Learning The Ropes

There’s an old man visiting me this week. 

His curly hair is a bit long and he’s missing some teeth but since he doesn’t eat much it doesn’t much matter. He doesn’t mind a cold breakfast, or lunch or dinner. Or leftovers. He sleeps a lot. Lies around the house looking bored to tears, like staying here wasn’t his idea. Because it wasn’t. We don’t have a lot in common, so we don’t talk much. He doesn’t talk at all. 

But he’s another breathing body in the house and that’s a nice change.

He also has an old man sort of problem. Kind of awkward to discuss here but let me just say we’re depending on Depends this week. This is a new one for me. It’s new for him, too, and he’s not a fan. I don’t blame him. At his age, all he has left is his dignity and the adoration of three kids who think he’s the best dog God ever created. Because he is. But the need to walk around wearing a doggie diaper is putting a kink in his confidence and makes him sigh sometimes. Me, too.

I mean, I can kind of relate. Sort of awkward to discuss that here, but I feel his pain in a way that’s none of your business. I’m not an old man or an old dog, but I’ve met some people who think I’m old. Most of them are new and ride their bikes around the neighborhood when school lets out, but some of their parents think I’m old, too. I don’t mind. I don’t even think it’s a criticism. It’s more like a badge of honor.

At my age, I’ve earned every strand of this gray hair.

Rocky the golden retriever is hanging out with me while his family hangs out with other people this week. He’s pretty easy company. He’d spend more time outside if it wasn’t so hot and he wasn’t wearing that perpetual fur coat. So would I if it felt more like Alaska and less like Arizona out there. I know. And no, I don’t know why I live here.

Here's the problem. When you’re a dog, the bathroom is outside. Where it’s hot. I can’t fix either one of those things. Not even if you’re wearing a diaper. When you gotta go, you gotta go, and in his case he’s gotta go outside and somebody’s got to take that thing off before he does. We’ve almost got it down to a science now, if science means repetition but not perfection. Standing side by side at the back door, I count to three, pull open the slider, yank off his impediment, and just like that he’s a free man, running wild across the back yard, au natural the way God intended. 

Just like every two-year-old I’ve ever known.

This morning when he finished his business, he waited for me on the patio while I grabbed a new diaper and met him out there. That’s when I saw them. Seated side by side like two concrete yard ornaments. I don’t know how long they’d been watching us, but from the judgy tilt of their synchronized heads, they’d grabbed the cheap seats a while ago. We had an audience, and they were ready for popcorn and a show.

The judgy sister sheep.

Curious and critical, all at the same time, they barely like one another, let alone anyone else living near their pasture. I could practically hear what they were saying, the cackly old maids.

“What’s she doing to him now?”

“I dunno. Looks like she’s decorating him.”

“What for? It’s not Christmas.”

“Beats me. She has awful taste in fashion. Got any Milk Duds left?”

Sheep don’t have a clue. I wasn’t decorating him. I was wrestling him. Remember what it was like to put pre-folded paper and elastic rectangles on a nine-pound squirming newborn with two gyrating legs? Now picture doing that to an upright, four-legged, seventy-pound hairy Sasquatch who wants to sit on your feet while you finish.

I’ve been to a couple of rodeos. You know the part where the cowboy races on his horse across a dusty arena in hot pursuit of a calf who weighs twice as much as he does, then throws him to the ground and, without help from anyone, holds him there and trusses him up like a Thanksgiving turkey? When he’s finished, gallons of sweat pour out from beneath his ten-gallon Stetson while he throws his hands in the air in victory and walks away exhausted. It’s a weird way to make a living.

That’s how I felt every single time I diapered a baby. And more than once I threw my hands into the air in victory when I was finished. That’s how I feel now with every diaper I strap around the dog. At least I’ve got experience.

He’s a good boy, though. A sweet old guy who tolerates the way we dress him and puts up with my bad cooking. He takes a nap while I watch Hallmark movies and doesn’t mind if I ignore him to pick up my knitting or post another blog. He’s tolerant and just wants a little peace and quiet. In a way, he reminds me of Rob. Who, right now, from the cheap seats in heaven, is giving me “the look.”

Enjoy your popcorn, Rob. Just don’t laugh and point. That’s the job of the sister sheep. And if they keep it up, I’m going to chase them down and put a diaper on them for spite. I may not have my youth or natural hair color anymore, but I’ve overcome those deficits with the only thing that matters.

I’ve got experience.

With thanks to Bruno Pedro for the picture seen above. The original can be viewed by following this link: The WireIt logo | WireIt is an OpenSource javascript library… | Flickr