#31 PUPPY - SCOOTER SUBLIME, A TRICKY TEEN
The sock game has been upped a notch.
Scooter the toddler took to the theft of my sport socks as ceremony. When I open my closet door, he swiftly slips to the open stack of socks, snitches a pair, retreats to an easily seen site and waits. Spotting him, I will sing that the game is on.
“Scooter!” It’s a bit of a sweet question. “Scooter’s got mom’s sock?” Scooter is pleased. The mom feigns surprise. She moves to the treat bowl. He doesn’t miss the move.
“Scooter. Sock. Get it. Come!”
It’s me, Scooter Sublime. Maybe you’ve seen dogs fly through the air in pursuit of a frisbee. Personally? I lunge for the socks tucked under my front feet. I seize it, surely as a flying collie nips a prize from the air. I fly to my mom, prize in tow.
“Release,” she says. I pretend reluctance, eyes down, socks softly clamped between my beautiful big boy teeth. She sometimes repeats, “Release.” And, I do. Because, there, in her hand is a reward.
That was Scooter the Toddler. Scooter-the-Near-Adult has discovered that “Socks” is, as the word implies, a plural situation. There are two; two to be torn away from each other, and once separated, why not chewed on, or at least bargained for separately. And, really, why not two pair, or three, snatched at a time. The game is upped a notch. But, what’s this? The closet door is closed. What’s wrong with her?
Look, I say, I’ve heard my mom often enough quote the French philosopher Emilè Chartier, “Nothing is more dangerous than an idea when it is the only one you have.” She should be impressed by my use of that advice. For instance, they, my human mom and dad, had one idea when they hung the balloon.
You who follow me in the progressive Scooter saga may remember the “Bump the Balloon” game. The balloon, blown not quite to full, hangs in the middle of a doorway from a length of curling ribbon. I have to jump a bit to bump it, my people don’t. Mom bumps, the balloon flies and settles back, nearly centered again when, I jump and bump, or my human dad does. This game can get fairly fierce. The goal of the game, from a human perspective, is my exercise. Their cranium is not canine, clearly. Exercise is their idea. Mine? My goal is to own the thing, and it didn’t take long before I realized how I might. They can bump the ball all they want. I aim for the string, there, at the point where it strangles the balloon’s knotted neck. It’s not easy, believe me.
While modern universities encourage wild dreams and creative unfocus, I’m of the old school — enforced discipline, sharp focus on fundamentals. That’s me. While the humans happily bump the bottom of the air-bouncing balloon, I aim higher. I mean for the balloon to belong to me. And this is the truth, the day I succeeded, the morning I said, Forget Bumping, I jumped, bit the balloon’s neck, pulled it and its string away from the door, lodged it tight between my tremendously beautiful teeth, and ran. I ran and ran and ran. I shook that trophy to its sure death. I sealed its fate, signaled by a loud pop!, and I left it where it died, lifting my eyes in complete surprise, asking my people if, ultimately, this was the intended end of the game.
Apparently not. My dad hung a relative to the deceased in the doorway. Only, this time, he hung it a bit higher. I can jump to bump but not high enough to bite the string. Smart move on his part. But, I’m a problem-solver.
I’m a problem-solver, and I’m an idea-expander. ( See the video below.)
It goes something like this. My human dad saw what I saw, and said, “Oh no, look at the trail, the rain has ruined it.”
I said, “Oh yes! Look at the trail! It’s a creek! It’s an opportunity! Its a slip-n-slide! It’s a miracle if I’ve ever seen one! It’s a new idea rained down on a predictable one. What could be better!
What’s with this “Oh no” business?
On my people’s behalf, I repeat: “Nothing is more dangerous than in idea when it is the only one you have.”
Stay tuned.
