The Englishman was not excited when I announced that
Ollie’s Bargain Outlet was opening in our small town. I wasn’t sure if it was the word “Ollie” or “Bargain”
or “Outlet” but he snorted when I dragged him to the grand opening. He vowed never to return. So, I dragged him back into the store several
weeks later. I pushed the shopping cart
and he feigned the three disses that are apparently in the English DNA: displeasure,
disdain and disinterest. When I reached
the cash register and unloaded the items onto the counter, I realized there was
a book in my cart that was not placed by me.
The Englishman avoided eye contact.
Old Dogs are the
Best Dogs by Gene Weingarten was a black and white tribute to old dogs and
was filled with pages of stories. Truths
such as “Old dogs can be cloudy-eyed and grouchy, gray of muzzle, graceless of
gait, odd of habit, hard of hearing, pimply, wheezy, lazy and lumpy.” My three-pack was all of that and more. The stories were funny and heartbreaking and
reminded me of many of the pet companions I have had throughout my life and their
special quirks that I realized I now missed.
Poppy was my childhood cat from Mahwah, New Jersey who
loved water. She might beat you to the
bathtub for a swim. She was a fiercely
loyal companion who would always wait on a boulder near our driveway at 3:30PM
when my sister and I returned from our school bus stop. She would roll on the surface and wait for
one of us to scoop her up and carry her back to the house with us.
Drummer was my childhood dog who had an unusual begging
ritual for popcorn. He would flip onto
his back and kick his legs violently into the air as he grunted with noises we
dubbed “herf-a-lating”. He tolerated us
using him to pull our sleds down the driveway in the winter to make a path,
worried glances behind as the sled moved faster until my sister or I reached
forward and pulled him on board for the ride of his life.
Sebastian was my Persian cat who adored shoes. He slept in mine until he outgrew them and
then transferred to one of my father’s work shoes. He loved to snuggle and would place a paw on
each shoulder to knead me. Happiness
came in the form of purrs and drool.
Checkers was the family cat while I was still in
college. Black and white and super
fluffy, we eventually nicknamed him the “Quilting Cat”. As my mother and I placed pins through
material, Checkers would work behind us, methodically pulling every pin. If we banned him from the room, he would race
outside and sit in the window, miserable howls echoing through the
neighborhood.
Madison was my cat when I first started teaching. He was sound asleep when I chose him from the
shelter and he never forgave me from waking him from his cat nap. He could hold a grudge. Retaliation might not be immediate but it was
sure to come when I least expected it.
He would not tolerate the snooze button on my alarm clock. Once the alarm buzzed in the morning, any
attempts at hitting snooze was foiled by teeth and claws. He loved anything that rolled and stole
bottle caps, lipstick and plastic Easter eggs as his toys.
George was a quirky English Cocker Spaniel. He didn’t trust my athletic abilities. I had terrible aim. I still don’t understand how I managed to
bounce the tennis ball off his head but George would flinch and duck if he saw
me with a tennis ball after that incident.
I have never seen another dog flinch and duck.
George howled. He
taught the other dogs to howl. He howled
to go outside. He howled to come
inside. He howled at sirens. He howled when he was bored. It has been nearly two years of silence and I
really missed the howls.
There are things that I miss with my current three-pack. I miss Chase digging in mud puddles and
snapping at the rain. I miss Molly
greeting me at the door with a treasured stuffed toy in her mouth. It didn’t matter if I had been gone for five
minutes or the entire day, the greeting was the same. I miss Charlie dancing in his dog bowl to
signal it was time for dinner. I miss
the dogs making me late for work because they decided to explore well outside
of their boundaries. I miss the joy of
throwing tennis balls on the court after hours and watching the boundless
energy of the dogs racing after them.
But I have gained so much, too. I
love the contentment of the dogs to be near us doing absolutely nothing. I love my newest ritual of carrying Molly to
bed because she is sound asleep and it takes her too long to wake up. Charlie waits for me at the driveway gate
each day at six o’clock without fail and we spend a few moments alone before
the others realize I am home. All of my
companions are still very much alive in my memories or right now in the present. So I read through the book with laughter,
tears and joy and must agree with the author:
old dogs are the best dogs.
