Selva oscura

Resting on the Trail & Not Quite Nightfall

This walk through the park along wooded and leafy trails, amid bare and staring trees, under all kinds of skies, around the choppy lake, over wooden bridges, has become a habit. And, despite the increase in exercise, which Joan assures me will pay off in an increased lifespan and svelter figure, it sure beats walking around the neighborhood with its garbage and noise and zooming cars. Going to the park is like going on a mini-vacation. We come back all tired, but with the feeling that there’s something better than our immediate world. And it’s only a mile away. Who knew?

There are all sorts of ducks and swans in the lake; occasionally, well behaved dogs jog by with their people, and I whimper and Shane tries to run after them and Joan just shakes her head wishing Cesar Millan were here to help. She says, “I’m the boss,” but without the conviction of a true Cesar.

Now, we don’t like rainy days because we’ll miss the walk through the woods and around the lake. Oh, and don’t laugh about my hope of becoming a svelter and buffer dog, because we know someone who lost 12 pounds and 37 cholesterol points from walking around the very same lake. I’m telling you, there’s something in the air.

Best wishes, Juno

A Walk Around Belmont

Spring is coming. I can tell because I just had a bath, the crocuses have nosed through the icy earth, and the neighbors are starting to check out their lawn mowers, motor cycles, motor anythings. Sometimes we walk around the lake at Belmont Park, which is too much fun, especially for Shane, who whines every time he sees another dog—a practice he should do away as soon as he gets used to the idea that he’s not the only dog in the world (besides me, of course).

Who knew Belmont Lake could be so beautiful? We’ve been living here for four years, and we just “discovered” it. It’s like Central Park, except that people say hello even if they’ve never seen you before. Now, that’s so un-urban, but it’s reassuring.

Once we get back from the park, we’re very tired. Me, I like to sit in the yard until I’ve gotten my second wind. Shane? Well, just look at the photo.

Best wishes, Juno

Kicked

Today, we went for a walk. Wow, was it windy; but it was nice because it was the first day in a long time that we were able to go for a walk what with Joan being so sick this winter. When we got home, I lay down in my usual spot next to the fence. There I was, just minding my own business feeling the cold wind lift my fur, listening to the almost imperceptible whistle of the thin air and low groan of the sleeping trees. Even the grass was shushing in its very dry way, almost as though it were trying to blow out the snowflakes that danced on top of its brown winter blades.

What I didn’t hear as I marveled at the sounds that creaked and whooshed on this first day of March was the girl next door as she tiptoed across her own dry lawn toward the fence. I didn’t hear her as she picked up a stick and threw it back down because it was too big. I didn’t hear her as she came close to the fence where I lay, and I didn’t hear as she drew back her foot and slammed it against the chain-link fence hitting me right on my behind.

I yelped.

And the girl hadn’t heard or seen Joan walking down the driveway as this was going on; and she didn’t know Joan had just witnessed her mean streak. “Hey! Why did you kick my dog?” yelled Joan.

And the girl lied in a tiny voice full of sugar cubes: “Oh, I was just petting her.”

Now I can’t lie against the fence anymore. It was my favorite spot. Now Joan wishes she were rich enough to move away. Now I’m going to sit in the house and think about kicking and lies and the creaking sounds of a cold windy day that bring surprises that would have no place in a kinder world.

Best wishes for a better days,

Juno

Eat Snow

Eating Snow

Well, the doggie has a very good home now—I hear he’s even going to go to dog school—and at last we have a little peace around here. Shane was been very tolerant of our visitor. Okay, he had to wear a muzzle for a while, you know, just to learn that no one was trying to threaten him. It didn’t take long before he figured it out, and we’re all very proud of his new outlook on life. So, it seems you can teach some old dogs new—well, not tricks—ways of viewing the world.

The Visitor

Joan found this dog today. He was lost and needed a bath and a cozy place so she brought him home and gave him those things. He was wearing a dog tag from the animal shelter, but the animal shelter was closed, so I guess he’s here for the weekend.

Shane isn’t very happy about the whole thing, but we can’t let the dog go back to being neglected. He’s very sweet and gentle. The animal shelter wasn't too careful about who adopted him. That's not good.

Best wishes, Juno

PS: He looks like Jaaron's Ziggy!

Windy Winter Day

Today the sun was shining low in the sky, and the wind blew across the yard lifting the few shriveled brown leaves of last summer out of the wire webbing on the chain link fence and sending the clouds racing so fast they don’t have time to change shape.

Joan’s sure the neighbor’s ancient oak is going to crash land on our house one of these days. It would be a shame since it’s a beautiful tree, but she also doesn’t like the idea of my lying in the yard within reach of its noisy branches. It’s not as though the wind is howling; but it is whooshing on the loud side. I like the feel of the wind under my fur; it makes me feel fresh and light. Just to get back at Joan for making me come in—you know, because of the tree—I splashed in a puddle and got myself all wet.

