Second childhood

Wha-aa-at?

It recently occurred to me that I haven't written about Ben the Wonder Dog in some time. He informs me this is an egregious omission and probably the reason the blog's readership has dwindled.

(We'll let him think that. . .  I don't have the heart to tell him it's really probably because I don't get off sit down on my fat you-know-what and write more often.)

Ben, who turns 15 in February, is growing old.

Or so we thought until about a month ago.

Most of Ben's year has been punctuated with long, deep naps -- so deep that we occasionally have to wake him up to let him know we're home. He struggles a bit more to get up from his blanket now, hind legs wobbling perceptibly. (Strangely, hopping up on the no-fly-zone sofas in the living room and guest room isn't a problem. Funny how that works. ). And occasionally we find he's wandered into the bathroom to stare at the tub.

(On the other hand, perhaps that isn't a true barometer of aging -- I wander into a lot of rooms and stare at random things. Check that off the aging list, okay?)

ANYWAY.  Earlier this year, we resigned ourselves to helping Ben age gracefully and comfortably in our home. Until now. The dog appears to be experiencing a second childhood.

These days, we are greeted in the morning by a canine senior citizen who bounces and prances around the condo barking to get on with his walk. He's also been known to bite and tug at his blue blanket in his fever to walk.

Outside, Ben literally lopes across green spaces in search of new smells -- and occasionally still stalks an unsuspecting squirrel. Our walks have gotten longer and longer instead of shorter and shorter and it's proving downright tricky to convince Ben it's time to go home.

And meal times? It's like we have a teen in the house. Ben fusses and frets -- punctuated with a few spoiled barks -- until food is delivered. . .  and then stands in front of the laundry room where his treats are located. . . until treats are delivered.

Always a grazer, who has left dog food in his dish almost his whole life, Ben is now a card-carrying member of the Clean Plate Club. Most mornings an empty dog food dish, edges scoured for renegade crumbs, greets us -- along with a hungry, reproachful side glance from the dog.

Ummm. You gonna eat all of that?

What's up with this second puppyhood? Our theories range from the possibility that this fall's cooler temperatures and damp mornings have hit Ben's aging sweet spot. . . or that the reoccurring appearance of the Most Adorable Grandchild in the World is a heads-up to keep moving or risk being attacked by a 13-month-old hurricane of curiosity.

And the purpose of this is........

Whatever it is -- we love it. And it appears Ben does too. Pesky teenager.

You know, youth is wasted on the young.

P.S. Sorry about the poopy pix. Technical problems!

Wordless Wednesday

Walk, please.

Skanky tennis ball love

Last Thursday, as the Amazing Ms and I parted ways up at the park, Mrs. Amazing M gifted Ben with a tennis ball. Not just "A Tennis Ball," but quite possibly one of the most distressed, discouraged, deranged tennis balls ever seen by man, woman or dog at Comstock.

It was virtually on its last legs (seams?). Whatever innards it had were long gone, thanks to a ginormous tear nearly circumnavigating its middle. In some spots, the felt was worn and matted, in others it was fuzzy and frayed, almost resembling a cheap day-glo green toupee.

It was love at first sight. Ben gently took the ball from Mrs. AM, froze and reverentially began to gnaw, ferreting out the ball's long -- and apparently violent -- history through taste and smell.

It made a very odd, hollowed "Skosh, skosh, skosh" type sound as it Ben rolled it around in his mouth. Very odd.

Ben refused to surrender the ball as we walked home, and we had to stop every now and then, while he rearranged his grip on it, testing for new sweet spots. Once in the backyard, he retreated to a far sunlight corner of the Back Forty, where he continued his ministrations till it was time to come inside.

The ball remained in the far sunlight corner of the Back Forty pending a Haz-Mat evaluation.

Fast forward a week. The ball and Ben are still one.

It's True Love. Skanky Tennis Ball-style.

The transformative nature of snow, or, bossy dog

The winter's been tolerable up to this point. Operative words: Up to this point.

An inch of snow here, an inch there. Enough to flock the trees and make them look pretty while filling in the ruts and pock marks left by cross country skiers and dog walkers after our circuits around Comstock Park.

But Monday took care of that. A seven-inch dump. So much for the 2 to 4 inches, Mr. Weatherman.

And there was the small matter of another three inches Thursday night.

You didn't hear it here, but it IS kind of pretty. . . . for about 45 seconds.

One of Miz Cricket's more reasonable sticks.

The arrival of serious snow electrifies the dogs at Comstock. They slip the mantle of puppy school good manners and run, crazy happy, scooping up bites of snow and playing tug-of-war with the branches of trees -- often two and three times their size -- broken off in earlier winter storms. They roll and tumble, wrestle and root, chasing sticks and snow balls through a blanket of white 6 and 7 inches deep in places.

Even Ben. The King of Comstock Gravitas who turns 12 next month.

The snow makes him wild and bossy.

Tuesday, he tore up the park with Miz Cricket. Wednesday, he gamely tried to keep up with a canine crew 10+ years his junior as they churned around the trees down by the tennis court like a troupe of furry Maytag washers. He glares and "Hfffs" and shakes his head if someone come too close to the treasured pine cone or stick he's gnawing on.

Of course, these frenzied hijinks usually last for about 3 or 4 minutes before Ben stops, snorts a couple times and trots back over to me with a "See-I've-still-got-it" look on his face. He is almost 12 after all.

But the most fascinating transformation -- Ben has become highly vocal and opinionated around the matter of throwing sticks. Yes, I am now the one followed by a gray dog issuing short, spoiled, peremptory barks every 60 seconds or so until a stick is found and thrown. You can't miss us.

And if said stick can't be found in a timely manner, ie, Pacific Ben Time, I also get goosed.

Not there.

I'm talking a cold, hard dog snout persistently banging against my hand and wrist. That's hard to do AND bark every 60 seconds, but Ben, with his usual elan, manages it with embarrassing ease.

Ben and I are quite the pair these days -- bark! bang bang! find stick! throw stick! chase stick!

Return and repeat again.

So, next time you're up at Comstock, stop by and say "Hi." I'm the one with Sparky, the mechanical barking dog. Comes with a goosing option.

And, by the way, Snow? Next time, maybe a little less transformative?