A burst of energy from a (supposedly) broken-down dog
Lucy is the grand old lady of our house. She’s a beautiful sheltie who began her life with the farmer while he lived in Virginia, moved south with him to roam a farm under the big Argentina sky and then returned with him to Pittsburgh. She’s declining in the way dogs do at that age – creaky in the bones and tired enough to sleep most of the day. We have to chase her off the porch and into the yard to do her business.
That is the Lucy I thought I was dealing with when I nudged her out into the yard this week. She didn’t want to leave her warm place in the sunspot that had spilled onto the kitchen floor.
Slowly, she heaved herself upright and allowed me to gently push her out the door and onto the grass. There, she squats, shakes a bit and then heads back to the house, having done her exercise for the day.
But that is not how things went that day.
Standing in the grass, she eyed the herd of deer grazing in the treed area of the yard – a scene that on every preceding day was of no concern to her.
But on this day, as I stood in the grass in my nightgown and bare feet, she decided to take off after the deer. Our Lucy, who barely has the hind-leg strength to respond to the dinner call, headed across the yard to give the deer some what-for.
I went after her. She made a sharp turn and headed for the back of the house.
“Lucy!” I called, pretty much uncovered from the waist down. “Not there. Not the gravel driveway.”
But away she went, off the grass and onto the jagged gravel.
“Stop,” I shouted after her. “I am not dressed for this.”
Onto the gravel she went, and I followed – barefooted, remember – across the stones, yelling at the dog, arms flailing as I balanced on the pointy rocks. Neighbors would conclude I was practicing for a rave dance.
Passing my car, I peered inside hoping to see a discarded pair of shoes, but no. I saw my bike helmet and considered strapping it onto my foot so I could at least hop across the gravel. I made a mental note to put on shoes next time.
By then Lucy was off the driveway and into the side yard, an acre of woods and branches and, with my luck, insects lying in wait.
I would get close enough to reach for Lucy’s collar and she would dart off. I tugged at the drawstring ribbon on my nightgown, thinking I could use it to make a leash. Had I done that, the nightgown would have fallen to my ankles, leaving me flailing, yelling, and also naked.
I stubbed my toe on a rogue brick, but had to keep going. Lucy decided to make this into a game of catch.
Finally, she had enough. She walked back to the porch and stood there, looking at me.
“That was mean,” I said, as I lifted her across the threshold and into the house. If they could talk to each other (and I’m not certain they don’t) Lucy would tell the farmer she merely wanted to chase the deer away. That would be a lie. She was toying with me.
The old girl went to the sunspot and folded herself onto the floor. She let out a satisfied sigh and then fell asleep. Sometimes a girl just wants to have fun – even elderly and, ahem, “tired” ones.
Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.