[stylist] Old Dogs and Old Tricks

[Jacobson, Shawn D]

Brad

Good piece.  As someone with two dogs, I know all about the tail wagging and the food stealing.  One of our dogs got into my Christmas stocking and ate two chocolates and tried to get into a couple of individual serving booze bottles (adding a whole new meaning to the phrase "hair of the dog"). (smile/grin).

Your dog naming convention reminds me of my mom and her dog Rocky.  When he was killed by being run over by a car, she got a new dog that looked just like him and called her new dog "Rerun".

My only critique is that you have a long paragraph towards the beginning which talks about Buster's infirmities' then about how she bares up well under then.  Probably should be two paragraphs.

Anyway, keep it up.

Shawn

P.S.  Did you hear about the insomniac dyslexic agnostic?  He spend all night tossing and turning wondering if there is a dog?

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Brad Dunsé
Sent: Wednesday, January 18, 2012 9:14 PM
To: Writer's Division Mailing List
Subject: [stylist] Old Dogs and Old Tricks

This was a blog bit I wrote a year and a half 
ago. A friend is experiencing similar, so I 
looked it up and re-read it today. I tossed a 
couple fixes in it but it probably could use 
more. Nonetheless I thought to post it here as 
is, despite its length of 1470 words. Don't feel 
you need to scour over for detailed feedback. If 
something stands out as your read, great.

Old Dogs and Old Tricks

The morning routine is commanded by a series of 
whimpers and whines before I even get in a full 
cup of coffee. Standing before me with a stubby 
tail jittering back and forth, rear end swaying 
left and right, intense pupils staring out of 
brown eyes and a tongue dangling to the right 
side of the mouth over huge teeth, is my old dog Buster.

Now Buster, surprising to most, is a she, not a 
he. When I decided on a liver and white English 
Springer spaniel pup so many years ago now, I was 
determined to call him Buster Brown. you know as 
the old shoe company? The fact that I prefer 
female pups was no barrier for my naming 
conventions. So walking through the parks and 
neighborhoods with my wife to my left and pup 
in-between, calling out shortened nick names 
like, "Good Busty girl . That's my Busty girl . 
Come here big busty girl," pretty much jerks the 
heads of passersby as they dart widened eyes from 
wife to pup to wife to pup, wondering "Which one is he talking to?"

The morning visual and audible ceremony is 
reminder I need to give her a morning dose of 
meds, or p I l l as I have to say, as to not 
evoke canine hysteria. She likes the p I l ls 
because she gets them wrapped in a small piece of 
bread followed by a small handful of little dog 
bone treats I scatter on the floor, to which I 
call out "Scatter treats. scatter treats" OK so 
I'm a total dorkster when it comes to my pup.

Now, Buster is nearly 14-years-old, has had a 
wonderful life having gone camping, canoeing, 
goose chasing, long walks, sightseeing, bird 
watching, and really has lived a good, full life. 
At fourteen however, her beer barrel body is 
riddled with fatty tumors, for over a year now 
has a fist-sized tumor in one lung, has tooth 
issues, takes one med to keep the tumor from 
growing too fast, takes another med to prevent 
coughing and wheezing attacks caused by fluid 
building up in the lung, and takes yet more meds 
for joint medicine to help the arthritis. Her 
back is swayed resembling an old 1900s barn soon 
to cave in from the center. Her front-leg limp is 
getting more pronounced, and her hip movement is 
very stiff. She doesn't always come when you call 
because she is flat out tired. I question whether 
she actually hears half the time, and she'll 
crash into your legs if there's not enough lights 
on. But, she is able to scale up and down 13 
steps each time she goes out to do her job in the 
back yard. She still enjoys her special moments 
on a short walk, or blackened teeth from a good 
dose of spring dirt from rooting around for 
whatever she roots around for, as my wife and I 
chat while swaying to and fro on our backyard 
swing. To our surprise, as well as our 
veterinarian's . as she puts it, "Buster just 
doesn't know she is sick," and continues to plod on without too much complaint.

Now, Buster has had a long-time appetite for 
bread products. Giving it to her as a medication 
corn dog doesn't help I'm sure, but I'm tired of 
putting my fingers down a saliva filled mouth ., 
if I'd wanted that sort of excitement I'd have 
considered dentistry as a profession, so bread is 
the preferred dispensation methodology.

Before you get misty eyed over this pup's 
condition, she still is able to pull off her 
Houdini routine. What do I mean? Well, her 
biggest trick is her disappearing trick. No. She 
doesn't disappear, however nice that might be at 
times of misbehaving, which seems to be 
increasing with age; it is the bread products that she can make disappear.