Shane doesn’t get me, and Joan's still sick. Alas. I might as well sleep.

Best wishes, Juno

Finger-Lickin’

We hate it when Joan is sick. First of all, we don’t get a walk—just an “out you go” into the yard; second, and foremost, Joan always hogs up the couch when she gets sick. But, today, at last, we went out for a walk. It’s been over a week! I only had two moments of trauma, but they passed with a few reassuring words from Joan and a bored stare from Shane.

Winter is a time for reflection on the couch, licking cappuccino foam, and lying in the late-afternoon sun that throws itself across the living room floor like mini-heat-rays even on the coldest days. Oh, and there’s always watching the dog show on Animal Planet. We like that, too. We don’t get it. But we do like to watch the trainers run back and forth with their dogs. We don’t even mind that we’ll never be best in their show; Joan always says we’re best in her show, and that's all that matters. She’s very sensitive about the negative side of competition. Beauty—it's so arbitrary.

Best wishes, Juno

Eat Dirt

Very tired after a human brawl at midnight.

“Why do you eat dirt?” demands Joan. “Don’t I feed you enough?”

Well, frankly, dirt is sweet, raw, damp, gritty, and full of history. A bowl of Dick Van Patten's Vegetarian kibble mixed with canned food is lovely, and I appreciate it. But, nutrition doesn’t have to come in a package.

Shane and I like to eat dirt in winter, especially when the temperature rises just above freezing. Obviously, this is something no human can grasp.

But, let’s put things in perspective.

The other night, a great mob of humans woke us up at midnight with piercing screams and all sorts of cursing and yelling. It looked like a dark parade was marching down the street, only there was no music, and there were no smiles or baton twirlers. And instead of drums, there were great booming noises that sounded like gunshots. And some of the people screamed, “Oh my God.” And other people belched out curses and did little boxing dances with one another, punching and pushing and pounding against whatever they could or couldn’t see. They finally swarmed over the yard across the street, and it looked as though they were going to settle there for a big hellish get-together. Joan didn’t like that idea, so she called the police.

And the very instant the police shined their wide-angle spotlights into our neighborhood’s raucus midnight, the screaming erupted into deep silence, and the cursing humans scattered like a hundred Medusas slipping into the slimy alleys of hell.

That’s how humans behave.

So, Shane and I eat a little dirt, and it’s not such a big deal after all.

Best wishes, Juno

Biking the Dog

Pondering life during the frigid days of January when breathing in is hard labor and breathing out curls my tongue.

I'm aware that the Riverside collection of Shakespeare is right behind my bed, poised for the taking. Alas. I have no energy and long for the azaleas to spill into the yard with the pink petals of spring. But, waiting for spring to come is like waiting for water to boil or the phone to ring or the sun to rise. It won't happen if you want it to happen. And so I ponder or sleep or slip into a transcendent state that might well be the envy of all who seek to release themselves from the nuts and bolts of life. Oh, the things I could teach the Marharishi.

In the best of all possible worlds, people are kind. Sometimes, I think the people in my neighborhood are mean to their dogs—not brutal, not beating, just uncaring. But, today I was looking out the front door saw one of our neighbors walking his dog. Actually, the neighbor was riding his bike, and the dog was walking next to the bike. It was funny. We all smiled and waved. Well, Joan waved. Shane and I just looked, but we were very impressed, indeed. It’s freezing out today, but the man didn’t mind the cold as long as his dog got some good old oxygenated blood pumping through his veins. Anyway, thinking about that nice neighbor gives me hope that the world might not be as bad as I suspected.

Best wishes, Juno

Winter Rays

Cold weather tempts me to steal the couch. Sometimes I climb over Joan when she's sprawled out under the electric blanket. But, usually I wait until she gets up. Shane thinks a lot about the couch, but he’s too nervous to get up there when it’s occupied. Me, I don’t mind. I live here, too, don’t I?

Today, however, Shane beat me to the couch and I’ve had to take refuge on my lowly dog bed. To compensate for my second-place status, Joan decorated me with this blanket, which clearly is a little overpowering for a patchwork dog of black and white.

It’s very still outside. Everything has come to a frozen halt, even the people down the street who fix cars and long for the hot days of ice-cream trucks and lemon-flavored slurpies. Thankfully, the trees know how to hibernate, the ivy is cuddled up under the fall leaves, and the squirrels are too smart to peer from their hidden nests. It’s almost always dark except for an hour or so in the early afternoon. That’s when Joan opens all the curtains to let the sun spread its rays across the living-room floor. It gives us all hope.

Best wishes, Juno

"Juno is a Must See!"

