Commentary by Chris Smith, editor-in-chief of Clarksville Now.
The summer of 2020 … ugh. Do we even want to talk about the summer of 2020? It’s too soon, isn’t it? It’ll probably be too soon when the last people who remember it start saying, “Back in my day.”
For all of those reasons and more, in the summer of 2020 we were sad. The Wife was sad, The Girl was sad, The Kid was sad, and we were stuck at home unable to be sad with anyone except The Cats, and cats have no capacity for emotions other than spite.
But you know what’s sadder than that? A poor little unwanted doggo. So The Wife, sad and bored and stuck at home, and being begged by sad teenagers to get a dog, began trolling rescue websites. And as soon as The Wife went into research mode, I should have known it was all over. We were getting a dog.
The Girl, who cries during Progressive Insurance commercials, immediately burst into tears, “Are we really getting a dog?” she choked out between sobs. They’ve been begging us for a dog for years, ever since we had to put down “Ol’ One-Eyed Spleenless.” That was a good dog. She was a big floppy retriever mutt who would gallop full-blast through the house and stop within inches of the random babies and toddlers in her way. In her senior years, she lost her spleen and her eye to various medical ailments that you can expect when your dog is secretly a pirate queen. Scurvy is a cruel way to go.
I have to admit, though, it’s been nice not having a dog – no accidents on the carpet, no walkies, no obligation when we leave town for a drug-fueled binge in Vegas, no dog hair.
Bonding with The Dog
Because we have more compassion than sense, we got a recue dog. This one is a mutt that resembles a foxhound, and from the moment we met her, she was terrified. You couldn’t blame her – she was born and raised for her first year in a backyard shed with just her mom and two sisters. A neglectful owner would toss them some food but otherwise ignored them. We picked her up from a foster home, and she was not eager to go with us. She bonded first with The Wife and The Girl, because she was curled up between them for the drive home, trembling and cowering the whole way. She soon warmed up to The Kid, too, since they were home with her all day. But with me, it was another story. Which is a problem since I’d be the primary person giving her walkies and kibble.
Little did either of know, our bonding would come at the risk of our lives.
I was walking The Dog on Madison Street, trying to get her used to the leash and the sidewalk and the cars, when a neighbor walked by with a leaf blower. Still terrified of men, especially men carrying screaming monster-snakes, she yanked her head out of her collar and ran out onto Madison Street, cowering down on the highway in between cars zooming by at 40 mph.
Again, having more compassion than sense, I glanced in both directions, and it was clear enough. I jogged over and picked her up. By the time I stood up with her in my arms, cars were stopped in both directions. We walked home with hearts racing, with a much tighter collar and with a resolve to not take any more walks on Madison Street.
Maybe it was that brush with death (for both of us), maybe it was that I was the one giving her treats and empty pizza boxes to tear apart, but gradually The Dog warmed up to me.
And just in time. See, there’s a problem with relenting to pressure from teenagers to get a dog: Teenagers have a dog for only a couple of years before they move out, and then you’re stuck taking care of it for another 10 to 12 years.
My tromping buddy
So now every day The Dog and I go on a tromp together through the woods near our house. And she’s gotten good at fetch, even batting .750 on returning the ball with a clean drop. And she even curls up against me on the couch, giving me upside-down kisses.
But I’ll tell you what’s not happening: The Dog is NOT filling an absence left in my life by my children moving away. That is not AT ALL what’s happening, because that would be ridiculous. It’s just a dog. (But she’s such a good little doggo yes she is!)
Daddy Overboard is a limited series on life as empty-nesters.
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