As part of our moving plans, we are clearing out the farmhouse, and Maria was tackling one of the bookcases – it used to be a chicken coop – and she surprised me by pulling out an aluminum jar and asking me what it was.

“Oh,” I said, somewhat surprised, a bit puzzled. “I think it’s Julius and Stanley.” And it was. They had been holding up some books in the bottom shelf for seven or eight years. Maria was a bit startled – she takes these rituals more seriously than I do – and she suggested this wasn’t the proper resting place for them. I agreed.

Julius and Stanley were the first dogs that altered my life. Two beautiful and very mellow Yellow Labs, they accompanied me on my first flight into the country, when I wrote “Running To The Mountain” on a hilltop in Jackson, N.Y. Julius and Stanley were my first writing dogs. They dozed in my basement while I became a writer, walked with me all over my town in New Jersey and were even more laid back than Lenore. They would never have eaten donkey droppings.

When we first came to the cabin, they both were terrified at the sight of a cow on the hill, and they ran into the trees and hid until I came and got them. They didn’t like hiking too far, and  were frightened of deer as well but barked at squirrels and chipmunks. They both died within a year – they inspired much of “A Dog Year” and I had them both cremated.

They were important dogs for me, they helped me get going as a writer and were the first dogs to accompany me on a new passage in life. And not the last. Neither caused a second’s trouble, and like Lenore, they loved everyone and everything equally.

While we were on the mountain, the two dogs and I walked every day through the woods and into an open meadow on Kenyon Hill Road. They were not really country dogs, and I wasn’t quite acclimated either. I got lost about 100 yards from the house in dense woods and I had to wait till dusk to see my neighbor’s lights before I figured out where we were. I kept yelling “go home, boys!” to the two Labs but the would just sit down and look at me curiously. They were Jersey dogs.

So we decided it wasn’t really right to keep them in the bookcase, holding things up, so at Maria’s suggestion, we drove to Kenyon Hill Road, were the three of us walked every day and scattered their ashes there. That is the thing about moving. Things come up. Sorry it took so long, guys, but thank you. You held up some great books. I think you will be happy in the meadow. Not too steep and no scary animals there.