Our first interview went something like this.
“So, what can you tell me about being a dog?”
Cici, my 14-pound mutt, remained mum.
“Not talking, eh?”
She cocked her head in confirmation.
It was a rare moment for us, not the “me-talking-to-a-dog”part (that’s standard practice these days), but her refusal to offer so much as a bark in reply. For the eight years we’ve known each other, my Chihuahua/spaniel/[insert your best guess here] mix-breed had always excelled...
My copy of The Divine Comedy smells as good as it did when I acquired it decades ago. Previous owners’ comments embroider the lines, punctuated with exclamation points and question marks, stars and circles, lines and arrows. The pages, dry as fall leaves (of course), are a darker brown around the perimeter, a reverse halo, circumnavigating the terza rima stanzas that to this day reek of...