9780008390662

clock versus moon
Julia and I wait by the front door while George says goodbye to Sara.
I think maybe the hardest thing for me about being domesticated—a “pet,” if
you insist—is that I can’t control my own schedule. If I had my way, I’d hang
out with Ivan and Ruby all day, every day.
Unfortunately, humans love their clocks.
Dogs, we use the sky to tell time, like any sensible creature. Sky says it’s
dawn? Time to eat. It’s noon? Time to eat. It’s afternoon? Time to eat. It’s
dusk? Time to eat. It’s midnight? Time to eat.
Point is, it’s always time to eat.
Dogs have a thing for the moon, too, like wolves and coyotes and our other
relatives. No calendars for us.
Moon looks like a claw, moon looks like half a pancake, moon looks like a
tennis ball. Moon looks like a claw again? A chunk of time has passed.
But humans, nope, that’s not enough. It’s not a chunk, it’s a month. It’s not
just dawn, it’s 6:32 a.m. on a Thursday, and boy oh boy, we’d better hurry up
and go to school or the office, or change the baby, but who gives a woof
about feeding the poor, starving, sad-eyed, grumbling-tummied dog?
After a spell, I got used to the comings and goings of Julia and her mom and
dad. But it keeps changing. Julia leaves early for school and is gone most of
the day. She returns home excited and energized, good scents mostly. But
every now and then she comes back smelling a little like me after a visit to
the dog trainer—battle weary and ready to crawl under the covers.
Sara, who was pretty sick for a while, is feeling fine again, thank goodness,