“Oh, here we go…. He loves the ladies, don’t ya Dixon!” proclaims one
of the middle-aged white guys hanging out in front of the open garage. The tired Australian Cattle dog
heaves himself off his lying down position on the driveway. He slowly rises, his brown eyes eager, but his
old doggie body not keeping up. I remember when he was a young, spry mutt. Running
around on the lawn, tossing toys up in the air, trotting over to me, tongue
out, step spry.
But now? He’s
another animal.
I’m
squatting down at his level, my hand out to greet, and he finally makes it up
to me for a nuzzle and a cuddle. He’s so cobby and plush, his fur that grey
mottled thickness that distinguishes his breed. When Owen Hill and I were together,
he wanted an Australian Cattle dog so bad. We called them ‘Ready-to-Go’ dogs
since they were always full of energy and bounce.
We never got this dog. It just wasn’t feasible, living in small north Oakland apartments with no yard. Besides the fact that the two tortoise-shell cats, Gertrude and Alice, would have been livid.
As I pat Dixon
now, I ask his age: “13” one of the men tells me.
“Ah,” I murmur.
Not a young dog anymore.
But then
none of us are young anymore. I find myself mystified by the aging process.
Looking in the mirror, I don’t recognize myself. Where did I go? I feel the same
inside. Well, mostly. There are certainly moments where I wonder where that inner
self went too. At this point, I’ve been so many different selves. The angst-ridden
teenager. The confused 20-year-old. The professional 30-year-old. The wild 40-year-old.
The now what? 50-year-old. The I better get it done soon 60-year-old.
Dixon lets
me pet him for a few moments, then turns and heads back to his spot in the shady
driveway.
“Yup, he
does love the ladies,” one of the men repeats, chuckling.
“That’s cuz
we all appreciate how handsome he is!” I grin.
Both men laugh, nodding. I glance up at them. They aren’t handsome. They’re old geezers, dressed in dirty overalls, wearing backwards ball caps on their thinning crowns, their faces pale and wrinkled in the late morning light.
But I know I’m
no beauty either. Only Dixon keeps his looks. Old as he is, he’s still a
stellar example of a Ready to Go dog.
I wonder
why dogs (and cats) never show their age like people do. It’s because of their
fur, of course, we can’t see their skin like we can with people. But also, I think
it’s part of their wild animal spirit, too. Even though Dixon is slowing down,
he still possesses that Ready to Go persona. I can see it in his eyes, bright
and intelligent.
And, he
knows a lady when he sees one, I think, grinning to myself in all my ladyness.
“You guys
have a good day,” I call out to the men, turning to continue my walk up 32nd
street to turn at McBryde.
“Yeah, you too,”
they both call out, the overalled man, waving a wrench in my direction. Always
working on his orange 1970s Datsun, tools are attached to his limbs.
A brisk wind hits me in the face as I turn onto McBryde. Damn, I think, I really hate the wind. But it’s worth braving the elements to pet Dixon. After all, he loves the ladies. And who could ask for anything better on a breezy Monday morning?
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