by Larry Brody
I’ve written before about our dog, Emmy the Bold, Queen of the Cloud Creek Ranch pack.
Her puppy adventures running up mountains and merrily crashing down have left her with bone spurs, arthritis, and pain.
For awhile, Emmy’s condition slowed her down, but meds and her own internal fire have combined to keep her alive and continuing to play-play-play till she drops.
Most of that play is with the other dogs in the big yard behind the main house, but each dog also gets some alone time with Gwen the Beautiful or me.
For Emmy, that means playing football. Actually, it’s more of a game of Keep-Away with an under-inflated youth football. I take Emmy and the ball outside. Emmy allows me to punt it…and then she runs, catches the ball in her mouth, and prances around, daring me to snatch it away:
“C’mon! Yank this out of my mouth!” Followed by her battle cry, “I dare ya!”
I always do my best, but the only time I get the ball is when the dog gives me a break so I’ll keep playing. And after one kick she catches it and starts teasing all over again.
If you’re a dog person, you understand: This is fun.
Especially for Emmy.
Last week, though, I made a big mistake.
On one of her catches, Emmy punctured the ball. I couldn’t kick an empty rubber bladder very far, so I tossed it in the garbage and drove to Walmart, where I found something I couldn’t resist.
A pro, regulation model. On sale.
Its hide was much thicker than our old football’s, and it was filled solidly. And when I took it home and kicked it—wow!
I watched excitedly as the ball flew higher and farther than I’d ever kicked before. Emmy ran, leapt up for the catch—
And yelped as the football bounced from her grip.
Filled with her usual fire, Emmy pounced.
The ball squirted away.
Emmy circled, rushed from another angle—
And plain couldn’t hold on. The new ball was too big, too strong, for her to keep in her mouth.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, Delightful Dixie, our youngest dog and the omega to Emmy’s alpha, picked that moment to pounce on the porch gate, jar it open, and rush out to join us—
Scooping up the football effortlessly and racing around the yard with her trophy.
Emmy sagged. Her ears drooped. For the first time in her life, she’d been defeated. I’ve seen her posture on humans. It said, “I’m not who I thought I was. I’m not me anymore.”
For the rest of the day, Emmy moped and slunk. “You started this,” Gwen said. “Now you’ve got to fix it.”
My first attempt was a washout. I let some air out of the ball and went outside with Emmy. I punted…and watched as she ran to catch it.
And failed once more. She still couldn’t wrap her mouth around it.
I let out more air. Kicked again. This time Emmy didn’t even try to catch the ball. She just watched it, and whimpered.
The next day I went back to Walmart and bought exactly the model we’d played with before. Let out enough air so that it was as soft and manageable as Ole Number One had been.
Emmy the No-Longer-So-Bold, the ball, and I went out to the yard. I kicked.
And Emmy ignored it.
I mean, she ignored everything:
The kick.
The ball.
Larry B.
Instead of trying to play, Emmy just turned her back and sat down.
“Nothing going on here,” she said with a yawn.
And went back into the house to sleep for 24 hours.
The following morning, Gwen woke me way too early. “Garbage pick-up today.”
“So—?”
“So don’t you have something to do?”
I groaned.
But I knew what she meant.
I got out of bed, pulled on a pair of pants and three warm bathrobes. Drove down to the bottom of The Mountain, where I’d left the trash cans last night.
Twenty slimy minutes later I dug out what I was after, and that afternoon I took Emmy outside and showed it to her:
A punctured, empty, rubber bladder.
Emmy sniffed at it, watched as I kicked…
With a happy woof, she raced after her old pal. Plucked it out of the air. Ran off with a quick look my way.
“C’mon! Yank this bad boy out of my mouth! I dare ya!” she yelped.
Just a small victory, but that’s what she needed.
Emmy the Bold is back!