At Junior's Tree

I've been to see the squirrels. I've told them about Phoebe. At Junior's Tree, I found the squirrel who trusted us. He learned, when both he and Phoebe were new to the ways of the park, that Phoebe's interest in him was wholeheartedly friendly and that I, under her influence, was equally harmless.

We met Junior early in Phoebe’s introduction to squirrels. He fell out of a tree, his yelp as long and dramatic as his plunge into a privet hedge. His parents rescued him, bundling him up the trunk as Phoebe wimpered and I reassured her. She watched as the three squirrels vanished far above our heads.

We met regularly thereafter, watching Junior master his squirrel skills and become a confident, robust, and thoroughly engaging character. He often greeted us with a chirp and an extended paw, which I report only because there were occasional, and astonished, witnesses.

One dawn last spring, we came upon Junior pawing through a patch of newly risen seedlings. He paused, seemed to notice us, and went back to work. We didn't move or make a sound. Soon Junior tugged two shoots from the ground, roots intact, carried them toward us in his mouth, and placed them across my feet. Standing beside me, Phoebe crooned and wagged. I thanked Junior as he darted up his tree. Those gifts grew on our balcony all summer.

I can no longer go home from an encounter with Junior or any of our other fine squirrels and read about them to my friend Phoebe. So after I announced that their canine admirer and student had died, I read to the squirrels, a few entries about them from Phoebe B. Dackel's journals.

Phoebe learned so much from those squirrels. And I learned so much from Phoebe. In our parting, she reinforced the lesson I’ve been tutored in by many beloved dogs: the bond is unbroken, our good-byes are merely physical, the insuperable tragedy would be if we had never met.

“Thank you” to all you dear, kind people and dogs who have commented on Phoebe. She would reply with her heartiest “woof!” and her sensible “let’s get on with our day” gestures, which always steered me back to the books that needed mending, or cataloging, or packing and shipping, when what I really wanted to do was give her another dozen hugs. While I worked I often talked to her about the stories that awaited us when work was done. I’m not entirely alone when I open those books.

Socks Appeal

By the time Phoebe and I reached the park last Sunday morning, our seven book-and-sock encounters had taken on the aura of minor if not yet forgettable fable. At least that was their effect on me. Wiser than I, Phoebe turned her attention, and mine, to the squirrels. Our neighborhood eastern grays rewarded us with more eager interaction than we had elicited earlier from mere bipeds; Phoebe was entertained, and I was saved from disappointment. It was a delightful long walk. And by the time we turned for home, I knew that my passion for books might excuse my pelting leash- and coffee-toting passersby with questions about their personal libraries when they wanted to empty their pets and fill themselves with caffeine. What was inexcusable was the hour; next time I query dog walkers about their book care habits, it will be much later in the day.

That conclusion reached me, as if from another world, just as Phoebe and I reached an intersection and a red light. While we waited to cross, a woman and a terrier joined us. We had met earlier. We greeted each other again. I didn't say a word about books.

We were patting each other's dogs when the woman said, "Tell me again how you dust a book with a sock."

My surprise I suppressed; the fable might yet produce a moral and a convert. So as Phoebe and the terrier nuzzled and wagged, I launched into my dusting speech and pantomime. I slipped an old sock over one hand, pulling a book from a shelf and opening it, holding the text block, wiping the top edge gently and in one direction, careful of a dust jacket's position, and was about to discuss the merits of removing the jacket for thorough cleaning of the book's entire being and what care the jacket might need when the woman gestured to her dog.

"That sounds like the way I brush her. She loves it."

"Books love it, too," I proclaimed. "The cleaner they are, the longer they last." A terrible generality for a Sunday morning on a street corner, but I had an audience, and the dogs were still content with each other's company. We let the traffic light change more than once, and talked more about taking care of books and dogs. The woman confided that bathing her dog had been something she once dreaded; now she looks forward to it. And she does have some books that mean a lot to her, and maybe she should give this idea of dusting them some thought, and maybe even a try. I suggested that it's one of those things that's worse to contemplate than undertake. "Go home and dust two books," I urged.

"Three," she countered, and I think I heard a lovely little flare of defiance. I had underestimated her resolve. We parted, when the dogs permitted, as if we had crossed something more expansive than York Avenue.

Of the other people I accosted last weekend, I can report only that Phoebe and I have seen all six of them and their dogs in the days since, and no one crossed the street when they saw us coming. That's all the encouragement I need to try again.