Did you all watch today’s OPRAH show? I heard the news right from the Queen’s lips: “”JUNO IS A MUST SEE.” Wow, thanks, Oprah. I know Joan has made a few cautionary finger-wags about you on her grammar blog—you know, everything is “amazing” and the way you do terrible things with the word “badly”—but, I see you’ve overlooked her transgressions and embraced me as the beautiful dog that I am.

Did you hear that, reading public? I’m a “must see.”

Oh, oh. Shouldn’t that be “Juno is a must read”?

It’s a film?

Best wishes, Juno

Sharing Space on Memory Foam

I got here first.

It’s not as though we have only one bed for the two of us. We each have a bed. But, there are times when Shane needs to be near me, and I'm not sure why. I try to look indifferent, but sharing sometimes rattles my nerves. We have such different senses of personal space. It’s genetic, I'm sure.

Shane probably doesn’t realize that the two of us on this little memory foam bed add up to about 260 pounds! That’s a lot of memory for a piece of foam to keep in its basic DNA. It's something to think about on a long winter night.

Best wishes, Juno

Lying Down and Taking It (Breakfast)

They say that you should never skip breakfast, and so I never do. They say dogs shouldn’t lie down to eat, but I always do. Why not? Didn’t the Romans lie down to eat?

Once I visited a vet who said it was terrible that I refused to stand up and eat. I wanted to ask him if he stood up to eat, but I didn’t think he’d get the connection. We never went back to him because he was mean to Shane. Didn’t like his frazzled nerves or his dog-like attitude. The truth is he only liked dogs like me who don’t get pushed out of shape when strangers poke at them, examine their teeth, stick things into their private flesh, or trespass on essential personal space without so much as a polite hello. Even though Shane was wearing a muzzle, the vet got all flustered and lost his breath. Of course he lost his breath, for he was a very overweight man—at least 100 pounds overweight—and, if can you believe it, he pronounced me fat. Me.

The vet we see at Babylon Animal Hospital says that I’m just right. “Look at the size of those paws!” Dr. Schmid said with admiration. “You’re a very fluffy dog; that’s why people think you’re so big,” she added with a smile. On the other hand, she said that Shane could stand to lose a little. But, she wasn’t mean about it, and she seemed to understand that all dogs are not of the same emotional stuff. I like a vet who understands what she’s talking about.

Best wishes, Juno

Freezing, Short Days in the Western World

It’s too cold, even for me, so you can imagine that Shane wants no part of the frigid world beyond the front door. He’s much relieved to stretch out on his flowery bed and dream about springtime—a time when the rabbits are eager to be chased, when the ground begs to be dug up, when butterflies chase dogs around the azalea bushes. It’s a time for long walks instead of a hurried buzz around the block with Joan going "brrrrrrrrrrrrr" the entire time. And, best of all, it's a time when night doesn’t cover the grass until dinner is long over. It’s a little unnatural the way it’s dark around here before the Oprah Show is over. I mean, isn’t it supposed to be a daytime show?

We’re kind of lucky to have bad days—freezing days, early nights, noise, rain, ice, and misery. Otherwise, life would be too much of a good thing, and then it would be too hard to figure out what was good and what was not so good. Let’s take tranquility, for example. You know, I can’t stand loud noises; but, if life were always quiet and easy, I wouldn’t appreciate the silence as much as I do. (Not really; I’m just trying to sound positive.)

When the days last two minutes and the nights go on for eons, I always say, “Relax, Juno; this too shall pass.” It’s an expression I picked up from the philosophers of long ago. The way Shane looks in the picture—deeply relaxed and looking quite comfy on his soft bed—I think he already knows about life’s fleeting travails.

Best wishes, Juno

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

Shane On A Foggy NIght

I think Shane needs some attention. He’s been looking very sweet lately, looking for love, looking for kind words. Look how handsome he is with those white teeth (sharp), those soft brown eyes, that neck like a tree trunk. It’s not his fault that he has “issues” in life. People were very mean to him when he was a puppy, and he never got over it.

Me. Yes, people were mean to me, too; but, I’m a different breed. We’re not all alike, you know. Just like people aren’t all alike.

Anyway, I’m saying all this because tonight Shane got scared of something that wasn’t human—the fog. I’m usually the one who’s scared of things that aren’t human, and he’s the one who’s only scared of humans.

Well, he just asked to go outside, and when Joan opened the door, he took one look at all that gray fog and refused to go near the door. He just sat down and lowered his head as though the foggy mass would turn suck him from the safety of the house.
We had to go outside to show him that just because you’re surrounded by fog, it doesn’t mean you’re going to get swallowed up by it. It convinced him to come outside, but he ran back inside. Poor baby.

Now, I see that Shane and I do have something in common. I’m afraid of noises; he’s afraid of the silent fog. It’s a start.

Best wishes, Juno

Happy Thanksgiving

Shane stretched out after watching everyone eat Chix Patties with all the trimmings.
Look how Ari loves me unconditionally.

