I Throw The Ball

She brings it back.

I originally wrote this piece for a storytelling event that took place a long while back. I thought it would be fun to tell it to you today. This one may be more fun to listen to…you know by now that I’m a ham.

There was a time when I shaved my head regularly. Notice the way Hazel scrutinizes my ‘do. That way, I could use my haircut budget for the grooming bills!

Some folks who share their lives, homes, and hearts with animals refer to themselves as “Pet Owners.”

Who are they kidding? What are they thinking?

My pets own me. My babies are “Nan Owners.”

I live with my pups, Hazel and Hugo, and two cats named Frankie. Yup. Both cats are named Frankie. Their nicknames are Big and Little.

I’ve shared my life with one or more animals at a time for over 40 years (the record was 6 for a brief and crazy period). I don’t have kids. I’m single. I’ve got a good job, a nice house, and I work from home.

So, we’re together, all the time.

Some folks say, “They’re just animals.”

As if that makes them less than humans? No such thing in my world.

In my world, I revolve around them.

In their view, and in mine, quite frankly, my only job is to make their lives happy. Keep them stocked in toys and treats and the best organic food money can buy. Bully sticks cost a fortune, but oh, they love them. I budget myself so that once in a while I can satisfy their urge to chew the good stuff. Do you know what a bully stick really is? It’s the cartilage in a bull’s penis. Giving my dogs an opportunity to demolish penises of any kind satisfies a slightly vengeful side of me. I get to pretend they once belonged to a different species. Can you guess which one? It’s win-win all the way.

My life’s work is to love them, feed them, walk them, pay their vet bills, pay their grooming bills, and respond to whatever needs arise, because yes, I am their bitch. It’s never the other way around. And they like it like that.

Hazel, the older of my two Shih-Tzu’s, is on Prozac. She takes it because she’s OCD. The Chinese herbs and weekly acupuncture appointments treat her congenital kidney disease.

I pay the animal psychic to converse with Hazel so I can be privy to her deepest thoughts. I’m not as fluent in Dog as Minerva the Pup whisperer, but I’m happy to pay just about any amount to understand Hazel’s hopes and dreams more clearly. Because of Minerva, I know Hazel loves to go to daycare twice a week because she’s very social, and I want her to mingle and make new friends. The daycare uses a puppycam so I can watch her play all day; it’s a hoot, and worth every penny. They tell me she’s quite a leader. But I know she’s really a control freak, like her mutha.

I live to serve, nothing more.

When Hazel was a puppy, I taught her to play fetch. That one act sealed the covenant of my devotion to fulfilling her every need, no matter what it was. Her part of that covenant was to keep my throwing arm in shape.

I taught her inside our house. She learned fast because she’s a genius. It soon became the thing she loved to do the most.

There are no walls in my main living space. If I’m sitting on the couch, I can throw the ball 20 feet into the kitchen or into my office.

“Throw the ball! Throw the ball! Throw it! Throw it! Throw it!” she implores, speaking in Dog, doing a little dance, her nails clicking on the floor, her impatience and anticipation almost overwhelming her.

I throw the ball.

We have wood floors, and she skids and slides and bangs into walls. Sometimes, she looks like a cartoon character running in place. Nothing stops her, her mission is clear.

She brings it back.

“Drop it,” I say. “No,” she replies. Drrrop it. “No.” Drrrop it. "No, not yet!”

I try to reason with her. “I can’t throw it again if you don’t give it back.”

She stands there with the ball in her mouth and eyes me suspiciously. She weighs the pros and cons…and backs away. Then, she drops the ball. I have to get up to retrieve it. I figure she’s just trying to get me to exercise more. Or maybe she’s just a pain in the ass. I pick up the ball and throw it into the kitchen.

Oh, shit. It’s under the refrigerator. Again!

She scratches at the fridge door. She scratches the floor. Over and over and over. She tries to get under, but that’s impossible. She needs me!

She looks at me with frantic eyes, and says, in Dog, “Get the ball! Get the ball! Get it. Get it. Get it!”

She stands there, glaring at me. Talk about guilt. I can’t get there fast enough.

“Wait a minute, I’ll be right there.” “Now! Now! Now!”

I get up from the couch. I grab the wire hanger thingy I invented for times like these.

Easing my way down to the floor, I lay flat on my belly and thread the stretched-out hanger under the fridge and fish the ball out with the hook at the end. I get back up.

I throw the ball and then return to my desk. This goes on all day. Every day. She’s OCD, remember??

In between all this, I try to get some work done, but it’s hard. I have no boundaries, because she’s trained me well. It’s almost impossible to refuse her. Damn those big, brown eyes.

Hazel also has a problem with pee because her kidneys are malformed. Yes, there were several ultrasounds. Sometimes, she just can’t hold it in.

My girl is the record-holder for the world’s longest pee. Not in seconds or minutes. We’re talking inches and feet.

You know how sometimes when you’re doing something you’re really engaged in, and you have to pee? But you hold it in…. just a little longer?

Not Hazel. Sometimes when we’re playing ball, and she has to go, she goes. She doesn’t stop and squat. She just pees while she’s running. Hence, the world’s longest pee. I’ve measured. I buy a lot of paper towels.

When the day is over, we all get into bed. 2 pups, 2 Frankies, with a Lovey thrown in for good measure. Oh, I forgot to mention Lovey? Another cat. Yeah, it’s bad. Sometimes, Hazel pees in our bed. My friends say I shouldn’t let her sleep with me. “She’s a dog, she belongs in her crate.” I tried that but it made me sad.

Instead, I spent a fortune on a handmade waterproof blanket that I sleep under and she sleeps on top of. I do a lot of laundry.

When we wake up in the morning, I run her outside to pee, even though I’ve gotta pee, too, and I’m post-menopausal, so... I run back in and make it to the toilet just in time.

Where’s Hazel?

Do you really have to ask? She’s getting her ball. She brings it to the bathroom and sits down with it in her mouth, four feet away.

She stares at me and cocks her head, wearing her sweetest hopeful face. I’ll do anything for that face, and she knows it. She drops the ball and waits.

It’s way too far away, but I lean over and stretch as much as I can to reach it, without falling off the toilet. But, I can’t reach it. So, in my most supportive voice, I say, “Hazel, closer, closer.” Hazel speaks and understands Dog and English.

She looks at me; she looks at the ball––and then she butts it toward me with her nose.

See, I told you she’s a genius! It only rolls a few measly inches. Not nearly close enough. I know she’s doing this on purpose. It’s all part of the game.

“Almost, sweetie,” I encourage her, saying, “Do it one more time.”

Another nudge with her black button nose; this time her aim is true. If we were playing putt-putt golf, she’d sink that sucker.

I reach down, grab the tiny yellow tennis ball that’s the constant thread in our lives, and throw it into the hall.

My day’s begun. Sisyphus has nothing on me.

(Left) Hazel wearing MY scarf. (Right) See, I wasn't kidding. That ball was her life.

Afterword: Sadly, Hazel died in 2018, at 5 years old, due to her kidney disease. She was my smartest, most annoying, most fabulous pal. I miss her every single day.

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