Life With Baxter...What I Didn't Know...

After many years of denying our boys the benefit of a dog, we caved. It’s been eleven years since we brought Baxter home, a dog that we were misguided into believing would top off at twenty-five pounds has since added an additional forty to his frame, not because of overfeeding, but because of natural growth. Apparently, his paws were a dead give-away to our vet at the first appointment, that Baxter easily would double his size. A lab and poodle mix, more poodle-like facial features, with a coat of knotted black hair except for a speckle of white hidden under his chin, he has been constantly mistaken for “that-dog-like-the-Obamas-have” breed because of his stocky stature and full face. His eyes are deep set and can get lost behind his hair when I’m late with his grooming, but it’s part of his charm and mystique and partly because of not wanting him to look like a poodle. There was no doubt in my mind that the energy that our kids exerted in their efforts to persuade us, would quickly evaporate once the victory was achieved. I knew that having a dog would require more attention than they understood or were truly willing to give. I knew that their dedication would conflict with after-school activities, with time spent with friends, and certainly with last minute plans. I knew that any plans that we made had to consider Baxter’s existence. I knew from the get-go that Baxter would become my responsibility. Life as I knew it, would never be the same. Here’s what I didn’t know. I didn’t know that my attachment to him would be immediate, and his to me. That when I wake, I have somebody always waiting for me, looking for my cue that it’s time to start our day, but never demanding anything more than what I can offer. As soon as my left foot touches the floor from the bed, it’s as if an alarm goes off indicating the start of the day as I immediately hear the clinging of Baxter’s dog tags. As the room is still hidden in darkness, I can only decipher his whereabouts from the yellow bandana that hangs around his neck. He’s my shadow into the bathroom but never in my way. Its only when we get to the stairs does he take the lead as he’s now certain where we’re headed and under no circumstances does he want to be left behind. I love watching him as he swaggers down the stairs with his tush swaying from side to side as he heads straight for the kitchen knowing its coffee first. He’ll settle to the floor, with his front paws crisscrossed over each other as a pillow for his head, patiently awaiting my movement towards the front door before heading there himself, trusting that our morning walk is imminent. And I didn’t know that our daily excursions would become a welcome ritual. His red harness is placed over his head like a tee-shirt, and then secured under his belly, always my indicator if body weight has been added. The 16-foot retractable leash is the final detail before heading out. Our biggest decision as we exit the house will be the direction we take which I generally allow Baxter to control. With my headphones securely in place while listening to an audio book or simply to nothing at all, it’s as much my time to respond to nature as it is Baxter’s. I follow his lead down our steps behind that swagger of his, in search of today’s destiny. Do we go left, or do we go right? There are no rules or established routes or methods to our madness. It’s the beauty of its spontaneity. The fresh air, whether it’s in the depths of winter or amid a downpour, awaken both our senses. Our first walk of the day is generally brisk, sometimes with the attitude of just getting this over with, as there always seems to be something else lurking to get done. Even at eleven years, Baxter’s four large paws outpace my two, taking the 16-foot leash to its limit many times with me trying to keep his pace but more commonly with me restraining him to keep mine. One minute we could be pursuing a scent that Baxter is compelled to follow, with his nose rooted in the grass, and then abruptly he’ll change course to discover new terrain, which for some reason brings visions of the animated pink panther character to mind, or we may unexpectedly stop in anticipation of an approaching dog that Baxter seemingly observed a block and a half away. On occasion during our walks, I’m deeply captivated by the plotline of my audio book, most recently, The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, so much so that by the time we reach my house, I can’t recall the path we took, only aware that nature did call due to the loaded baggie in my hand, but the thoughts about immortality linger as I question whether I would make the deal with the devil like Addie did just to live forever. It haunts me for the duration of the day. But today, as I follow Baxter to the bend in the road that initiates the gradual ascent through the neighborhood, I’m focused on my heel-to-toe strides, still to this day skipping over cracks in the pavement, while squaring my hips and maintaining a pendulum arm swing all to help alleviate my lower back discomfort as I envision my physical therapist instructing. Then I remember that I need to reschedule my PT session, and ‘oh yea’, Baxter’s grooming appointment. I can’t see his eyes. At the corner house, the homestretch, I notice Baxter walking in small, deliberate circles, turning and back-tracking three to four times which can only mean that his bowels are engaging. I’m quick with the plastic baggies from my jacket pocket, always double bagged in anticipation of what’s to follow and wait it out. ‘Oh, look,’ I say to Baxter, as I peer across the street in my attempt to give him privacy, “they’re installing a pool. Money pit,” I add, as I shake my head. But that reminds me, I need to schedule our pool opening. And then I’m carelessly surprised to be hit with patches of dirt that Baxter has flung in my direction only to realize that I’m in his direct line, and that’s what he does when he’s completed his business. Our forty-minute walks may prove to be routine, but never monotonous. Without them I would have never noticed the overbearing weeping willow that hides the entire exterior of the front of a neighborhood house, because on that day that’s where Baxter chose to relieve himself. I’m in awe of its size and the elongated branches that sweeps down to the tops of the grass. As I follow its height, I’m found starring at the home’s rotted wood shudders with many hanging off their hinges which conjures up images of The Adams Family. Then there’s the stained siding on a neighbor’s home that grabs my attention because of me being yanked in the direction of a fellow dog walker and am reminded to schedule a pressure washing. Without our walk I would have missed the high school mascot sign on our neighbor’s yard and wonder where time went but recalling with a smile all those days in attendance of our kid’s baseball games. Without our walk, I would never see the pure joy, and occasional horror, that a two-year-old experiences when they ask to pet Baxter, who is nearly triple their size as I have him sit before they approach. To see their eyes widen with each unbalanced step they take towards Baxter, reminding me of a Weeble, and then watching them reach for his body as if they were reaching for a lifeline to keep them upright, being rewarded with a lick to their hand, and on some occasions, to the dismay of their parents, to their face. It all happens in a matter of seconds, but it carries years of memories. What I didn’t know was that a dog can be your sounding board and your ally. For over eleven years our walks have solved and resolved roadblocks, formulated better talking points and contemplated differing perspectives on parental conflicts, spousal conflicts, scheduling, and social conflicts as well as personal and internal struggles. “Bax,” I’ll say, as I situate myself on the swings down by our path, our place of contemplation, with him sitting on his hind legs directly in front of me, “what do YOU think,” while rubbing the flaps of his ears with the palm of my hands, as he pants with his tongue hanging over his lower front teeth just biding his time before he lunges a lick. “Am I wrong? I don’t think so, right? Can you believe they said that? What were they thinking? What was I thinking? I mean, sure I get it, but really, who says that?” And when I speak, his deeply dark brown eyes, always with a little sleet in the corners no matter how often I dislodge them, are focused on me, never blinking, and never distracted as he cocks his head to one side as if taking it all in and allowing me my moment. That after spending a day frustrated by its own circumstances or by someone’s arrogance or even their indifference, the sheer purity of Baxter’s ordinary walks can bring the smile that I have been fighting to find. Now I know….