I hear the clamor—you want an update on Polo and Clover, don’t you?
Currently, Polo is lying on a pillow next to me while I write. That’s where she often is. Clover is lying on top of the picnic table, next to my pot of oolong. I can only hope the squirrels stay away so she doesn’t leap and loose my tea from its cozy home.
The other night we were at an outdoor dinner party at a friend’s ranch, and her dog, Chevy, wandered around the guests, making herself at home. I’ve met Chevy before. She’s a white Lab, 11 years old. But even though she’s about 100 pounds bigger than Clover, the two of them do the same thing—if you pet them, they flop over onto their backs and put all four paws in the air and let you rub their bellies.
I spent some quality time with Chevy after most of the guests had left. I sat in the grass with her, rubbing that belly. I considered lying down next to her, but everyone would have talked about John’s weird wife. You know, that poet lady. I try to behave myself in public, but it can be difficult when a sweet dog wanders by.
Years ago, before my parents turned the screened porch into a second living room, my aunt and uncle came down from Wyoming with their dog, which back then was a white husky. My uncle didn’t want the dog to be lonely, so he slept out on the porch with him. At the time, I thought he was crazy. Now, I wish I would’ve dragged my sleeping bag out there with him.
