The Lesser Weevil – who I dearly wish had not come already named and accustomed to it so I could have named her Fluffy- and Spike the pocket-puppy , dwarf Shi-Tzu, have most amusingly become the best of friends. Weevil being now about a year and a half, and a large breed ( certain knowledgeable neighbors have speculated that the non-boxer half is Rhodesian ridgeback) and Spike being about 8 months old, they are both essentially puppies together. The only thing that Weevil refuses to share is food out of her very own personal food dish; the growl out of her when Spike tries to snatch a mouthful or two just as a tease, is quite blood-chilling. But Weevil casually empties out Spike’s dish without a moments’ hesitation, and both of them vacuum up any and all contents of the cats dishes’ without a moment’s hesitation, unless carefully watched. They share everything else in the best communal tradition, though — the chew-toys, the crate and the various comfortable spots around the house. They would like to move in on the cats, and share more toys, dishes and comfortable places, but the cats unsportingly refuse any of this.

The original trio of Arthur, Morgie and Henry do not care for the dogs and ignore them as much as possible. Sammy and Percival tolerate the Weevil— who is huge in relation to them, and plays too rough, but freely romp and wrestle with Spike. Spike will never grow any larger than she is, at about five pounds and change, which must be much less intimidating to Percival, at eight pounds, and Sammy, at fifteen or so. Nothing at all intimidates Spike. Of all the real and imagined faults of little dogs, she really has only one— that of yipping frantically, when over-excited during an energetic romp with the cats or Weevil. Well, that, and the whole house-breaking concept, which is still a little unclear… and the chewing thing… but hopefully these are temporary failings.

There was one of our wonderfully noisy and productive thunderstorms this morning, rumbling in around sunrise and dropping generous quantities of rain, just when I had about despaired and set out the sprinklers. It seemed to actually be cool, afterwards, when I leashed up Weevil to her heavy choke-chain and leash, and put Spike into her harness and light-weight cord leash, and they were so happy to be out and about. Usually Weevil begins to wilt after four or five blocks, and begins to wheeze dramatically and look at me with huge, tragic eyes as if asking me “why are you torturing me this way?!” when she was the one dragging me all over the sidewalk until that point. Spike bounced energetically along, tail and nose up, fur flapping all the way. I usually have to pick her up and carry her, when she begins to wilt, but today she trotted along all the way, neck and neck with Weevil. Spike may be small, but all heart.

I think she is good for Weevil, who desperately needed another dog for companionship. She was nearly uncontrollable whenever we encountered another dog, until now— even just going past a house where there was another dog in the yard meant a prolonged wrestling match, and me practically strangling her with the choke-chain, but she behaves herself now… well, mostly. I have also nearly gotten her trained to sit down when she meets someone; although this meant me telling people NOT to pet her, until she did sit down. She had a bad way of jumping up on people— not good, when she is sixty pounds of hard muscle. She still tugs at the leash when she sees a cat, though. The cats may not know that she really, really just wants to see if they will play with her, but the cleverer cats, the ones that we see every morning hanging out in their accustomed places, have figured out that she is under restraint, and no real danger to them. They watch her with wary eyes, but they do not move an inch. Most mornings, there is a tiny Russian Blue who looks enough like Percival to be from the same litter, lurking behind a large ornamental rock, right by the sidewalk. A month or so ago, Weevil lunged at him, and he scrammed at top speed, but she has behaved herself since. The young Blue favors that place, because whoever lives in that house scatters bits of dried-out toast for the birds, out in the street… and he watches the birds from behind that rock, in the morning. Everyone needs a hobby, I guess, even the cats and dogs.

The neighborhood was pretty quiet this morning, because of the rain, and eight thirty is pretty early as Saturday morning goes. I did notice the same battered pickup truck two or three times, with some odd junk piled into the back, and only realized after the second time that they were out junking. Next week is bulk-trash pickup, when we can put out anything and everything (except concrete waste, topsoil and dangerous chemicals) and the pickings have lately become pretty good. A better class of homeowner must have moved in— they’re throwing away some very good and useable things. Last month I picked up a nice glazed plant-pot, and a small wooden box that looks as if it were a presentation case for a set of silverware. (Look, I can paint and decoupage it— Blondie wants it as a writing case.) Last week it was a good-quality brass lamp stand, with a broken shade— do people not know how to re-wire lamps these days? Or replace lampshades. Day before yesterday, a perfectly good and originally expensive bird feeder. One of the unsung benefits of running in the very early morning— first crack at the excellent stuff put out for the trash. I have four or five chairs in my house that I picked up in Spain, and repaired and refinished, after beating the junkers and the trash men to them. I’d be embarrassed about this, but not after we caught an episode of Antiques Roadshow, where a gentleman showed up with a 18th century sideboard what he bought from some neighbor kids who were going to break it up and burn it in a Guy Fawkes’ Day bonfire. Recycling … it’s a good thing….