So, by now you know that Thanksgiving in the Juno-Shane house doesn’t include turkey. Last year, Joan made “Tofurky,” but she didn’t like the fact that it came with its own stuffing. She likes her own much better. So, this year was Chix Patty year with real cranberry sauce, organic potatoes, butternut squash, pumpkin pie, and, oh, I could just go on and on. It was fun. Charles was here for some of the goodies, but he went to Aunt Maureen’s for a “real” turkey dinner. Shane and I weren’t included.

Then, Joan and Ari spent an hour on the web cam with Pam and Jim and Shana. Poor Shana was sad to be so far away on Thanksgiving. Shane went in to see what was up with the web cam, but not me. I’m scared of the floor. So slippery. Instead, I snuck up on the couch when no one was looking. When they found me, I looked so cute, everyone just said, “Awwwwwww.” (Humans: so easy.)

Happy Thanksgiving around the world, even if you don’t celebrate it.

Juno

The Cappuccino Plan

She drank it all?

I had devised a plan to block Joan’s exit from the couch, to make her my prisoner, at least, until she was sufficiently saddened by my mournful glance, my longing gaze at her luscious cup of morning cappuccino, to give in and share.

Usually she gives me three fingers of cappuccino foam--first, the index finger; then, the middle finger; then, the ring finger. Then she says, "Good dog. That's all. The rest is mine." Don’t think I’m not grateful, but I want more. How I love coffee, especially morning cappuccino. And, really, Joan makes enough to meet the caffeine needs of an entire family.

So, the minute she sat down with her cappuccino, I would park myself between the couch and the coffee table, taking care to lie down on her slippers. Joan would be stuck on the couch until I relented, and I would refuse to relent until she gave me a few more luscious dabs of cappuccino foam.

But, this morning, she figured out that she can simply step over me. And, she can do it without slippers!

Very clever, Joan. Very clever, indeed. I’ll have to come up with a better plan.

Best wishes, Juno.

Watching the People Eat Ice-Cream

Interesting things happen down the block. I think the people fix cars, so there’s always something to listen to—some little squeak, a grinding of some sort of metal thing, a spinning of rubber, a horn, a bad word or two. And there’s always something to watch. The humans bend over the motor and twist things and take things out and stick them back again and slam things and yell, “Not now! I’m busy!” Humans get so mad at machines. Dogs never care about machines. We don’t need them, so we don’t get mad at them.

Sometimes the ice-cream truck comes down the block playing the same tune over and over and over. And when it does, all the big and little people at that end of the street run out of their houses and line up like little kids on the cafeteria line at school. And they unwrap their treats like it's Christmas, like they’re desperate for a big sugary surprise to sweeten up their lives. I sit and watch them lick and smile and chomp and grin until the big rectangle of ice and sugar turns into a skinny stick—nothing left but the stick, the wrapper, and the memory. They usually throw all three of them in the garbage or the street. That's great for the ice-cream seller, because the next time he goes around the block, the people run out and do the same thing over again.

Actually, I wouldn’t mind having one of those treats, but Joan doesn’t line up with the people.

And, there are dogs who live on the other side of those ice-cream-eating people down the block. They come around the corner and stare. It drives Shane crazy, but I just sit and stare back. Okay, sometimes, I whine a little, but that’s just to let them know I’m a softie.

Before the people moved in, I never paid much attention to that end of the block. Now, I sit and watch.

Best wishes, Juno

Affection on a Cold Day

"No, Charles, I really do love it out here in the cold. And, where's your jacket?"

Ah, the cold. I love the cold weather. Give me a patch of ice—a cold hard place in a field of green—and I’m there. Charles approached me with gentile care as I meditated upon the benefits of cold on my allergic skin. I tried to explain it to him, but, the poor man didn’t get it. He thinks the cold is something to be avoided—unless, of course, he’s skiing; then, it’s okay.

Oh, to err is to be human.

Shane trembles in the cold. Every morning he goes tearing out the door, all gung-ho and full of energy, looking for little animals or shadows to chase. Then, he stops in his tracks, looks at the icy dew on the grass, and runs back to the door—unless, of course, Joan comes outside with us. But, she’s always saying, “Brrrrrrrrrrr. Brrrrrrrrrrrr,” which is a little unsettling since I’m thinking “Brrrrrrrrr” is a good thing, and she and Shane are hoping to escape the “Brrrrrrr” as soon as possible. Me? I’m Alaska dog. Antarctic dog. That’s just the way I am.

On our walk this afternoon, a man in a truck wanted to know which dog he could have—me or Shane. Joan told him that she loved us too much to give us up. I went up to the truck to get petted on the head, but I think the man was a little afraid of me, because he kept saying, “Good dog, good dog” in a nervous little way. But, the truth is he didn’t know what to do with all my affection.

