Sunday afternoons have devolved into something less than they used to be. In my not-too-distant-past, Sunday afternoons were heroic last gasps of weekend frivolity – squeezing the very last ounce, the absolute last second, out of whatever the weekend had to offer before facing the world again come Monday. Sunday afternoons now are, in no particular order; Falcons football, laundry, nap, Target, Publix, Lowes (to procure supplies I don’t need for projects around the house that I’ll never complete) playing with the pups in the backyard and a handful of PBRs. Not exactly the Funday Sunday escapades of yesterday. I’m not sure I’m all that upset about it oddly enough.
As much as I like to think otherwise, I’m little more than a big dumb domesticated animal sometimes.
Speaking of…my beagle / springer spaniel / mini-horse / hyper-active child Belle loves her tennis ball – and especially on Sunday afternoons. She will chase that ball and bring it right back, drop it and wait for you to throw it again, and again, and again. Never tires. Never breaks for water. Never ceases wagging the lethal weapon that is her tail. And if you don’t throw it, she throws it herself! In the summer when I’m mowing the yard, she drops it right in front of the lawnmower because she knows I will have to stop and throw it. When I'm mowing the front yard, she lays in the grass of the backyard gazing through the gate, patiently waiting until I return to throw the damn ball. If I’m weeding flowers, she drops it right in the flower bed. She would do this for hours and hours and hours and has.
I actually encourage this behavior. It’s good for her to be outside running in the sunshine, getting high-quality exercise, burning that nervous energy she infinitely possesses. Plus, when the fun is over she’s done. The first spot she finds back in the house is where she resides for hours! No barking at the neighbors, no begging to be petted or fed. It’s a win-win, really.
The only problem now is that she has shown her ball so much love and affection that there is very little left of it! The green fuzz has long since been chewed off, swallowed and regurgitated at random locales around the domicile. I think this tactic is employed so that the ball is smoother and will bounce higher off of the patio. (Less friction and all – she’s very smart.) She gnawed on this thing so much this summer that it ceased to even be a ball after a while. It was simply two hemispherical halves.
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| “Throw the ball. Throw the ball. Throw the ball. Throw the ball. Throw the ball.” |
Look at those eyes. She’s stoned as a bat – completely mesmerized!
Those halves became smaller and smaller and smaller over the last few weeks. But that did not diminish her adoration of that “ball”. She still frolicked with it the same – even better now: “there’s TWO!” I still had to throw the “ball”, alternating between whichever half she located first.
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| "BALL!!!!" |
Yesterday afternoon, I found myself throwing what’s left of the ball (now little more than a single filthy piece of rubber that is about the size of a quarter) around the yard so my lunatic dog isn’t bored. It made me feel ridiculous. I don’t know how she even finds that thing in the leaves, but she does. And she brings that little scrap of “ball” back for me to throw again, and again, and again and again. There is a perfectly good, pristine new ball in the backyard and she will not touch it. It even has a picture of Snoopy on it and she doesn’t see it. I throw that ball and she completely ignores it. She only wants her ball (or what’s left of it).
Maynard is the opposite of Belle. If I throw his ball, he will vigorously track it down – churning his little legs as fast as they will go, snorting and grunting. He loves it! He loves it once or twice: three or four times if he is feeling especially frisky. When he’s finished playing, he runs away as fast he can and hides his ball in the hedge. Comes back, drinks a gallon or so of water and collapses in a sunny spot.
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“Seriously dude? I’m in my 80’s. Fahgettaboudit.” |
So I’m tossing this tattered fragment of a ball around the backyard with my neurotic pup and I realize that I have to break her of this obsession and force her into a new ball. I sat her down on the patio, took her little crazy mug in my hands and attempted to explain to her the various tenets and overwhelming benefits of the new ball plan.
She was not impressed. But as soon as I said “Up, Belle” she dropped her “ball” and galloped to the top of the stairs like she always does. As she did, I grabbed her “ball” and tossed it into the garbage can. “It’s for her own good”, I said. “She could choke on that thing, right?”
I knew I'd done what was best.
Tonight, after her supper, we went out back to break in the new. She still would have no part of the Snoopy ball. She just sat there, being pitiful, stoically waiting for me to produce “her ball” and throw it like I'd always done. When I did not, she was inconsolable. Back upstairs, Belle struck this pose:
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“…nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen…nobody knows my sorrow…” |
As a sign of protest against her injustice she has decided to “occupy” the recliner. Though I admire her spirit, in much the same way as I admire the spirit of those knuckleheads on Wall Street, “the system is too big to change little Belle. I know I’ve waited way too long to show you who is boss, but I’m standing my ground this time. Tomorrow night, I’ll swing by Petco and buy you a brand new sleeve of balls and eventually you will remember how much fun it is to chase a bouncing, vibrant green, new thing again. And you will forget all about your old best friend ball.”
Tonight though, she will not be moved. Bless her heart. (A polite way of saying poor dumb shit in the Southern vernacular.)
She sure is pretty though, huh?
Truth is, there is a better than average chance that I will dig through the garbage tomorrow night and return to her what's left of the ball.
How can I really argue with that look? We both know who is really in charge here.
(Maybe she's a helluva lot smarter than I give her credit for.)
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