Nothing to Do

 

http://www.lisegagne.com  Lise Gagne.

Marching along Downer Street, I spy two senior women getting into a bright blue sedan. They look the same: curly short gray hair, thick glasses, strange stripped sweaters. Lovers? Friends? Sisters?

            I remember how my Grandma Birdie and her sister, Aunt Tea, lived together for decades after their husbands were no longer in the picture. They, too, looked the same. As a kid, I just saw two old ladies, yelling at the televised baseball games, TV trays filled with Aunt Tea’s delicious cooking. And, I’ll always remember them yelling: “Those Damn Dodgers!”

            So, today, as I approach these two old ladies, I wonder if they’re sisters like Birdie and Tea.

            Their house is across the street from the Barking Dog. Granted there are a LOT of barking dogs on my walks, but this one is especially ferocious and loud. It’s a Shephard mix and a young dog. Whenever I pass, and now I cross the street, it sets off in a tremendous frenzied barking.

            I hate it.

            As I pass the two ladies, I try to joke about it, “That dog has a lot to say.”

            One of them looks straight at me through her thick glasses, shaking her head, the short gray hair not moving an inch from a recent trip to the beauty parlor or a lot of White Rain. “And nothing to do!” she quips. “That’s the problem!”

            I laugh softly, agreeing, as I continue past them. The dog still barking its head off. And I think, yes. This is probably just what the problem is. The dog needs a job. It needs purpose in its life. Without this, it will just release all the working energy with maniacal barking.

            Poor dog.

            I do feel a little sorry for it now. It’s not its fault that it has nothing to do. I remember back to the day when before I reached the Barking Dog’s house, I saw its owner getting into a dilapidated Toyota. Another old lady. She nodded at me as the dog started in on its barking.

            “Your dog has a lot of energy,” I’d commented to her.

            “Yes,” she’d said, “it’s the breed.” And she told me a breed that I’d never heard of so now I forget. Some sort of Shephard mix.

            “What’s its name?” I’d asked, trying to humanize the beast.

            “Tasha.”

            “Oh, Tasha.” I had nodded, called out to the dog. “Hi Tasha!”

            WOOOOOFFFFFF WOOOOFFFF WOOOFFFFF! Tasha had replied.

            I had hurried away.

            Today, I know that the dog is lonely and bored. With no purpose. Like a lot of people. What do we do if we have no purpose?

            Bark a lot?

            Some people do. They just can’t shut up. But others retreat into themselves, holed up in their homes, binge watching Netflix.

            I feel sorry for these people. Yet, what can I do? If a dog needs something to do, then yes, the owner can help provide this. Take it on walks. Throw Frisbees for it to catch. Take it to a farm and let it herd some sheep.

            But people?

            This is harder. Of course, I think everyone’s purpose should just be whatever makes them happy, but this is a hard one to determine.

            Not everyone has swimming and writing and music like I do.

            I’m the lucky one.

            Or maybe luck has nothing to do with it.

            As I turn the corner onto 28^th street, I can still hear Tasha barking. The two old ladies pass me in the blue sedan. I watch as they turn left on Grant Street and head down toward 30^th Street. I wonder what they are doing today? They seem full of purpose and determination. I bet they have a full packed day with plenty to do. ...And very little barking!

She Understands ‘Cookie’

 

She’s bent over a tacky birdbath, painted a hideous green with two fake hummingbirds on its sides, yanking up the overgrowth of weeds. At least 120 years old, gray hair frazzled down the back of her neck, a hippy floral print smock dress on, she rises to see me passing. A missing tooth smile and a wave; I stop.

            Spying a large gray and white tuxedo cat behind her, I grin, pointing at the feline. “You have a cat!” Previously, I’d only seen her with the cancer-ridden 3-legged dog which was nowhere in sight. I could only surmise that it’d met its maker.

            “A what?” she hollers at me now.

            “A CAT!” I motion again at the grooming kitty behind her on the front porch.

            “A CAT?” she seems puzzled, then turns around, sees the cat, and turns back to me, grinning. “Oh, that’s Lily. She follows me everywhere I go. At night, she is on the bed with me, sleeps in my arms, during the day she is always underfoot. And she loves cookies! I ask her, ‘Lily, want a cookie?’ and she jumps around my legs, reaching for it.”

            “Ah, she understands English!” I offer, thinking of how my friend CM had a cat who understood the word ‘avocado.’ Every time CM would say the word ‘avocado’ the cat, Rusty, would come running. Not only was it amazing that Rusty understood the word avocado, but I’d never met a cat who liked avocados!

            “She does!” Lily’s mom beams, proud parent of a linguistically prow child. “And that’s not all! She understands some other words too.”

            “Like what?”

            “Oh, I don’t know. I think she understands cookie best though.” She stands for a moment, staring off into space. I wonder what is going through her mind. Does she remember me from previous conversations about the 3-legged dog? I recall a day when I had marched past her, 3-legged on a leash, balancing precariously, staring at me. “She’s not barking at you!” Old Woman had marveled. “Yes, well, she knows me,” I had said, secretly thrilled that at least one dog in the neighborhood knew me well enough to not bark at me. Or maybe this dog was just too sick and old to be bothered.

Now, she turns around and asks the cat, her voice serious. “What else do you understand, Lily?”

            The cat stops her grooming for a moment, seeming to think on the question, before turning back to a spot on her haunch that she didn’t quite finish.

            Lily’s mom nods. She knows what Lily’s thinking. There is interspecies communication going on here. And I remember how my piano student, M, told me one day how she wished she understood cats. “But one day, Miss Carol, we’ll understand Cat Language, and won’t that be awesome!”

            Indeed, it would, as I wave goodbye to Lily and her mom, who resumes her backbreaking task of weed yanking. The cat still focused on grooming. The crows cawing overhead. Another day in the neighborhood.