Chompin' For A Whompin'

My Sweet, Sweet Juno is cruisin' for a bruisin'. Achin' for a breakin'. Wishin' for a squishin'. Yearnin' for a durnin'. She just doesn't realize it.

There I was, trying to do her a favor, giving her, and her alone, a TREAT (she knows that word) when I got home from town. Jack and Copper Jack were romping around the back yard, at the treeline, either licking up some of the three dozen eggs Farmer H tossed off the porch on Tuesday, or sniffing the trail of one of the 5,000 squirrels which use our porch as a jungle gym while stealing dog food and cat kibble.

"Okay, Juno. We'll get you a treat in the house. Let me take my soda in. I have a bone for you! A pork steak bone! It might even have a little meat left on it. Okay, here it is. Come on. You can't have it here. Nope. Daddy just washed the porch. Can't get grease on his boards. Uh uh. I know! Yes, you're excited. See it? Come on over here, by your house."

I know that Juno heard, "Blah blah blah blah blah TREAT blah blah blah blah."

She followed me over to the front of her dog house, which is placed where Gassy G used to sit, on the side porch against the rail. Just then Jack came bounding up the steps, all intent on getting himself a treat, too. Sorry. We only had one bone, and that had been promised to Juno.

I handed Juno the bone. Normally, she would dash into her dog house, to eat in private. But she doesn't like her dog house, now that it has been moved six feet away from its usual location. It's like a totally different house. One that she was not in the market for.

Juno took her bone, turned on her two heels, and trotted over to the back porch rail, where she LAID IT DOWN on the freshly washed boards.

"No! No, no, no! No, Juno!"

She set it down, backed off, and looked guilty. As she should! I had clearly explained to her that there would be no BBQ pork steak bones on the freshly-washed porch. I picked up the bone, which left a small greasy mark, and a trail of barbecue-y saliva.

Dang it! I took the pork steak bone back into the kitchen.

"Well, looks like nobody is having a pork steak bone tonight. You can't follow the rules."

I felt guilty then. Besides, I didn't really want that bone laying around for another day. I took it to the front door, along with a pack of stale 10-inch flour tortillas. I opened the door and called, "Hey, dogs!" Copper Jack was on the brick sidewalk, but he was not a bone-worthy candidate. Juno ran around the corner of the porch, and I gave it to her. She took it down the steps, and stood in the lava rock of Farmer H's landscaping, between a big flat rock shaped like the United States, and a yucca plant.

I called for Jack, but he never appeared. Maybe he was chewing on the wood to get the grease out of it. Copper Jack perked up his ears, so I tossed him a tortilla. Of course it sailed over Farmer H's ratty-looking, paint-needing picket fence. Copper Jack was unsure. To get to it, he'd have to come down the sidewalk, and go past Juno. I do not recommend that. She is not fond of Copper Jack, especially when she has a TREAT. I tossed him a replacement tortilla, and he ate it on the bottom step of the porch.

Farmer H does not know about Juno's bone faux pas. I figure she's safe for a while. I doubt he tries to stain the porch within the next week. There's going to be rain on Thursday, selling at his Storage Unit Store on Friday/Saturday/Sunday, and an early afternoon auction on Monday.

In fact, I'd be surprised if the porch gets stained before it needs another washing.