It always surprises me when Charles Schultz shows up in my life.
First, once I had kids, it suddenly dawned on me the meaning behind the nonsensical, useless voices of Charlie Brown’s parents. As a kid, I always thought it was odd. Not funny at all.
And then this week, walking my new dog, Charles Schultz appeared to me again. A neighbor has posted two signs in his or her side garden that say “No Dogs, Please.” Very polite. Much kinder than poor Snoopy’s, “No Dogs Allowed!” You’ve got to appreciate their manners.
But dogs can’t read!
I get it, Charles!
My particular dog is a puppy. Although we are training her to walk with us, she still walks slightly ahead. So she gets to the “No Dogs, Please” garden before I do by a matter of seconds. I swear there is something that smells particularly good to her, because it is her favorite side yard for blocks. She sniffs with abandon.
And then I remember that this is the yard. “No Dogs, Please!”
I pull her away. I scold, “Can’t you read, puppy?”
Poor, poor Snoopy.
After all these years.
I finally get how tough it is to be a dog.