Farmer H is at it again. Badmouthing my sweet, sweet Juno. To her sleek black face with her hazel eyes gazing out like a trusting human. Using her as his personal whipping boy...or more accurately, as his personal tongue-lashing gal.
Last night we arrived back at the Mansion after 10:00, having spent the evening playing trivia at Newmentia. The #1 son is home from college for the weekend, and he and Farmer H high-tailed it out of the garage and up the porch steps. Juno ran down the steps and inside the garage. She likes to sneak a mouthful of dry cat food from the big spotted roasting pan that serves as their feeding bowl. Or nine or ten mouthfuls. Depending on how long it takes me to climb down out of T-Hoe. Seriously. Like four cats can't spare a few bites of food from the heaping mountain poured into that roasting pan every morning.
"Get out of there, Juno! Quit eating the cat food! It's almost gone. You've probably been in there eating it all day!"
Oh, how the false accusations cut me to the very quick! Not that they have any effect on Juno. She continued munching. Didn't even cringe. Perhaps she knows Farmer H is all bark. Or she flaunts the fact that she could pass a lie-detector test if need be, to prove her innocence.
How could Juno have been in the garage all day, eating cat food? The last time I checked, my svelte, leggy borador did not fit through the hard-plastic cat flap mounted in the metal of Farmer H's garage door. But a beagle did. And possums. And raccoons.
I think Farmer H is jealous of our bond. Even though Juno loves him almost as much as she loves me.
He doesn't know that I've seem him with her in the front yard, throwing her brown plastic chicken with one yellow foot chewed off.