I received my invitation, summoning me to Goldie’s house one late summer evening. It was to be a night of joy and celebration.
For that day marked my then bff, Bucko’s first birthday and now all his friends were present; ready for serious puppy play.
So we raised our metaphoric glass to friendship, back yard shenanigans and, of course, Bucko.
Cheers,
Jack
I waited patiently. I understood it was a simple human oversight. She had forgotten to roll down the window as was customary on our treks to the park. No matter the weather, hot, cold or rainy, there was an unspoken agreement between us. One that I expected both of us to honor. An Open Window Policy, per se, that granted me the chance to stick my head out the window and enjoy the wind blowing through my hair when we were driving slowly through town. And I don’t know if you know it, but the outside air acted as a buffer between me and the intense smells trapped inside the confined vehicle space. And I was not the only one understood the importance of An Open Window Policy.
At what point will she recognize her lapse in attention to detail? That I had no open window? And would it happen again?
Now this is what I am talking about. Window down. Buffer in place. Be sure to check my delight in the live action version.
Humans. You gotta love ’em, despite, or rather in spite of their foibles and idiosyncrasies.
Until next time,
Jack
Oh, the challenges of summer hair.
My summer began, as it usually does, with newly shorn hair. All around me dogs and their humans seemed to be parading around with their new dos. And the internet positively buzzed with cute suggestions for summer cuts.
This was me, taking a moment to debut my summer hair in the dying light of the setting sun.
To be honest, I was partial to my long locks; when it was a little bit shaggy, slightly riotous, and somewhat troublesome, defying the laws of nature.
I felt like that hair, my winter hair as I had come to refer to it, defined me. When humans visualized me as the Jack they knew, they pictures longish flowing locks, dimpled with snow flecks.
Thus, I have a moment of melancholy at the beginning of every summer, as if I’ve left a bit of me behind.
Until next time,
Jack
