Walk ... And Carry A Big Stick

About a year ago I was headed somewhere on a beautiful day, sunroof open, Josh Groban blaring on the CD player, very pleased with the recent acquisition of my new (used) car and experiencing recurrent frissons of friskiness, when I saw the dogs. Now, just so you know, I happen to be a certified dog nut. Dogs send me over the moon. I cannot get enough of dogs. I love dogs -- the general concept of dogs but also individual dogs both known and unknown to me. Dogs almost always like me too. I was taught a long time ago the correct way to approach a dog who doesn't know you, and maybe I've just been lucky, but dogs' tails usually wag around me. I love to kiss their soft faces in the vicinity of their lovely trusting eyes. They're so awesome I get emotional just thinking about it.

I have taken homeless dogs in before and once one of them had puppies on my lookout. Although that was very hard work, it was so much fun. Mom was a Beagle we called Dixie, and I think her offspring had been sired by a big black dog who jumped our fence (name of Don Juan) to pay her the amorous attention she was clearly craving. Six of the cutest puppies you ever saw resulted from their brief but passionate encounter. I and my daughter Audrey delivered the puppies over an exhausting ten-hour period one Sunday in late summer. Despite our best efforts two of the little guys promptly died (I simply cannot talk about that) but three females and one male thrived. We named them Rosemary, Buttons, Bows, and Superman. They were all kinds of adorable and we have a beautiful framed picture of them to prove it. All four and their darling mama are now in other happy homes and we are left with one aging Chihuahua that provides more than enough diversion of the canine variety for one household.

But I digress. On said sunny day last year, as I tripped along a road near my house, reveling in a heady combination of my favorite tunes enhanced by the 12-inch woofer embedded in the back window ledge, newish car smell, and the persistent illusion of my own youngish self behind the wheel, I glanced over to the sidewalk and saw the dogs. Although I have seen these dogs several times since, that day was the first time I noticed them. There were three dogs being given walkies by an older gentleman, and two of them were in a double-harness contraption. The third dog -- the one closest to the road  -- was on a lead by himself. And he's the one that had the big stick in his mouth, and how I wish you could have seen him. He was a reddish color and I judged him to be a Labrador mix. On a personalized doggie timeline of American history his puppyhood would likely coincide with the waning days of the Clinton administration. He was not trotting or exhibiting any other high level of energy. He was simply ambling along, looking down at the sidewalk mostly, but he was carrying a long (at least four feet) stick in his mouth. He looked like a tightrope walker clutching his outsized balancing rod.

Now, I don't know for a solid fact why he was carrying the stick (whatever it is he's consistent because every time I see him, he has it), but in my mind the stick said, It was time to go for a walk and usually all we do is walkies but sometimes we go to the park and I grabbed this here stick because if I take it along maybe someone will throw it and give me a chance to run after it and fetch it back. And as engrossed as I had been in the sheer joy of a beautiful day and driving my car, I got verklempt at the sight of this dear beastie shambling along obediently on a lead, carrying his big stick and hoping against hope for a chance at a game of fetch. That sweet animal with his cherished toy, his klediment, spoke volumes about the wonderful humble nature of dogs -- not to mention the sweet impermanent nature of life.

The matchless Michael Jordan of Chicago Bulls fame was known for having a "love of the game" clause in his contract. From what I understand, it stated that he had the right to pick up a basketball and play whenever and wherever and with whomever he wanted. He didn't have to worry about whether he got injured during such a game; the Bulls had him covered for any eventuality. He (or his agent) invented the "love of the game" clause, and he would not sign without it. I like to think that the dog with the stick, like Michael Jordan, has in a manner of speaking insisted on having a "love of the game" clause in his contract. For both of them, despite having long ago attained grown-up status, retain a childlike wonder and an ageless playfulness. They stubbornly remain open to all of life's glorious possibilities and refuse to be denied even the most innocent joy.

When our daughter Audrey was in fourth grade and her sister Stephanie was a seventh grader, they both participated in their school's intramural basketball program. Sluggish and clumsily-played after-school games were attended by patient parents and very few other "fans." The level of play fell somewhere between watching the clothes in your dryer go round-and-round and scrubbing at your shower grout with a toothbrush. On one such afternoon when Stephanie was helping out at the scorers' table and Audrey was on the court "playing," a tragic but wonderful thing happened. Audrey got the ball (a miracle in itself) and broke away from the pack, running full-tilt for the basket. Nearing the goal she lofted the ball, which arced perfectly, and with a breathless "swish" she scored two points ... for the other team. Her face, which for a moment had shone with pure unfettered joy and amazement, froze in horror when she realized what she had done.

Before anyone could react, Audrey turned and made a beeline for Stephanie, who immediately stood, reached across the scorers' table, took a sobbing Audrey in her arms, and provided sisterly comfort. People talked about it for weeks afterward. At the dinner table that night my husband and I assured Audrey that, even though she had made a mistake, she had played with all her heart and that was the important thing. She had played with exuberance, which is what matters. And those who loved her were there to help pick up the pieces when the wheels fell off.

Play with joyous abandon, even if you make a mistake once in awhile (or if you're like me, often). Sing off key, but sing. Play even when you've been hurt or humiliated or both, or when you're in foul trouble. With any luck, if you give it all you've got, there'll be an overtime! But whatever you do, play for the love of the game.