After catching her standing at the counter top 
with her bowed rear-legs stretched to the ground 
and nose to the air, sniffing out items on the 
countertop, we began to be mindful of what was 
left on the counter, as in when one comes home 
from grocery shopping for instance?

Having gone down stairs to do something, my wife 
had come down as well to put something away. We 
heard a big clickety clack, clickety clack on the 
floor upstairs. My wife and I simultaneously 
snapped heads towards each other and dashed for 
the stairs yelling "BUSTER!! Get out of there!" 
By the time we got up stairs the only thing we 
saw was a lip smacking smile on my dog, and an 
empty plastic bag of freshly bought hot dog buns 
on the floor, which disappeared in less than a 
minute! Do you know what bread products tend to 
do to an elderly dogs gastric activity? Let's 
just say there's no need to blame the dog; 
everyone in the house knows it was the dog.

Who is excused from the Houdini trick? Not 
grandma, no. At my parent's place where Buster 
can do no wrong, my elderly mom had just gotten 
home from shopping and I came up the stairs to 
find her in a Sherlock Holmes hunch looking all 
around the kitchen and hallway for something.

"You looking for something mom?" I said.

"Yeah. I thought I had bought some hot dog buns."

Oh no! I thought. "Well, umm where were they?"

"I thought they were in the bag next to the 
pantry," she mumbled as she scoured the floor.

"Look for an empty bag mom; I think Buster may have found them."

"Hahahaha," she laughed. "I don't think so, I've 
been right here the whole time. I must have put them away somewhere"."

But nope. Sure enough, there lay the empty bag as 
evidence the disappearing bun trickster struck 
again, in broad daylight with people walking by!

This happened again the day of my daughter's 
going away get together, before she shipped off 
to Kyrgyz Republic for her Peace Corps 
assignment. An hour or so before the party 
started, I heard my sweet soft spoken daughter 
yelling, "Buster! No! Bad dog. What's wrong with 
you! Get out of there. Let go of it! NOW!"

Fortunately, our olfactories were spared by my 
daughter's save, but the buns were yet a loss from toothy punctures.

As I sat watching my pup this morning with head 
in bowl, lapping up water in her traditional 
triplet manner . slurp slurp slurp . slurp slurp 
slurp . slurp slurp slurp ., legs quivering under 
her own body weight, back caving from weakening 
muscles, breathing through her nose as she drank, 
hearing a snap of mucus in her nostrils now and 
again as the effects of the tumor begins to 
become more evident; for just a second the image 
of a much more youthful Buster stood at the water 
bowl. I remembered all the wonderful times we've 
had together playing hide-n-seek with the treats 
as she's sniff them out under me as I lay on the 
floor, making her think she called up birds with 
her barks as I pointed out a bird flying by 
saying "Call 'em up pal. call up some birds!" and 
making her balance a treat on her nose, her 
staring at it cross eyed until I'd say "OK pal," 
then snapping her head in a circle and eat the 
treat out of thin air. Soon the shapely muscular 
image of my pup was replaced with the current, 
swaggered version, and I realize time is drawing 
near for us to say good bye to a very good 
friend. As I watched and listened to her drink, 
somehow all the mischievous antics and 
misbehavior didn't seem to matter much anymore. I 
saluted her in my mind, honoring her maintenance 
of a good disposition between the groans at 
night, trying to get comfortable as she lays her 
tired self for a night's unrest, and struggling 
on the 13th step on her way back up from her morning constitutional. .

We can certainly learn from these canine life 
blessings we call pets. all the things she's done 
over the years that have upset or annoyed us seem 
to have little impact as the chances for her to 
repeat those behaviors are reduced daily, and the end draws closer.

Why then, can't we afford that right to family 
and friends now, instead of waiting until it's 
too late? The trick my old dog Buster has taught 
me living her life, really unselfishly, despite 
the natural instinct to capitalize on 
opportunities when they present themselves, is 
being there unconditionally for others when she 
felt every which way but comfortable, and in her 
own trials, only wants to please and spend time 
with others, all the while hiding any discomfort 
until it is just not possible any longer.

  Now. wouldn't that be an old trick for a few of us old dogs to learn?




Brad Dunsé

"Unforgiveness is like drinking poison and 
waiting for the other person to die." --Unknown

http://www.braddunsemusic.com

http://www.facebook.com/braddunse

http://www.twitter.com/braddunse
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