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The Slice: Nothing beats hot day like a good dog paddle

Hope you aren’t tired of “on the day we moved in” stories.

Here’s one from a reader who qualifies as a doggone good neighbor.

“My husband and I moved into a home that happened to have a pool in the backyard,” wrote Patricia Bart.

“The first day we moved in, I looked out the window to admire my brand new pool, only to see a black Lab swimming laps, having the time of his life.”

No one had mentioned this beforehand.

“Turned out the dog belonged to the neighbors next door. Whenever he felt like having a swim, he’d scramble over the 6-foot fence, hurl himself down onto the shrubs and jump into the pool. After swimming for a while, he’d climb up the steps, shake off and climb back over the fence.”

I asked Bart if this discovery prompted her to post some new canine-restricting pool rules.

“No,” she said. “No new pool rules.”

The dog’s name was Midnight. “When he moved away with his owners, we sure missed him.”

Today’s Slice question: How do you typically react to the previews of coming attractions in a movie theater? A) I realize that at least one of two things must be true. Either I have become a snob. Or morons are the target audience for a lot of movies. B) I find myself thinking I have seen all the car crashes I need to see and heard all the ludicrous catch-phrases I need to hear. C) I think, “Oh, I’d like to see that.” D) I try to keep in mind that different people have different tastes and that enjoying, say, action-adventure fare doesn’t necessarily define a person. E) I find myself hoping that the movies in question will have come and gone by the time the holidays roll around so I won’t hear someone in my extended family suggest we go see one of those wastes of two hours when I’m home at Christmas. F) I’m utterly baffled that someone apparently thinks a crossover audience exists for the well-reviewed movie I am about to watch and the recycled excrement depicted in the previews. G) Other.

Write The Slice at P.O. Box 2160, Spokane, WA 99210; call (509) 459-5470; email Some of Sue Swanson’s longtime friends still call her “Luke,” which confuses certain others. Her maiden name was Lucas.

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