Love and a limp

We joke about our dogs.  We love them, of course. In a short time, when they're new to us, they become family … and I’m convinced they eventually know as much about us as we think we know about them.

Last week, I took Linus and Riley for a walk around the block.  Typically, I’d take them for a 10-block walk to Briarwood, the elementary school that Zach attended and to this day includes a prairie-like field at the northwest corner, with a stream that runs through it … and lots of briars.

But on this night, I took them around the block.  I was nursing a knee injury from a hike we took weeks ago in the Arkansas hills.

First, you should know that when I take both dogs, alone, I’m using two leashes.  Each spins out or contracts, depending on the vagaries of the dog.  When the dog stretches the leash tight, it tugs.

Normally, that’s not a big deal.  I tug back.  But given the weakness of the right knee, I couldn’t tug as hard. 

Linus was oblivious to my problem, because he was on the left.  Riley, though … well, it was pretty amazing.

Halfway through our walk, as the tugs made the knee hurt, she – a Golden Retriever – must have sensed something different with me.  Early on, she was bounding ahead per usual.  She’d sniff the bushes, follow Linus, see a squirrel (where there was none, usually.) 

But now I was limping a bit.  And she must have noticed my different pace, that something was amiss.

My limp was like glue. Because now, she was at my side, step by step.  I couldn't spring her free.

“Go on, girl,” I’d say.  “Go get Linus!”

But she’d stay frozen by my side.  Only when I stopped walking, when my out-of-rhythm steps grew quiet, did she venture away to explore. 

And when I started walking again, she was again by my side.

It’s hard to know what dogs know – and don’t know.  But I do know that we underestimate a dog’s ability to connect with us.  We often dismiss them as spacey, hyper, goofy. (All things I’ve affectionately alleged about Riley.)

And sure, dogs are affectionate. 

But Riley’s actions went beyond mere affection.  Protection?  Maybe.  Concern?  I guess.  Loyalty?   I think so.

Said 19^th-century writer Josh Billings, “A dog is the only thing on earth that loves you more than you love yourself.”

Ahh, that would be it.

There's a lesson there for us.

Simple gifts

“What is it?”

I was staring at a black and red contraption – what looked like the blade of a large, plastic snow shovel glued to the back of two large, vinyl sleeves. The sleeves were bunched tight at each end with elastic.

It had the look of an industrial-sized diaper … the kind a baby elephant might wear should some pooped-out zookeeper ever invent it.

June, Cindy’s mom, looked up from the children’s squeals and flying gift wrap at the family Christmas gathering to explain … with her usual sly smile:

“Sled pants.”

Then she laughed … almost a giggle.

Huh? But then it all made sense. The sleeves were indeed pants; the blade, of course, the sled; the elastic was there to make sure the pants stuck tight to the waste and legs. It was genius, of course. A sled doesn’t get more portable than that.  You would simply pull the pants on, waddle up the nearest snowy hill, sit and go.

I tried them on for all to see, much to the delight of those in the room. I looked like, well, a baby elephant equipped for the road. Or, at best, a Shakespeare knockoff in plastic pantaloons.

Everyone laughed. And I, again, had fallen victim to one of June’s unique skills … her gift-giving prowess.

There was the other Christmas when I unwrapped some long, brown socks. I thought, “Why would June give me socks?”

I mustered up gratitude:

“Why, thank you June!” I enthused. “Love the long, brown socks.”

“They’re not just socks,” she explained. “They’re pocket socks.” Again, the laugh.

Sure enough, sewn to the back of each was a deep pocket … a good place for valuables, I suppose. Or better yet, food -- the space was ample enough to accommodate, say, two fat summer sausages. The downside: Your legs would then look, well, elephantine.

One was never quite sure where June found these things. She was a great fan of garage sales. She’d hold as many as she’d visit, it seemed. And her basement was always an adventure, packed from floor to ceiling with clothes, toys, books, old records, dishes and more.

I saw it all as a never-ending circle of zero-sum commerce: June would purchase items at garage sales, store the goods in the basement, bring them up to sell at her garage sales, then she’d venture out to re-supply.

The cycle would be broken only by Christmas or family birthdays.

As proof, there’s the Christmas sweater that June gave my niece, Robin. As Robin unwrapped it, I too-quickly remarked, “Hey Cindy, that looks like the sweater I gave you for your birthday a few years back.”

Of course it was the same sweater. Cindy had given June some of her old clothes to sell in a garage sale. June, in need of a gift for Robin, grabbed the sweater from her basement, saving it from the garage-sale merry-go-round.

I’ve often wondered what lucky souls first wore my sled pants and pocket socks.

Over time, I looked forward to June’s gifts. It was welcome relief from the more predictable gift-giving.

And I’d be remiss if I didn’t comment on what, perhaps, was June’s best Christmas gift, shown at the top of this blog post. Not just for me, but for all of my family. Stretched across our fireplace are four red and green Christmas stockings that June hand-stitched – Meghan’s first, in 1990, then Zach’s in 1993, then Cindy’s and finally mine.

Sure, June was a heckuva wheeler-dealer at garage sales. But when it came to cross-stitch, her work was her own -- splendidly done, crafted with love.

That is … original. Just like June was an original.

I think on Christmas day, I’ll pull from our own crowded basement my sled pants, put them on, don my pocket socks and stuff them with sausages, and wear both garbs proudly as we open our presents.

It’s a way to honor June’s gift-giving … and her many other, wonderful gifts.

I miss them all.