It is a crisp Virginia morning; and my black lab, Falstaff, and I are listening to Bach. He has no vote in what we listen to. His taste in music is dreadful, anyway. Like his namesake, my dog is lazy and corpulent, and he listens to Bach because that’s what one does while one waits for delicate crumbs to alight on the floor from the breakfast table.
It is clear to me, in fact, that Falstaff isn’t really interested in the music at all, so I try a different tack. I open my copy of Miss Eudora’s The Golden Apples and read him a few lines: the bit about how Virgie Rainey threw the Étude on the floor during her piano lesson. Falstaff seems to like this bit, especially since it deals with things falling on the floor. I nudge an end of bacon over the table’s edge and he munches it contentedly, in sloppy time to the morning music.