Guessing Games

Today, my son and I decided to find out if our dog, Duke, can swim.

We’ve been deducing things about him since we adopted him in January from the Humane Society in Connecticut. When we got him, aside from his name, we were told only four things about him: that he came from “down South somewhere, probably,” since Duke was sent to them from a shelter in North Carolina; that he had a family for his first four years but they had to give him up for a reason the shelter volunteers either didn’t know, or did know and weren’t sharing with us; that he was extremely overweight, which we’d have to rectify; and that we had won the jackpot because of his sweet, playful nature. That was all of the information we got on him.

So, we’ve had our detective glasses on for five months. Through trial and error, we’ve discovered that: when he is in our fenced yard, if he can’t tunnel out or slam his body against the gate until it opens so he can escape, he will curl up patiently by the back door until we let him in; he will run out the front door if we accidentally leave it open and will probably get attacked by another dog, which will land him at the vet’s and us in the poorhouse; he will eat anything and everything including socks, which must be high in calories because he’s gaining weight instead of losing it; he hates cats and squirrels; he’s fascinated by bats; he thinks he’s a 110-pound lapdog; and his breakfast kibble gives him pause.

Every morning, he hesitates in front of his bowl, but not in the evening. We don’t know what he’s waiting for. I’ve given him permission to eat, I’ve said grace for him, and I’ve walked away. Walking away works the best. When I return, the food is always gone. Maybe he likes to eat his breakfast in peace.

We also had to narrow down his breeds by asking others what they thought he was. My friend, Christine, who has worked in shelters and has seen a lot of dogs, said she thought Duke was probably part malamute, lab, and German shepherd. Once I googled malamute, I could see why she decided on that breed. I think I see some shepherd in him, too, and labs look kind of generic, so I can’t come up with any evidence that he’s not one. Therefore, I’m inclined to agree with her.

However, I saw a commercial the other day that featured wolves, and I could’ve sworn he was in it. Maybe he was a TV wolf before we got him. The former owner is probably getting monthly residual checks while we’re getting shredded, slobbery socks tossed about our house, tumbleweeds of dog hair blowing around the legs of our furniture, and enormous veterinarian bills.

But, back to today. We noticed that Duke has webbed toes, so we assumed he could swim. So, we took him to the nearest public dock. When we got there, it was low tide. Duke was very interested in the thousands of suicidal oysters that had died on the rocks, but he shied away from the water. I eventually lured him in, but he wouldn’t go in further than his ankles. Then he took off running under piers and across jagged rocks, leading me and my son on a slippery chase across mossy stones and through sucking mud and stagnant green water.

When we finally caught him, we rinsed him off and took him home. We still don’t know if he can swim. He might never have seen large bodies of water before. This weekend, we’re going to take him to a lake where dogs are allowed to swim. Hopefully, he’ll see how easy it is and he’ll join the hordes of dogs chasing balls in the lake. Or, he won’t.

Either way, he’s going to wear water shoes. I don’t want him bleeding all over the kitchen floor again, like he did tonight. He must have cut his foot while running across the razor-edged rocks. I had to drug him with Benadryl so that I could clean his foot and wrap it in gauze. Of course, he tore off the gauze and dragged the blood-soaked wrappings across the rugs. So I was forced to make him a boot out of socks and a ribbon of medical tape. It took several tries to tie it on tight enough to keep him from pulling it off, but loose enough not to cut off his circulation.

It was good practice, though, because I’m going to have to make his water shoes out of socks and old tires, since I don’t know where to buy them. Hopefully his dog friends will be so busy making fun of his swimming that they won’t notice his shoes.

 

Scores Best Left Unsettled

When I was growing up, my family belonged to Crispin Gardens Athletic Club, located in Pennypack Park in Northeast Philadelphia, where my family lived. My father and mother were very involved with the club, so, naturally, we kids were, too. Or, to be accurate, the first four of my parents’ children were involved. The other three were too young to play at the time we were members.

My two brothers were good at baseball and football, which were the two sports offered to boys. My younger sister and I were not good at softball or cheerleading, which were the sports available for girls. But that didn’t stop us from participating in both activities.

I was a cheerleader for 5-year-old football players. I could never figure out how to do a cartwheel so I got to cheerlead for kids who hadn’t figured out how to play football.

I also played softball. When I was in about fifth or sixth grade, my sister and I were on a team together. Neither of us ever got a hit. So, the two of us were traded by our team … for one girl from another team. Our neighbor, Mrs. Devine, who was a family friend, managed a team in the league and she took pity on us. She gave up one of her better players for the two of us.

We did her proud … once. When Mrs. Devine’s team played our former team, both my sister and I got hits, much to our former team’s dismay.

I think those hits were our only hits, but they came at the perfect time. And, to make our victory even sweeter, our new team beat out our old team to win the club’s World Series. There was probably a lesson there …  but it was for our former team, and I doubt they learned it. Little league managers can be ruthless.

There was another lesson taught that season and this one was for me. I was fiercely jealous of the girl who replaced my sister and me. She was a few years younger than I was, around my sister’s age. So, not only was she a better player than I was, she was younger. I was demoralized. I wished all kinds of evil on her. And then, within a few weeks, she was dead.

She was hit by a car driven by a young guy who lived across the street from us. I was overcome with guilt for wishing her ill. I was certain that I had caused her death. When I got a little older and realized that I probably had nothing to do with her dying (although, we’ll never really know how powerful thoughts can be), I resolved to not wish bad things on people, no matter how much I disliked them.

So, years passed and I joined the occasional team and was always the worst player. I couldn’t even successfully serve a plastic volleyball over a swimming pool net. But this year, my luck could be changing.