Charles, on the other hand, is very good about accepting my affection. It seems to calm him. Did you know that people who have dogs have lower blood pressure than people who live without us? I don’t mean the people who get dogs and stick them on a leash in the backyard; I mean people who have dogs and take care of us. Yup. It’s true. And, with all that low blood pressure, they live longer, happier lives. You can read it in JAMA, which might put you to sleep, or you can take it from the source—that’s me.

Here’s to the cold!
Best wishes, Juno

Just Wag Your Tail

I swear, I don't have imaginary friends.

You can’t see him, but you can smell him. He’s a little dog with a great big head, all black, short hair, very stocky. He must live down the block, because he shows up on a regular basis and causes me to get up and bark. If only he’d come up to the fence and say hello, I wouldn’t bark. The trouble is, the second I see him, he hides. That’s why you probably won’t believe me when I tell you that he’s not my imaginary friend. Imaginary friends don’t make you bark; they’re nice to you; they play tag with you. (Uhm, at least that’s what I’ve heard.)

I think it’s a good thing to say hello. It makes the neighborhood calmer, more tranquil, friendlier. Sometimes, dogs who seem really scary turn out to be very friendly. All you have to do is wag your tail when you see them, and they change from tough to mush in a split second.

People around here are like that, too. They look all mean with their pant waists wrapped around their knees, bopping down the street with their eyes all scrunched up and their lips curled into a snarly pose. Well, all I have to do is wag my tail, and they get the biggest smile on their faces and say, “Hello, beautiful.” You should try it. Unless you’re human and don’t have a tail. Then, well, you could just smile and say hello yourself.

Best wishes, Juno

A Dog's Advice: No One Listens

Now that it’s November, I like to spend more time outside. As long as it’s cold and my belly is full, I’m happy.

On our walk this evening, I met someone who was afraid of me. I sat down very quietly, hoping she would come and pet me, but nothing. I guess there are times in life with the mountain just refuses to come to Mohammad. The trouble is, sometimes Mohammad had better steer clear of the mountain, because the mountain has fear, and when things have fear, they also have danger. So, I finally analyzed all this and moved down the block.

When we got to the corner, I looked around and saw the woman run to her car, her eyes on me, the fear showing in her tight lips. And so I felt sad about the whole thing. As I explain to Shane on a daily basis, fear can be managed; you just have to treat it as if it has no power, and, puff, it’s gone.

No one listens.

Okay, fine, I don’t even listen to myself. But, that’s different. I’m afraid of sudden loud noises, because they come out of the unknown. But, I’m not afraid of things that are just sitting in front of me. And I’m certainly not afraid of myelf.

Best wishes, Juno

Halloween & Me: 2007

I'm getting a little too old for Halloween. It used to be more of a thing—you know, little kids all dressed up, and I wasn't sure what it was all about, but they smelled like chocolate, so I was pretty sure it must be good.

Now, it's still interesting to see them walking down the street looking strange and still smelling like a dessert treat, but I don't really feel up to getting up every time they come into the yard.

Joan put this scarf on my head to get me in the mood. It didn't work. Shane is sitting by the candy dish, which is on the little table by the front door, hoping no one will come and take it away. I don't know why, since he's not allowed to eat it. See, it's true. You always want what you can't have.

Me? Well, it's sort of just another day for me. I must be getting old, perhaps seeing life in a different way, losing my taste for empty calories.

The yard is a good place to sit; it's my vantage point from where I watch the children come and go each year—all dressed up, smelling like chocolate, swinging their plastic bags filled with forbidden pleasures.

Happy Halloween, Juno

In Bathelot

You've heard of Camelot? Well, that's not where I live. No. I live in Bathalot, because that's what it feels like. And, there's no Sir Lancelot to help save me; just Ms Joan Sure Shampoos-alot. No Merlin's magic, just this girl dog in the tub, and I don't get it.

Every time I get just the right amount of smelly, I get another bath. A lot. And, even though it feels good once I'm all dried and fluffed out, it's little comfort during that first moment when I see Joan getting out the dog shampoo and dry towels.

Anticipation can be a real problem.

Joan always says, “This is going to hurt me more than it's going to hurt you.” But, Joan's thinking of her back, and I'm thinking of my dignity. Which would you rather hurt? Not that I actually get hurt. It's all just so disturbing and worrisome.

However, now that I've complained, I have to admit that the results are more than appealing.
Now, Shane escaped getting a bath again today. He gets one bath for every three of mine. Shane with that slippery seal fur never gets dirty. I don't get it. Why me? And don't say why not me, because then I have to ask, “Why not you?

Oh, wait. Humans are always taking baths. Okay, forget it.

The good thing about getting a bath is that I know I won't get another one for maybe three weeks or more, depending on weather conditions and how much dirt I absorb in the coming days. It's certain that I'm home free for the next few weeks, and that's a huge relief. At last, I've found a silver lining in a once-dark cloud. I knew it was there. I just had to sniff it out.

