#63 PUPPY -- CHUCKIT

“I don’t know how to explain it,” I said.

“Don’t explain,” Scooter urged. “Describe it.”

He settled, belly down, on the cool, shady counter of my desk.

It’s too warm for me today. I’m Arizona born, and in my first eighteen years I absorbed enough heat to carry me to the end of life. Keep me anywhere under 72°, let the sun be slightly indirect, and I’m a decent person. The story Scooter wants described began at one o’clock, and 74° Saturday when he and I walked, not even a quarter mile, to the dog play-yard. Scooter carried his Chuckit ball. I carried its short throwing stick.

The sun was fiercely bright. As usual (I think I’ve got it right), every second, by nuclear fusion, it was converting 657,000,000 tons of hydrogen into 653,000,000 tons of helium, then converting the leftover 4,000,000 tons of mass into energy as heat and light. True, earth intercepts only about one two-billionth of the sun’s cast-off energy, about four pounds worth per second; and yeah, yeah, we can be thankful for it since it means the difference between night and day, winter and summer, life and death, but today, not even a crow’s shadow kept if from a direct assault on Scooter and me. 

By the time the two of us had traversed the up-hill walk to it; by the time I posted the red “dog at play” bucket on its post; latched the stubborn play-yard gate; and stepped inside, we were warm—Scooter in his short summer haircut, I in long sleeves fit for a sit on the balcony but not for this outing. My mood was somewhere near Tucson.

As I wrote “near Tucson,” Scooter’s paw moved to the computer’s delete key. “I meant,” said he, “describe how you tried to learn to throw the ball with the Chuckit stick.”

“Right,” I said.

I’ll be brief. I’m worthless at tossing anything in an intended direction. I wanted to learn to send the Chuckit ball far down the play-yard, the way my husband does, from this end to the other. The larger Chuckit stick has already defeated me. So, today, I took the shorter stick. Maybe that would work.

“And?”

“I’m getting to it.”

96)^5309iy-uy =

“Get your foot off my keyboard!”

Had I been playing Tennis, close to the net, my effort could have been rewarded. I managed to slam the ball forward to the ground by about ten feet. Scooter was a good sport, taking twelve or so leaping steps to retrieve it. After a few failed attempts, I remembered advice I have often shared with people: “If what you are doing doesn’t work, change what you are doing.”  I shifted to a side-arm toss. Scooter and I watched the ball fly over the tall, locked, garden wall to our left. That’s it. Ball gone.

“Mom! Here! Look!” Scooter signaled, nose pressed at a particular spot below the fence. I moved to the fence. I dropped down on my hands and knees, cheek to ground, Chuckit stick in hand, eyes peering between blades of wet grass and saw what Scooter smelled. There, inches away from us, under the fence, was the orange ball. I scratched through the soft dirt with the Chuckit stick and retrieve it. How lucky were we!

“One more toss, Scooter.” I was up, wiping dirt from the ball and from my pants.

I used a powerful forehand stroke, my dominant hand swinging across my body in the direction I meant for the ball to fly. It flew! It flew powerfully to the fence on the right, about twenty feet ahead of where I was standing. I watched it determine to do again what it did when it flew over the fence on the left. It was about to score a second home run.

“Damn,” I said, losing the ball to another walled garden.

Scooter watched the ball leave.

Then, imagine our surprise! The ball hit hard the top of a fencepost standing taller than the horizontal  boards. “Thuang!”  It bounced back into the play-yard. It flew the distance I originally hoped for. It was beautiful. Scooter was on the chase, extending his body to a full run to retrieve the ball.

I picked up the Chuckit stick, the leash, and the bag of treats. Enough of the sun’s generous gift of light and heat. Enough of trying to gain mastery over a stupid device for throwing a ball.

“That’s the story you want told?” I asked.

“I like that story,” said he. “You cussed. You seldom do. That part was funny.”

 Scooter rested his chin on his front paws, checked through the window for things outside he might need to notice. The room is cool. The sun blocked by shades. The Chuckit stick and ball stored. 

Scooter thinks we should keep trying.l