Hiking through Crissy Field one misty morn, I was entertained by a young Airedale racing to-and-fro over the sands. She was running around like a loco lobo — mad to be in touch with as much space as possible. Her owner, hobbled by a foot cast, was clearly enjoying vicariously his dog’s exuberant freedom of movement.
Reminded me of a poem by Rabia of Basra (c. 717-801 AD), a widely revered female Islamic saint, as translated by Daniel Ladinsky: “There is a dog I sometimes take for a walk and turn loose in a field. When I can’t give her that freedom I feel in debt. I hope God thinks like that, and is keeping track of all the bliss he owes me.”
If God is half as concerned about our happiness as we are for our pets’, we’ll all be off-leash in the sweet by and by some day.
According to recent estimates, dogs outnumber kids in San Francisco by around ten thousand. Surely one big reason is simple economics. Obviously chew toys cost less than Game Boys. In the Bay Area, a scruffy old mat by the fireplace is a whole lot cheaper to provide than a small pad in Berkeley student housing once the pup grows up. As I said, simple economics.
Of course, there are also reasons besides the financial to have dogs instead of kids. Like, no matter how you act around the house, you know Pal won’t be writing a book about you some day. Don’t get me wrong. I love my nephews and nieces to pieces. It’s just easier to deal with pups who chase cars than those who tend to wreck them.
But perhaps the best reason to choose pooches over mooches was pointed out to me by Lisa Razzo, Bay Woof’s own Rover Reporter (see bottom of page). She’s an authority on the subject, since her housemates include a Boxer, a Pit-Lab mix, and a German Shepherd, but no children. She says the best reason to have dogs instead of kids is that if one “gets in trouble,” you can still give the puppies away. Exactly. (We’ve all made sure that won’t happen to ours, right?)
The other day I was walking up a hill in San Francisco, panting like an overheated Basset Hound, when it occurred to me that getting old is a like slowly shape-shifting into a caninoid. One new trick we old dogs can apparently learn is how to be more dog-like.
Picture a character out of Kafka. He gets strange primal feelings and becomes more reactionary. His voice grows gruffer and gruffer, and soon he finds himself barking at the idiots on TV just about every day. His face sags more and more, until he looks like those paunchy pool-playing pooches in the picture above his bar. He has the urge to scratch in the damnedest places. Soon he, too, likes to pee early and often. His breath ain’t that inviting anymore, and speaking of aromas – much like his Otterhound, Otto – his own flatulence could flatten a small dwelling these days.
Eventually it becomes more and more difficult to stand on those spindly hind legs of his. When he begins taking naps without warning under just about any circumstances, the mutt-a-morphosis will be complete.
Getting old gives “going to the dogs” a whole new meaning.
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