, we turned so many corners on our walk—and so did the pit bull—and we crossed paths again. I guess Shane was too tired to make a fuss. Joan kept saying, “I’m the boss. I’m the boss.” No she’s not.

Best wishes, Juno

People Are Animals, Too.

“One is dearest to God who has no enemies among the living beings, who is nonviolent to all creatures.”
Bhagavad Gita, (Hindu Scriptures, oldest human sacred text c. 2500 - 3000 BC)

The dog across the street has had puppies. She’s too skinny, so Joan brings food to her now. I wish the ASPCA would come and take the dog away. But, as long as she has a ratty little doghouse, it’s okay for the people to keep her chained up and underfed for her entire life. I try not to get serious, but sometimes I just don’t understand why some people are so cruel to animals. After all, people are animals, too.

On a lighter note, the hot water heater is leaking all over the basement! And, why does that earn an exclamation point? Because, Joan can’t give me the bath she thinks I need and knows I don’t want. He-he. Well, she could give me a bath, but she won’t. Even on a hot day, a cold-water bath is too shocking for a dog. Joan bought a tankless water heater, which is still sitting in her car. I was very happy that the plumber didn’t call her back to fix a date for installation. I’m a dog. I should smell like a dog. The hot water heater should stay in the car!

It’s been a very humid week, and it looks as though summer has pushed the beautiful spring days into a future dream. That means days lying spread-eagled in front of the air-conditioner, lapping up lots of water, splashing in the doggie pool, and hiding from the fire-cracker people who perk up their lives with big bangs and pops and flashes of color. I guess they wouldn’t be so happy to make loud noises if they were in, say, Iraq or Afganistan. (Sorry, I got serious again.)

Best wishes, Juno

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!