UNITED STATES—Sunday was quite a momentous day for the Master, who is not an ascended master—not by a long shot. He’s always looking ahead, and this prevents him from looking at the ground right under his shoes. I, Luna, am his Jedi, bearer of peace and wisdom, despite my feral jaws. The Master was walking around the perimeter of the house, smitten by scribbling. The inspiration blinded him, as surely as a black sleeping mask would. He chuckled and kept staring straight ahead, tickled by his ingenuity. It would be called the “The Poopapolooza.”
(Hollywood insider stuff): each episode has its own title, so that when you get into syndication the “I Love Luna” geeks will know their favorite episodes’ names by heart. The spark came from a note jotted on an old envelope, most often, or a scrap of torn paper. “Lupe got me like 3 times today… peanut butter.” That was enough to get the creative juices flowing.
Of course, the peanut butter was symbolic of the surprises that Luna left here and there around the paths around the house. And sometimes in the house. It was an omen, perhaps, that the Master stepped in to wetness on the kitchen floor and there was in the predawn a yellowish coating that showed against the white tiles. Tannic dog pee.
At the moment, proud of his premise, the Master’s nostrils detected an unmistakable and dreaded scent: it was worse than. Spread on the sole of his right shoe was a soft brown laminate of Luna poop. The Master cursed, he did a jig, following the release of a roaring F-bomb aimed at the smothering sky, rather than at its intended target, Luna. In that moment of fury, the Master knew he would and could forgive himself for adding to the trauma Miss Lupe endured when according to legend, the pit-bull lab puppy was found walking around the cement shores of Echo Park Lake.
Then the Master’s daughter, rescued Luna from her first rescuer and sprung on dad a summer surprise: Lupe had been deplaned after the flight attendants felt “threatened.” And just when the Master felt home free on that final curve of Cahuenga after Barham Boulevard, the phone rang in his pocket.
“Can you come back to pick up Lupe.”
His daughter was in tears. The Master was in dismay. It would mark the start of a fertile period when Lupe still would join the Master on a leash tugging walk. And the master would learn the rudiments of obedience.
It seemed so long ago now. Since then, Luna earned her stripes as a service dog, and jetted to New York, with her service-animal documents.
So long ago, he caught himself losing his cool. Maybe the Chihuahua terrier was the factory of the ball of poop that did a half sole on his right shoe. The Master couldn’t wait to go fast enough to the front of the house and to one of the sharp-edged bricks to scrape it off the “peanut butter,” and think we’ve come a long way, Miss Luna.
To be continued…
