I’d never seen an episode of
Star Trek — in any of its incarnations — before last spring. At that time, BBC America typically ran eight-hour marathons of
The Next Generation on weekdays, and after breakfast, my customary routine was to turn the living room TV to BBC America and hit “mute.” My husband and I — who work from home — knew that if we had to run errands suddenly, we could simply unmute the TV, and the puppy would be well cared for while we were gone. The little we knew of
The Next Generation suggested that there’d be a steady stream of chatter and background music that would block out the street noise, and that it was unlikely to contain any of the sounds (thunderclaps, gunshots, fireworks) that tended to frighten him.
That was what I knew of Star Trek: it was a great dog sitter.