Best wishes, Juno

Nerves and Vantage Points

Shane is nervous; I have allergies. And we contend with it all without lament.

From this spot on the couch, I watch Joan typing away in the computer room, her back to me, her mind all caught up in some story—real, not real; it doesn’t matter. What’s important is that I can see her, but she can’t see me. I like that.

Now, Shane gets all upset when Joan can’t see him. He rises up on his haunches and pants in his nervous way, hoping she’ll turn around and tell him everything’s okay. And once in a while, she does just that, and she looks at me with a little smile, knowing that I know how things are with nervous dogs, knowing that I like my private vantage point.

When I get sleepy, I get off the couch—which is officially banned for dog use, but somehow we get away with it, which is due to our huge cute factor, something many humans have a hard time resisting.

As I was about to say, I prefer to sleep in my own dog bed in Joan’s bedroom. Somehow, when the lights go out, and there’s nothing to look at, the couch is but a lonely perch, and I am but a lonely dog. And then it’s off to bed until the light of day coaxes us back into the real world of daydreams and little romps with creativity.

Best wishes, Juno

Making Sense--Dog Sense

This is what I look like when I refuse to walk. See the hesitation in my stance, the trepidation in my narrowed eyes? Joan says, “Don’t be afraid; nothing’s going to hurt you.” How does she know?

Why, just yesterday she gave me the same assurance, and then she heard what I had been hearing all along—a motorcycle coming closer, closer, closer, like some monster killer bee from another hemisphere. She forgets that humans don’t hear what dogs hear, smell what dogs smell—Joan’s happy about that one—or fear what we fear.

So, today, we were walking down the block when a little girl called out to me. She was about three years old, standing in her yard with her mom and baby brother. The mom kept saying how beautiful Shane and I were. I kissed the girl through the fence, and she laughed. Then she said, “This dog thinks I’m great!” Joan said, “She sure does.” Then we said goodbye and went on our way.

A minute later, I heard a shaking noise, like someone banging on the ground. It might have been a truck; it might have been King Kong. So I panicked and had to stop. That’s when Joan took this picture of me. Then we turned around and went home. And I was content to give in to my fear, because sometimes, well, it just makes sense to go home and sit on the grass.

And that’s my story.

Best wishes, Juno

Shane and the Butterflies

Shane dreams loudly. He talks in his sleep, and sometimes he even runs in his sleep. I know that because he lies on his side with his eyes closed and paws the air. He’s dreaming. I’m not sure what sorts of dreams cause him to talk and run, but I’m going to guess it’s butterflies.

That’s because butterflies are his passion. He runs after rabbits, he chases cats even when they’re on the other side of the fence—even when they’re on Animal Planet—and, of course, he thinks he can scale a tree when he’s after a squirrel. But, he never bothers butterflies. Why? Because he loves their colors and knows they travel from Canada to Mexico in great flocks, and that’s impressive enough for him.

So, then, why would he be running in his sleep? In his sleep, he thinks he’s flying to Mexico with the butterflies. In his sleep, he thinks he has wings, for wings give you power.

And that’s about it for dream analysis—at least for now.

I might be considered cool and golden hearted, and I know that lots of people are afraid of Shane. And, yes, I have to admit that he's one complicated dog. But, if you consider his respect for butterflies, you can't help but notice that he's pretty cool and golden hearted himself.

Best wishes, Juno

P.S.: Jaaron went back home. Alas, I miss her already.

Big Dog, Big Feet: It's A Match

I keep my paws close to me. Shane spreads his, just like a guy.

If you hold my paw next to Shane’s paw, you’ll see that his are on the dainty side; and if I had been a girl in ancient China, the beauty police would have bound my feet. That’s how big they are.

But, I like my big feet for they carry the rest of me with great assurance and sturdiness. In other words, we match. Sometimes I just sit there and cross them so I can look down and admire their round contours, the thick nails that I try to bite, but to no avail. Other times, I just lick them earnestly.

Shane doesn’t admire his paws. Oh, I’m sure he appreciates having them, but, for him, paws are just another part of his anatomy. For such a handsome dog, he’s surprisingly non-narcissistic. Me? It’s not like I’m one of those oh-look-at-me girls in high boots and tight jeans. I simply appreciate the niceties of having four legs, fluffy fur, and big paws.

I like being me. I like being.

Best wishes, Juno

On Being Loved

This is Jaaron. She loves me as you can clearly see by the way she rests her hand on me and smiles right into my heart. Jaaron has two dogs, Ziggy and Zion, and if you’ve ever read this blog, you already know that. If you haven’t read about them, you can read about them here.

It’s nice to sit on Jaaron’s lap pondering life in all its yin and yang, ups and downs, ins and outs. Sometimes, it’s very very quiet around the house, but this weekend opened the door and welcomed in a lot of activity that involved cooking huge plates of food and washing dishes and eating and talking, talking, talking. People really like to talk.

