When I retired from a busy working life I decided to get a
dog. I always wanted a dog. My visions were for long, leisurely walks with
my camera slung over my shoulder (one with REAL FILM and not some phone camera)
on the country roads that surround my home.
Said dog would keep me company, because you know, retired people are all
lonely people. Unless you are in Florida, where apparently no one is lonely because
they have discovered casual sex. I am
glad to report we did get the rock-n-roll and drugs part of the equation
correct ‘cause we like us some vintage Seger (Bob not Pete) and at our ages we
are ALL on drugs of some kind.
When you
look at various WHO studies and CDC statistics for STDs or VDs or STIs or
whatever they call it these days, retirement-age folks are allegedly highly
sexually active; we just don’t use “protection” and from what I understand monogamy
at the ACME senior living facility is no longer in vogue. News flash, we finally discovered the sexual
revolution, the one we were too naive to participate in, or for you English
majors out there, in which we were too naïve to participate. We were just 40 years too late. Since
I don’t live in Florida with the swinging retirement crowd that seeks
warmer weather, more company and uh, "companionship" I opted for a dog. Much safer companionship if you wish to avoid
embarrassing discussions with your family doctor regarding your private
parts.
The last decade of my working life my job was a usually an
eight hour day with a two-hour round trip commute. Since I didn’t want to put my dog in “day
care” or a crate or come home to a living room full of scattered couch stuffing,
broken furniture and shredded draperies amounting to a level of damage that could rival the
havoc generated by the Memphis
Belle during a German bombing run, I figured ten hours of alone time was not a
good life to give a dog. Ten hours of
waiting to pee while you contemplated why your owner abandoned you every day seemed an
unfair fate to bestow on a loyal little beast waiting so patiently for your return home. So I waited to
get a dog until I retired and was home all day and could be there.
Getting a dog was a long process of research, prowling the
internet, talking to people and finding a breed that matched my life
style. And it finally happened. The French Bulldog, via rescue, appeared in
my life complete with Heavenly choir music and sparkling shimmers of light—halo
clad angels optional. For those who are
not familiar with the breed they possess enormous eyes that can stop you in
your tracks. Their smushed-in faces, complete
with bat-like, oversized ears and huge heads are stuck onto short, stocky
bodies that resemble curled up hippopotamuses (or is that hippopotami?) with short
necks serving as connection for both features.
They are stubborn, don’t listen that well and prefer to sleep or lay on
the couch most of the day and produce copious amounts of gas. Since we older people tend to be stubborn,
can’t listen that well without a hearing aid (the Frenchie most likely ate it if it is missing) and generally spend the day
sitting on the couch or sleeping producing copious amounts of gas, French
Bulldogs and oldsters are a pretty brilliant match upon reflection. Despite these enduring characteristics, I
have two of these creatures living in ma “crib” in hilarious but perfect
harmony. Both are rescue dogs—throw-aways—for
reasons I don’t fully understand but the heart breaker of the pair is Ruthie.
When I sit on my porch sipping coffee in the quiet of my
back-country, dirt-road-world I feel a certain amount of satisfaction. As my other dog, Fen snores at my feet,
Ruthie uses my fenced front yard to run.
She runs after butterflies, bugs and birds. If it floats, flutters or flies she is
captivated. If she can’t track the birds
themselves she track their shadows and gives chase stretching full out, leaping
through the fresh green grass of an early summer. She stops, turns making a wide circle and
begins again chasing what she cannot catch until she flops down on the lawn or
trots over to the kiddie pool full of water I keep in a corner just for
her. After getting warm from all that
running, she climbs in like an awkward toddler struggling to climb into his
crib pulling herself over the edge with front feet hooked on the edge and hind
legs struggling to crawl over the edge to cool, delicious water. She drinks
some and then trots around the tiny wading pool. She digs the bottom of her water paradise
enthusiastically with both front paws and then dives under. She makes circles and flops down on her
rotund, jet black belly enjoying a good soak until she is cooled off and then
hops out and runs to me to stand up and plant her dripping paws on my knee. It doesn’t matter if I get wet. I don’t have to be in an office any
more.
So I sip coffee and listen to the
birds and stroke the head of a one-eyed, five-year-old, ex-puppy mill dog that
lived half her life in a tiny 3x3 foot cage until she became a liability and was
dumped at a shelter a few years ago. My
other dog became had it some better. He
became too hard to handle and was given up by a couple but his life seemed more
comfortable than Ruthie’s—his home was somewhat normal with a real house and
real people who got him as a tiny pup and at least tried to be a family with
him. Ruthie was a commodity confined to
a puppy prison factory—a sentence she really didn’t deserve. My broken dogs—creatures that need far more attention than a working person
could provide--in a way turned my retirement into their life preserver. It worked out well for a cranky, old, retired
lady and her two dogs.
The hour is late. I
have to go put my old records back on the shelf and check the lawn for wayward
children and tell them to get off my lawn.
We seem to need it more than they can appreciate. Peace all.