Any time I feel a spell of information sickness coming on -- pretty much daily under the baleful Boss Trump regime — I load up three dogs and drive to the dog park. Well, two actually. Jesse, my beloved 14-year-old Great Pyrenees, doesn’t play well with others. Having spent 10 years guarding livestock (and cats) on our farm, Jesse suspects smaller dogs of being cow-chasers, larger ones of being coyotes in disguise. In his mind, Jesse remains King Boss Dog of the World. So we avoid trouble by walking him outside the dog park while Aspen and Daisy visit their friends. Half an hour of scouting picnic tables for treats is really all the exercise Jesse needs. He can’t hear much anymore, but his nose still works. Last week he snuffled up two slices of pizza and a pot pie. What a bonanza! Yesterday, he dragged me 10 yards to a leftover cupcake from a birthday party.
