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, Juno...you know there's plenty of Val's love to go arou--"
I'LL BE DING DANG DONGED IF IT DIDN'T HAPPEN AGAIN!
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.