As I write this, it's open-window weather at my estate near the lake: cool enough that I can give the air conditioner a rest, but not yet time to turn the furnace on.

And through the open windows, along with the pleasant weather, comes the sound of a neighbor's voice.  She is saying, "Good boy! Good boy!" over and over, with an exaggerated enthusiasm that doesn't fool me one bit.

This neighbor has a new puppy, an exuberant bundle of black fluff mounted on four paws the size of snow shoes.  The dog, who will be as big as a modest pachyderm in about six months, is training my neighbor to take him outside on command.  And he is doing a wonderful job.  At least two dozen times a day between six in the morning and midnight , I hear, "Good boy! Good, good boy!" through my open window.

My neighbor on the other side has a dog, too, a lovely tawny-colored beast that walks her up and down the block on a leash every morning and every evening.  This dog, being older, manages to do what dogs traditionally go outside to do, with no cheering from his human.  She merely follows along behind the dog like some sort of royal attendant, bearing a blue plastic scooper and a plastic bag.

I do not harbor pets in my home.  I have in the past, but I got over it.  And I beg those of you who do to refrain from peppering me with mail, e- or otherwise, outlining all the benefits of living with a companion animal.  I appreciate the thought, but it really isn't necessary.  I already know everything you want to tell me.

I'm well aware of the unconditional nature of canine love.  I know that dogs can offer protection, as well as affection, and that petting one may reduce my blood pressure, and so on.   All good stuff, but not good enough to make me take on the responsibility of another being's metabolic wastes.

The whole business of dog training and walking and pooper-scooping requires much too much attention to bodily byproducts.  Face it: excrement simply is not that interesting.  I was willing to go through the process with my children only because I knew that in a relatively short time they would be able to attend to these functions not only without my assistance, but without my presence or knowledge.  Which is exactly how I prefer it.

And lest you feline fanatics feel slighted, yes, I'm familiar with the substantial amusement value of cats and, yes, I know you don't have to walk them, but I don’t want to hear from you until you find one that will clean its own litter box.

The closest thing I have to pets are a few plants, one each in the kitchen, dining room and upstairs bath.  They expel oxygen and water vapor as a result of their internal activities, but they do it in such a way that I never know exactly when it's happening, which suits me fine.  I can't see it, I can't smell it, and I don't have to follow them around and pick any of it up.

Best of all, they do what they do with no encouragement, cajoling or bribery.  Never once in their collective green lives has it been necessary for me to hand them a little treat.  And never once have I had to say, "Good plant, good plant!"