Humbled

Glad to hear Pushkin is okay, and with this, it occurs: are we unwittingly commencing upon the next symposium subject? In honor of T.S. Eliot, who had his cats, Dan, you get hamsters, I’ll be the dog poet. Anne, Josh, Mom, pick your species.

Actually, I might let someone else continue with dogs, because after yesterday I think I am as “humbled in the end” as I care to be. We’re keeping Yoshi, no question there, but I’ve decided to stop writing walking poems, or at least those that compare my dogwalking skills to God’s.

You’ve read my two poems. I will be first to admit I stretched that prayer-leash metaphor about as thin as it can get, and yet yesterday morning I found myself starting to come up with poem number three, compelled to explain that I am NOT the dog, and that I know full well the dog does not look at me like I’m God. All this with that same walking cadence - maybe not Johnny Cash anymore, but it was just as deep and bluesy and I think there was still a guitar in the background. (By the way, Dan, I don’t know how one can play, or hear, a piano while walking.)

It went something like this:

     I am just a man. I’m hardly God,
     And this is just a dog who doesn’t talk
     And it is for his bowels that we walk
     And for the pounds I need to lose. My bod-    (yes, break)
     y aches after an hour’s exercise
     It’s not so much the distance as the drag
     Of being stuck behind someone whose bag
     I’ve been obliged to carry. Who’s surprised
     If I don’t feel so godly in the end?

And that’s as far as I’m going with it now.

When we first brought Yoshi home from the pet store, we were advised that we should be prepared for a high-activity breed. I have heard that Shiba Inus are hikers, even marathoners. I’m personally not up for 26 miles of anything, but I do like to hike, and I didn’t think I’d mind a dog who would push me a little farther than I might go otherwise. Right away we started with a mile, and when he was 14 weeks and 14 pounds that seemed to be enough for him, and me, but gradually we built ourselves up to 3.5 or 4 miles a walk, twice a day. I’ve been walking him every morning, usually around 5:30 am Yoshi time (just try to sit down and put your shoes on slowly). When school was out, the kids would walk him midday, and we’ve been trading off in the evenings. I’m sure the kids don’t go four miles on their walks, but when its our turn together Yoshi and I have been working our way up to getting to the North Chicago naval station. As of yesterday we’ve made it about half way there.

I’m still walking more than running, but Yoshi has persuaded me to jog a stretch or two each day. And in July and August, with temperatures consistently in the nineties, I had the added bonus of letting the heat take a few more pounds off of me. Through all of this, the dog would still get excited every time the leash came out. Granted, we were only up to two miles by mid July, but this was encouraging. And then on the weekends, after sweating through the walk, I’d come home and start working on Yoshi’s fence. You all haven’t seen me in a couple of months, but I’ve lost thirty pounds! At least it feels like it ought to be thirty, anyway. Actually, it’s more like five, but I suppose that’s due in part to the other tradition Yoshi and I have had, now that the fence is up, of sitting on the back porch every night and enjoying a beer.

Yesterday was another sweltering one, except this time it was the first of September. I thought we were getting past those dog days of summer. Nevertheless, as soon as I got home, around 5 in the afternoon, I got the leash out, and Yoshi was all for it. We started out on our usual path, and right away I could feel the humidity. Yoshi kept pulling me along, but after about a mile his tongue was wagging out of the side of his mouth. A half a mile later, he started to slow down, and I started remembering Duncan, our cocker spaniel with an enlarged heart. In his last breaths it hurt too much for him to lie down, and he just dropped. 

Dan once expressed his concern that maybe his track workouts contributed to Duncan’s demise. I have had my own residual guilt, but it has had more to do with being dogsitter while the family was on vacation, and failing at the job. There’s nothing more sorrowful than the task of burying a dog and then having to tell a family about it afterwards. On the drive back from the airport, coming home from Hawaii.

Don’t worry, I’ve already told you that Yoshi is a keeper, but these were the thoughts that crossed my mind yesterday. We were a mile and a half from home, and I knew I had to do something, so I detoured into the heart of Lake Bluff and found a water fountain. I had no bowl, but I had Yoshi’s unused poop bag, a blue newspaper sleeve, and it worked surprisingly well. I filled it with about as much water as his dog dish usually holds, and not only did it not leak but the sides folded down in a way that gave it some standing structure. (One for your column, Anne?) Yoshi lapped it up. I refilled it, but he had had enough, so I dumped the second dishful on top of his head. He shook it off immediately but seemed to appreciate the gesture.

All is well, I thought, but I decided we’d better skip the last half mile of our usual route. But when I got back on the trail and started heading homeward, Yoshi immediately sat down, then lied down. Not a chance, he said. I pulled a little, but he was hugging the pavement. Then I had my second brilliant moment: I bet he had his north and south mixed up. Sure enough, when I pulled the other way he got up and started walking. I nonchalantly looped around the first big tree we came to and headed back south again, and it actually worked. But before long he was walking slowly, and panting pretty heavily, and a quarter of a mile later he stopped again. All right, Yosh, I said, we’ll rest. I knew we would have to get home, though, and get this walk over with, so after a good five minutes I prodded him up and we started walking again. I think we made it another half mile this time.

And this time, he found a shaded patch of grass and sprawled on it. Okay, buddy, I said, I get it. And I picked him up and started walking. Part of me was grateful that the paths were deserted on this hot afternoon, so no one could see me with my 23 pound lapdog. But mostly I just wanted to get him home. We continued this way for at least another quarter mile, until finally Yoshi decided that, all kindness aside and the heat notwithstanding, he preferred to walk. I think he sensed we were getting close to home.

I suppose I could make a poem out of all of this, too, thinking of other times when Jesus figuratively picked me up along the way, or maybe considering how complex our master and friend roles can be, but I think I’d just like to keep this prosaic for now. Maybe I’ll stick with bird poems.

We’re still walking, though, and today we made it to the naval base. Okay, we did it by driving to Lake Bluff and walking north, but it was an achievement all the same. This time, just to be safe, we started about an hour later, when the evening was a little cooler, and I brought a bottle of water and an extra newspaper sleeve.  And we took it nice and slow.