Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Fool Me Once, Shame on Me. Fool Me Twice, BAD DOG JUNO!

Does anybody know a good dog whisperer? A doggy psychologist? Not-Heaven's Bells, I'll even take a pet psychic. Or that "Walkies!" lady from the BBC, Barbara Woodhouse, even from beyond the grave. My sweet, sweet Juno is fast becoming Backroads Enemy Number One.

I blame myself, really. Juno needs a purpose in life. Lurking around under The Pony's truck in a hollow scratched out of the gravel, laying in wait to ambush Mr. Turkey and pull out his tail, or tossing a brown rubber chicken with only one yellow foot into the air to play a game of one-sided fetch it not what my sweet, sweet Juno was meant to do. I need to take her up the road a piece, to the guy who has sheep. Then she'd be happy. Can't say the same for the sheep.

Yesterday afternoon I stopped to give her some extra loving care. Perhaps she simply feels neglected. It had rained most of the day, so she was probably cooped up on the porch. All three dogs ran to the side porch for some Val love. Of course I spent most of my time with Juno. Ann the black german shepherd is not all that bright. A quick pat and the mention of her name is enough to satisfy her, even though Juno feels the need to thrust herself between us for my undivided attention. Even Tank the beagle strolled over for a pat. I worry about him. He gets too near the edge, and Juno is quick to bump him off, which would not bode well for his stocky physique. I usually can act as a cushion to keep him topside.

So yesterday I was hugging Juno, letting my hand extend over her back to pat pat pat the head of Tank or Ann. Juno commenced to squirming like a red wiggler being impaled on a barbed J-hook. She was all feisty with pent-up energy. I always talk to her during our lovefests. "Now, know there's plenty of Val's love to go arou--"


Juno did not just feint toward my oral cavity. This time she landed a direct hit on my lower lip. I was wary from the start, and was watching for it. But she's just so darn good. She's an Olympic-caliber mouth-noser. I sputtered and spit. Anybody passing by might have thought I was foaming at the mouth. At least I did not chomp down and cop a chew on her slimy black proboscis.

This little inmate is running our asylum. I've got to put my foot down. But she's just so darn lovable. Says Val. But not Hick or The Pony. Could it be that I am not objective where Juno is concerned? I can't bring myself to swat her with a rolled-up newspaper. Or even speak harshly to her. She did not get a good start in life. I indulge her whims.

Maybe I'll just see if Hick can find me one of those Friday-the-13th Jason hockey masks at the auction. I'm pretty sure that if they'll stop a puck, they'll stop a dog's nose.


  1. Is it possible Juno needs a doggie lady friend to give him something ( someone) to do?

  2. Perhaps you should let her in your den when you settle down for the evening so every one will know she cannot be the culprit of things going awry.

  3. You could clamp one of those rubber clown noses on her while you dole out that Val lovin.

  4. Val--Knancy has a wonderful idea. In fact, I think you should let Juno stay in the house while you're at work. Juno could probably tidy up Hick's CPAP hose, clean the floor of any crumbs, and make sure the inside of all the windows are liberally smudged.

  5. Juno sounds like a sweetie. Harley, our black Lab, runs our asylum sometimes too.

  6. Stephen,
    Have you been talking to my mom? She ALWAYS refers to Juno as a "he," even though I correct her that Juno is, indeed, a "she." Juno already has a lady friend (not that there's anything wrong with that) who engages her in leg-wrestling bouts throughout the day.

    As for taking a fellow, Juno shows no interest in Tank the beagle, who still has all his original parts.

    That would be a good idea, except that Hick would claim she found a way to sneak out and get back in. She can do no right in his opinion. He often locks her up in the BARn and declares that he forgot she was in there with him.

    I need to get one of those! I wonder if Hick can find one at the auction...

    She's a chewer, that Juno. Our home would be as bare as Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard.

  7. Donna,
    We certainly don't want an arranged marriage. Assuming either one never had that very special operation to render them offspringless, their progeny would be unstoppable asylum-running mouth-nosers!