Shana and Mark were here; Ari was here; Charles was here; Kyla was here; Jaaron’s still here. Everyone was showing me so much love—well—except when I barked too loudly and made Mark say a very weak, “Shhhhhh.” But, after he ate his pizza, he didn’t mind anymore. No one minded anything after they ate.

Ahhhh, life. It’s so good.

Best wishes, Juno

Watching Bugs and Rabbits

Sometimes I just like a cold, hard floor.

Outside. Inside. Outside. Inside. Couch. Floor. Bed. Carpet. Grass. Cement. Walk. Sit.

Decisions.

A dog makes decisions based on things a human could never understand. When Joan finds me lying on the tile floor in the kitchen, she asks, “Why are you lying on the cold hard floor? I paid all that money for your soft doggy bed.”

Well, obviously I can’t answer that. Sometimes, I just like the floor.

One of my favorite outdoor spots is between the grass and the cold hard cement block at the bottom of the sunroom steps. From there, I can monitor backyard activity at ground level. That means I can see all sorts of grassy goings on that would be missed from a higher perch—say at the top of the steps.

You’d be surprised at the busy bug life beneath your feet, at the way the blades of grass rub against one another and arch their backs toward the sunlight. Sometimes a rabbit makes a crazy and foolish dash across the yard to its safe house—well, safe under-house—under the shed. It’s lucky for the rabbits that Shane doesn’t like to sit here, because he’s very fast on his feet for a dog on a slimming diet.

For me, it’s not worth the effort to chase the silly rabbits. What would I do if I caught one? I'd say, "Hello, Rabbit. I like carrots, too" and then go back to my spot and lie down again.

Best wishes, Juno

Anticipation and a Hug from Scott in Scrubs

So glad to be home again. Whew.

There are times when you have to face the known, even though you know you’re not going to like the experience. And there are times when you have to stare into the eyes of the unknown, even if you’re quivering with fear.

Let me explain.

Today, I was as nervous as a mouse in a bag of cat food because it was time for our annual checkup at Babylon Animal Hospital. Wow. Just staring at that dark and ominous picture glass outside of the building gave me such palpitations. What would happen? What would they do to me? To Shane? To Joan?

Joan put Shane’s muzzle on him, pushed open the heavy glass door, and brought us into the slippery tile of the gray and blue waiting room. All eyes fell on us. The woman behind the counter fired questions in our direction.

Why were we there? Would we sign in? Did we have an appointment? The people waiting in the room gave us little smiles of concern that bordered on pity. They knew my fear.

My heart beat heavily in my chest. My mind raced down the fog-filled alleyways of anticipation. The vet was in the back getting her tools of destruction ready, sharpening her knives and knitting needles, filling them with foul smelling drugs that would soon take over my mind, my body, my life. She would poke me in sensitive spots and announce that I was too fat and maybe even hurt me with that cold thing that dangles carelessly from her doctor’s neck.

Scott, a handsome young man in blue scrubs, came out to get us. “Juno and Shane,” he called.

As it turned out, Scott was really kind to us. He even petted Shane and said he was one good looking dog. Shane wasn’t sure how to take the compliment, so he growled. Just in case the kindness was a ruse.

Dr. Schmitt came in and petted us with enthusiasm. She said nice things to us and tried to make us feel relaxed. It worked for me, but Shane. . . . Well, Shane is forever Shane.

When the vet started to poke around my body, Scott slipped his strong arms around me and held me against his heart, whispering sweet things in my ear.

“Hi, Juno. I’m Scott.”

I looked deeply into his eyes.

“Don’t’ be afraid,” he said. “No one will hurt you.”

I just knew in my instinctive soul that he was telling the truth. A guy who wears an earring always has a gentle side.

Shane nearly had a heart attack. He was really scared, thinking people would do terrible and unspeakable things to him. Good thing he was wearing his muzzle. Good thing for Scott and nice Dr. Schmitt.

And so we exited the tunnel of the known and the unknown to find that life always provides a way out. And sometimes the things you think will hurt you the most turn out to be the very things that make life a treat. Like a hug. Like a kind word. Like the best part of the day, which was when Dr. Schmitt said I wasn’t fat at all. See? I knew it all along. I’m just right.

Shane? He’s on a little diet, but we’ll let that be our little secret. He doesn’t even know about it.

Best wishes, Juno

Shane: Chasing Fear

If you walk past my yard, you might notice me and Shane watching you from inside the chain-link fence. Me? I’ll just look at you, sniff your passing scent, and maybe give you a tail wag.

But, Shane will work himself into a frenzy. Beginning with a low growl of a bark, he’ll dig his claws into the grass and make his body taut like a crossbow ready to snap. As soon as you step foot in front of the fence, he’ll race down to the gate making sure you don’t try to touch it. Don’t mess with the gate, people!

