June 2015 - Gatsby's Senior Moment

Gatsby's Senior Moment

-by Eric Beeman

            In the meadow on a hill shrouded by a morning mist on what would become a very hot day, a doe breakfasted on new grass, clover flowers, and other field offerings. Instinct intact, Gatsby sprung from the mowed path toward the animal whose white tail took flight toward the opposite side of the meadow.

            When Gatsby reached the tall grass his haunches tried to follow his muscle's memory. Ten years ago he galloped over the same field after four deer, his Lab-Ridgeback mixed paws thumped the ground with the sound of horse hooves, running a steady race into the middle of the small herd causing the four creatures to scatter in a defensive maneuver. This confused my dog for the split of a second it took for the wild animal to disappear in the woods a quarter-mile from my sight. Gatsby followed.

            I worried, waited, and called. He returned panting, happy, wet, full and proud of his two year self. Gratified by the chance to simply try and catch them.

            This time, a decade later, his body defied him. The knees caved and his hips slipped, his rear end sank to the ground. A thing I've seen happen jumping into the car in a way that makes me wonder if I will ever be one of those people who provide a plywood ramp to the back of the car (he does love riding in it so much) or consult vet in search of anti-inflammatories or a glucosamine supplement. Not that a person can visit the vet without them finding a dozen sundry lab tests and questionable recommendations that feel as thought they are designed to drain the money from your sympathetic wallet. Though lately, my own body aches lean toward empathy. I'm aging too, at a slower rate but nonetheless distinctive downgrade in physical prowess.

            Gatsby gave the meadow a cheated look then adjusted, back on all fours and trotting on the low growth of the footpath headed in the wrong direction. I called him the right way around, happy to witness a limp-free trot toward me.

            Just then a hyperactive white and brown dog with the curly coat of lamb and a patch of brown fur around his eye bounded up the hill, sniffed Gatsby once and ran into the deer scented grass before Gatsby could sniff back.

            "Nice to be young!" I said to the mistress following behind.

            "He's not young," she responded as if I accused her of something criminal.

 "He's four years old."

            "Oh. Four is young," I said and walked away with my senior canine, feeling warned off from talking people. Even from dog people.

            As I walked I re-thought and replayed in my mind what I could have said to the  woman instead. For example: "You're right!" People enjoy being told that. But it was too late for corrective action.  That standoffish woman probably would have shrugged off such a nicety anyways.

            Next time only speak if spoken to.

            Gatsby and I represent a pair of species matched to give the other what he lacks. Scavenger chooses the provider and the loner chooses the social beast. A symbiotic relationship founded millennia ago. A way to coexist and persist before the Sixth Great Extinction comes to undo the world we know. The asteroid, fire or flood that will send the current crop of vertebrates into oblivion. The Earth always shakes off what threatens diversity in the biosphere.

            Pope Francis, between encyclicals, challenged his flock not to substitute giving birth to children with keeping pets. An odd thing to preach against considering he's the namesake of a saint known for loving animals. But not surprising, given the fertility rate required to maintain popular and economic relevance in the competition for global indoctrination.

            Well that is just what I have done. Substituted humanity for caninity. He is my substitute child. Gatsby, not Francis.  I am not particularly religious but highly attracted to the possibility of an organizing principle, a purpose beyond ME that doesn't involve taking on other people's problems. Kind of like a dog.

             

            And yet now, a week after the failed deer hunt, Gatsby temporarily leaves me for a pretty white two-year old Siberian named Nanuk, joining her and her handsome owner who looks to be fifteen years younger than me. He wears the same color shorts and t-shirt as me but dons work boots instead of running shoes. I thought dogs rely on scent not wardrobe markers but Gatsby can't seem to tell where I am.

            "I guess he's yours for the day!" I shout over, breaking the don't speak rule

            The guy takes pity on my abandonment and walks the newly formed dog-pack my way to redirect Gatsby back toward his rightful owner.

            "How old is she?" I ask.

            "Two."

            "She's gorgeous," I say. "He's coming up on twelve soon and getting senile apparently."

            "At twelve he has every right to."
            "You're right. This is his one big walk for the day."
            "Nanuk never stops."

            "Two is the age of non-stop action."
            "She'll slow down when it gets hot. Thankfully."

            "Dogs ultimately know their limits. Funny, Gatsby doesn't usually like female dogs unless they are in heat."

            "She can be persistent."

            "I'll say."

            "Welp, have a good one. "

            "You too."  I answer feeling glad to have had an un-damaging conversation with a stranger.

            As we part, I wonder if in ten years Nanuk's owner will become like me. Playing out the clock. Keeping to himself and wondering whether or not to build a handicap ramp so his Nanuk can get in and out of the car without injury. Forgetting about his own sore knees as attends to the slowing down of his once rambunctious charge.

            Gatsby decides to rest. He digs at the earth and lays down to pant. I used to stop him from digging, but why? Go ahead, give in to instinct my friend. Do what you can to be you.

He settles his sore legs in the cool dirt and connects his line of cataract glossy vision toward me to make certain I will stay.  He is doing what is best for him, and so I must be too.

            Dog, deer and dad at dawn, perfectly okay with giving up the chase.