He didn’t get up and visit like he normally does. Usually, it’s like clockwork, 8:30 in the morning and he pokes his nose into our bedroom. I know because oftentimes I am waking up just as he arrives. It’s not any noise that he makes. Think the ticking of a clock; he arrives and I wake up.
But today (May 19) he doesn’t come to our door. It’s 9:30, 10, 10:15 before I go downstairs, and see him, still sacked out on his parlor bed. Maybe it’s the day, I think, dreary and pissing rain. He hasn’t spat-howled to the thump of the Sunday Times on the front door. Soon, though, he is up, has his breakfast and is ready for his walk.
At three, he’s a different dog than he was at two. Subdued, less likely to lunge at kids on scooters or men wearing stacked headgear. Which is a good and bad thing. Perhaps, I think if I let myself, he’s lost a spirit-step or two, and that’s what I’m thinking when – both of us soaked – a fellow stops us, gloomy Gusses we are, and beams a smile, saying, “Izzat a redbone?”
I say, yes, and the man with the trussed-up headgear approaches Thurber – and that can be bad – but not this fella. T’s tail flies into whirlybird and he immediately takes to the man’s extended hand.
“I had a redbone,” he says.
“They’re not ideal for the city,” he says, admonishing.
“I know,” I say.
“You have to run them.”
“I do,” I say proudly, as the three of us walk toward the dog run. The rain has picked up. I’m glad I have an umbrella, but the man and the dog don’t seem to be phased by the sudden drenching.
“I can see that,” he says. “He looks great.”
“Thank you,” I say, smiling for the first time all day. He walks ahead of us, but then stops and looks back, grinning ear to ear.
“My dog lived to be sixteen, but he ran and swam to the very end. I live in Red Hook by the water, and he ran the beach and just loved to swim. Out on his own into the harbor.”
“Thurber loves to swim. He really takes to it.”
“They do.”
“You’ve made my day, thanks.”
We exchange waves and he goes on.
The dog run is empty when Thurber rushes to a blue object, a squeaky toy that someone has left behind. For a long time we play fetch with the toy in the pouring rain – just like he did when he was a pup.
Next: Running for Your Life: Going Your Own Way