Then, once you pass the gate, he’ll follow you to the end of the yard and bark at your back until you disappear or until Joan calls for him to come inside.

Shane loves to be called away from his phantom dangers. That’s because he really doesn’t like to act the way he acts. He simply doesn’t know any other way to encounter the unknown.

But, sometimes he acts more like me, especially if the person is cool. And by cool, I mean Dalai Lama cool, not home-boy cool.

He allows cool people in the yard with nothing more than an enthusiastic wagging of the tail. See? If you’re not afraid, he’s not afraid. All that barking and tensing up and chasing retreating shadows is nothing more than fear.

Me? I’m not afraid of you, so I let you enter and exit my world in complete peace. And you don’t have to be the actual Dalai Lama.

Best wishes, Juno

Floating On Gravity

I’ve told you about the kitten that lives across the street. She’s not too tiny anymore, and I think she’s got a friend. Watching them play reminds me of nothing I’ve ever done. It’s like watching a hunt where no one gets killed or a dance that makes its own music out of silence.

It’s just before complete night, and the cats are bouncing all over the yard. They’re here! Poof! They’re gone. Hey, there they are! No! They went that way! Wait! Where’d they go? And then. Surprise! Here they are again.

The speeding cats blend with the fuzziness of dusk before the moonlight arrives, but you can still make them out as they tumble over each other and scatter the fallen leaves from their final sleeping place on the autumn grass. If there’s such a thing as a cat laugh, they’re doing it.

I wouldn’t know how to be a cat.

To be a decent cat, you need a certain lightness of foot and slightness of body that allows you to sit on gravity as though it were a comfy recliner or a magic carpet. Shane has some catlike qualities, even though he’s big and, well, a little clumsy sometimes. You see, it’s not just graceful anti-gravitational moves that make a cat; it’s attitude. And Shane is surrounded with a definite feline aura that demands you keep your distance until he comes to you. Or else.

Now, I know that if I were to trot across the street to play with those cats, they’d run away from me, never get to know me, or learn how much I admire the way they scratch their claws into the laws of physics.

But, if I sit here for a long time and remain very quiet, watching their every move without scaring them, someday they might come over to say hello.

And then, who knows what friendships might be born?

Best wishes, Juno

Beauty: My Art

Beauty is my art, and I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t take effort, and I’m certainly not going to make believe there isn’t some drudgery involved.

Take bath time. Not a favorite for me or possibly for any dog. But, we submit, because we know it will bring happiness to the people we live with. We won’t smell up the house; we won’t be all greasy and gray; we’ll be clean enough to sneak up on the couch when no one is home without leaving a telltale odor behind. Yes, I guess cleanliness has its perks.

But, the truth is, a human’s idea of beauty and a dog’s idea of beauty are very different. There’s a special sort of canine beauty in being a little stinky, maybe a little dirty, maybe a little greasy. It makes us who we are and helps other dogs figure out if we’re cool or on edge or frisky or grumpy.

However, just to make Joan happy, I have tried to adopt her impossibly human values and apply them—or allow them to be applied—to myself. That’s why I call beauty my art.

But, I’m not going to get silly about it. I’m not going to try to squeeze into a size zero or get my nails painted or get my lips plumped. That’s just going too far. Besides, then I’d completely lose my uniqueness. Shane would get confused, Buddy would run away from me, and Ish wouldn’t want to play anymore. Joan might think I got kidnapped by one of those Stepford wives and turned into a robot.

I do look nice in pink, though. Don’t you think?

Best wishes, Juno

Car Rides and Pictures of Garbage

It's not as though it's good garbage.

We finally got a ride in the car after two weeks of mournful deprivation. It wasn’t a long ride, but it was cool. That feeling when the wind brushes our faces makes me and Shane feel like we’re almost flying. Not that I want to fly—it would be a little unnerving to be buzzing around over the rooftops. What would people think?

Wait, I’ve changed my mind. If we could fly, we could check out the backyards where dogs live and maybe drop in—hee-hee—for a nice visit, especially now that so many neighbors are living behind plastic privacy fences. There are so many friends we don’t get to see anymore.

Anyway, the ride kind of lulled us, so when we got home, I really wasn’t in the mood for a walk. But, Joan insisted. The truth is, she wanted to take pictures of the local street garbage for her next blog entry. (Yes, she writes a blog just like I do. Humans. So cute.) Now that people live behind fences, there’s more garbage than ever. I wouldn’t mind if it were edible, but it’s usually just paper and lots of unmentionables. We didn’t get too far before I sat down next to a bag of MacDonald trash to protest. I mean, if we’re going to walk, let’s walk.

When we got home, I sat undisturbed in the yard and watched a few cars pass by, but then I got lonely and went inside to spend some quality family time with Shane and Joan. We don’t say a lot, but we feel the love.

Best wishes, Juno