It’s the final night of Hanukkah. As some of you know, we bid farewell to our beloved wheaton terrier, Bucky, this past year. Since this final week of the year is such a time of reflection, today, as I roam the house I feel his presence and miss his nuzzling.
There is no doubt in my mind Bucky was Jewish. Whenever we would do anything remotely observant in our house, he would become animated. For many years, when he could, he’d dance on his hind legs when we lit the Hanukkah candles and sang the blessings, one front paw in my hand, the other paw in Alana’s. For many years we’d sway and sing, remarking that Bucky must be celebrating with us.
Alana’s brother, David, is a Cantor. When his family came to visit, we’d have Shabbat dinner, and there was always an ample amount of song to accompany the meal. Bucky would dance by the table, skipping around and sniffing the air, as if something ancient and familiar was stirring his imagination.
Bucky also had a fondness for other dogs of the same gender. He was loathe to hang out with females, and often treated our Gracie (the other household wheatie) with diffidence, but whenever there was a male dog around, Bucky would follow him. He stalked (and mounted) males at day care. He was affectionate and physical with male dogs. He obviously enjoyed their company.
So today is for you, my sweet, gay, Jewish, departed dog. I miss you more than I can say.
Treadmill
September, 2011
I’m fairly sure the first time I saw a treadmill, or anything like a treadmill, was at the end of the Jetsons. Oddly, it was like the end of the Flintstones, which at the time reminded me of the Honeymooners. Anyway, at the beginning of the Jetsons, George is on his way to work, he drops off Elroy at the Little Dipper grade school, his daughter Judy at Orbit high school and, after a lengthy exchange in which his wife robs him of his wallet and leaves him a dollar, he drops her off at a shopping mall. He parks his flying car and gets on a treadmill-like moving walkway that deposits him at his desk at Spacely Sprockets.
At the end of the Jetsons, we see George taking a moving walkway into his house, getting sat in a chair by Rosie, the robot maid, getting slippers from Elroy, a pipe from Judy and a leash from Jane, his wife. At his point Astro, the huge blue family dog grabs George and takes him for a walk … on a treadmill. Of course there is a cat nearby and Astro gets distracted, starts running on the treadmill until George loses his grip on the leash and starts defying gravity by spinning around and around on the treadmill by himself, while Astro and the cat sit nearby smiling. George shouts, “Jane! Get me off this crazy thing!”
It wasn’t until I was an adult that the irony of the metaphor sunk in.
My 33rd birthday gift from Alana was a membership to a gym. Part of the membership package was an hour-long session with a personal trainer. One-half hour of which was on a treadmill. I’d never been on a treadmill before, yet there I was in the Princeton Athletic Club in downtown Portland walking briskly, just like George.
I got a lot of attention on the treadmill. I don’t know why. It turned out that the Princeton was nicknamed “The Princess” by most of the gay men in the city. And, quite unbeknownst to me, to walk on a treadmill at the Princeton was to put yourself ‘out there’ for all the gym-gawkers and lurkers to remark on.
I didn’t mind it. In fact I was flattered at the time to think that any gay man would be bold enough to say “Lookin’ good!” as he passed me huffing and puffing at 4.5 MPH and a four-degree incline. My wife told me to certainly enjoy the positive reinforcement, but to avoid acknowledging any pass that was, as she put it, ‘overt’. So, I continued to walk on the treadmill with my eyes fastened on the television, trying to pay attention to CNN and not the timer on the treadmill.
One day, during a cool down, a particularly bold man walked by and said, “Nice ass” as he passed. I must have been particularly bold myself that day, because I said, “Thanks!” without even thinking about it. The man quickly scurried away. What ensued was definitely not ego-boosting. I became anathema. Poison. No one wanted to be near me. Gone forever were the furtive glances. No more titters. No conversations in hushed tones.
I had become treadmill roadkill.
For a couple of months now, I’ve been taking my dog, Bucky to physical therapy. Bucky is what the veterinarians consider an ‘old, old, dog.’ It’s a nice way of saying, “We’re surprised this dog is still alive.” He hasn’t been the friskiest dog for a couple of years, and the vet suggested we consider water therapy to build his muscles so he can get in and out of his bed and the house when he needs to. Aside from daycare once a week, it’s really the only exercise he ever gets. Water therapy involves a glass booth with a water-tight door that fills with just enough water to make your dog buoyant, but not floating. The floor is an underwater treadmill. Once the tank is filled to the appropriate height, the therapist switches on the treadmill and the dog starts to walk. The speed of the treadmill and the length of the walk is determined by the therapist and the dog with the goal of walking twenty minutes total, and as much as ten minutes at a time. The resistance of the water builds muscle.
Bucky took to this activity as if it were second nature. Certain breeds will not sit down in the water nor will they let their noses get wet. As soon as the therapist hit the start button, Bucky held his head up higher than he has in the past few months and started walking with a swift, even pace.
Part of the joy (and part of the pain, I guess) of having your dog be your dog is watching them accept new and unusual challenges. Throughout his long life Bucky has never been overly curious, nor has he ever been an excitable dog. In fact, he remains quite shy. But not unfriendly. Long ago, a friend hit the nail on the head when he said, “That dog has a lot of soul.”
But watching him twice a week for three, five-minute increments, accept the challenge of participating in the treadmill of life has helped me redefine what Bucky has.
He may have a lot of soul, but he also has a stout heart.