Six of the Boccegaloops

Our city sponsors many spring and summer sports leagues that play on the courts and fields at Calf Pasture Beach in Norwalk, Connecticut. My husband and I are on a bocce team, Don Carmelo’s Boccegaloops. We were on it two years ago and the team came in last place. Our record wasn’t entirely due to my skill-less playing, but it certainly contributed. My husband persuaded me to play again this year. The team was happy to have us back, because of my husband’s skills, so we rejoined.

Last night, we had our first game and we won. And I didn’t stink. I credit the one practice we had a few weeks ago for turning the tide. I actually helped the team win. I wasn’t the best player (my husband and the other players were really good), but I wasn’t an embarrassment. And, I didn’t throw the ball wildly and crack any skulls. I kept the ball on the court and even got my red ball really close to the little white ball, the pallino, a few times, which is the object of the game.

But what made me especially proud was that I didn’t wish any ill luck on a certain member of the opposing team. Others may have, but I didn’t. I did talk trash about her later, but I didn’t wish her any misfortune for her bad behavior.

It all started when our red ball and the opposing team’s green ball looked equidistant from the pallino. When that happens, you’re supposed to measure the distance between the closest green ball and the pallino and the closest red ball and the pallino, to see which ball is truly closest to the pallino.

We were winning 10-2 and the game ends when one team has 11 points. The head of the league came over and said that our ball was closer, so we were the winners. While gesticulating and jumping around in protest, a woman on the other team “accidentally” kicked our ball, making her ball look closer. Then she denied kicking it. But it was too late. We had won. And she was not happy.

Before she left, she shot us all a look that could kill. Some would call her look the “evil eye” or “malocchio.” She’s Italian so she probably knows how to activate it.

Anyway, I think my teammates and I would be wise to take precautions … at least until the league plays again next week. After then, she’ll probably despise another team and will have forgotten all about us.

I hope the evil eye loses its power once it’s transferred to someone else. If not, we’ll need to learn, and use, the fig and horned signs … and maybe stitch evil eye patches on our shirts.

Strangely enough, possessing an evil eye repels any evil eyes that might be directed your way.

 

 

A Good Way to Be

Whenever I sit on our sofa, I always lift the bottom cushions and check under them before sitting down. It’s become a habit, but tonight I caught myself doing it and wondered why I did it. Then I remembered.

I have a friend who is very smart and very introspective. Sometimes she’s so deep in her thoughts that you have to nudge her back to the conversation you’re having with her. She is also very calm amidst chaos. And that was a conscious choice she made.

She has experienced two life events that would send most of us into a tailspin, but she told me that she refused to allow them to interrupt her life. She said that she was available to support the people who were in trouble and she would continue to help them when they came out on the other side of their problems, but she would not obsess about their situations or let them interfere with her life.

She also doesn’t let the little annoyances, or alarming discoveries, in life get to her.

One day, she told me of a visit to her mother’s house. She said that she was sitting on the couch across from her mother, who was in an armchair. While talking, she slid her hand down the side of the couch between the cushion and the the arm. She felt something soft, so she lifted the cushion and found a family of mice. The surprising thing is that she found this to be interesting instead of horrifying. She told the story in a bemused fashion, as if it were odd that she didn’t find animals in her own furniture.

On another occasion, she told me that her son’s grade-school teacher sent a note home saying that she suspected that her son had worms. She called the teacher and asked why she thought this and the teacher said that the boy couldn’t sit still and was acting oddly. So, my friend took her son to his pediatrician and had him checked. He didn’t have worms after all, so he was sent back to school with a declaration of wormlessness from the doctor. Again, my friend didn’t get upset or mortified like most of us would have. She just did what she had to do, and told the story.

Years later, her younger son had the same teacher. He came home from school one day and said that the box of raisins that she had sent to school with him for recess had had worms in it. He took the box to the teacher and told her that he had inchworms that he wanted to show the class, since they sang the song “Inchworm.” The teacher told him that the the worms in his raisins weren’t inchworms and he should throw the raisins out. Being a very considerate teacher, she offered him an alternate snack from her supply closet.

I remember that my friend grimaced when she wondered if this teacher now thought of her family every time she saw worms. But then she laughed at the coincidence and put the incident aside.

I find her company to be very soothing. Nothing is a disaster to her, just something to endure and examine later. She might be on to something.

Pretend this apple is a raisin.

Let Me Lead!

My husband and I took an hour-long dance lesson at a local Fred Astaire Dance Studio this past week.

A beautiful, young, Russian dancer, Tatiana, taught us the steps to the foxtrot, the rumba, and the merengue. I didn’t think my husband would enjoy the lessons but he surprised me. When Tatiana told me that my husband would lead every dance, his eyes twinkled. When we coupled up to dance and I automatically started to push him around the dance floor, he would stop dancing and say, “Let me lead!”

Tatiana, probably tired of my resistance, told me that I had to suppress my urge to run the show and allow my husband to take charge. That was really hard for me. But I tried. Like learning dance steps, I realized that learning to surrender control to another person takes time and practice.

When we got home, we practiced everything we had learned. Dancing on our own, without supervision, was the most difficult part of the dance lesson. Neither one of us could remember the order of the steps to the three dances, or even the actual steps.

At first, I thought that we had just wasted an hour of our life. But I had to concede that it was an enjoyable hour. So, even if we still couldn’t dance, we did have fun together, as well as a topic to dine out on, so it wasn’t a waste of time at all.

And, best of all, since we forgot all of the dance steps, we also can forget the part about my husband leading.