Teddy is the Golden Retriever. All love and bravery and foolhardy energysotaut it seems as if it will break him in two. I got him after the divorce; he’s been at my side through much. Maybe he’s seen more; some jerk ran over him and broke his leg. Never stopped. Teddy has steel rods up and down his right front leg. Never complains. I do. I don’t know if they’ll ever catch the human flotsam who did it — a witness says he was in a newer BMW that never slowed — but I sure hope god is a dog.

Esme is the Boston Terrier. She came later. All brains and cunning and snoringlove. She will literally sleep in your lap for hours. I’ve timed it.

When their favorite toy, the plastic bone, goes into the pool, Teddy dives headfirst, temperature be damned. He grabs the bone, hoists it over the water as if it were electronic. Swims his pride to the side of the pool, where Esme waits and takes it, brings it to my feet. This is not a grudging relationship at all. i believe they love each other. They just bring their own strengths to the table.

One day, toy goes in, lands on a raft. Teddy dives in, scrambles on the raft to the toy like my love depends on his speed. Toy drops off, plunk, begins floating to Esme, patient at pool’s edge.

Teddy is frantic. Rolls off. Faster to swim than paddle this human contraption. Splashing and panting and seeming to grin. But the bone, it appears, will reach Esme first. So patient, she is.

Near the edge. Esme leans, opens her tiny mouth, which somehow can carry a toy nearly as large as she. Like Michael Phelps, Teddy lunges at the final moment, dives his head into the froth, straining to out-muzzle Esme. Somehow, he does. He splashes victorious, heads to the shallow end, where Esme trots to take the toy, to exact her patient revenge.

But there’s something to that sprint, isn’t there? To lunging and splashing and grinning even when it seemsjustoutofreach. Teddy will have that toy perhaps 30 seconds. So what? He could care less. Better to have dived headfirst, hold that beloved even for a second, yes?

Sometimes I envy what those hounds live every day.

To the little victories, however fleeting.

My precious

i love the kong ball. it’s just the right size to drive esme insane.
see, her mouth is just BARELY BIG enough to carry the kong, if it’s dry. it’s funny. it has to be heavier than her skull, and she kind of runs with it with a cocked head, like she’s listening for worms.
anyway, i’ve discovered that, when the kong is wet, she can’t carry it. it slips out. rolls a bit. drives her nuts. she’ll start pawing at it, almost angrily. she’ll rise up on her hind legs and punch it with her front paws. stupid ball.
only because i’m a prick, i like to dunk it in the tub before we play. i’ll toss and call her name when she’s trying to pick it up. make her want it badly. ‘eeeeessssmmmmmeeeeeeee.’ ‘where’s the toy, esme?’ ‘boy, i sure wish i had a toy to throw to a dog.’
she goes berserk. sometimes she’ll begin to sprint to the jacuzzi without it. ‘to hell with that. piece of shit ball. i’ll just go up there and get scratched like i never even wanted that dumb…’
and then she will stop in her tracks, dart back to that delicious orb. ‘i can’t quit you, baby. just roll over for mama. stick that divot up in the air for me.’ and she’ll wrestle and wrestle and wrestle. she ain’t leaving.
the ironic thing is, teddy is right there to help. he’ll stand a few feet away and watch the sumo match. ‘i can pick that…ball?… up and take it anywhere you want. i could even take it to dad, cuz he sounds like he reeeeaaaally wants it. oh, and check out the turd i just left. it’s awesome!’
but every every time he gets near the kong, esme lunges, snaps him away.
finally, she gets it in her maw. trots to the tub. she’s panting hard, so it makes her look like she’s smiling. maybe she is. ‘now try hiding in the grass, sumbitch.’
she’s coming up the stars. the kong hits the third stair, rolls out of her mouth. she watches helplessly as it drops underneath the four-step platform to the jacuzzi.
she ain’t panting now, so the smile is gone. now she’s fucked. she’s gotta wedge her globular head in the wood frame, bat at the ball with her noggin (she couldn’t pick her nose with those deformed little legs, let alone reach a under a stair) and hope it rolls out.
20 minutes. i swear, six songs played on itunes before i heard a thump and saw the kong roll out.
she pounces, picks it up without any problem.
i see why. it is caked in mud, dirt, grass, shit and slobber from her brutal courtship.

 
now she’s got it, though. sisyphus at the top of the hill. she places the crap-covered kong precisely on the ledge, grinningpanting with more vigor than before, and stares at me.
‘throw it, motherfucker.’
to the sheer force of will, even in the face of stairs.