Yup. Still a Puppy

For whatever masochistic reason, I find myself from time to time thinking morbid thoughts about how I’ll feel when Kemba, you know . . . reaches his time.  That is, if I’m still around.  (At my age, not a slam-dunk.)  I further torture myself by going back to when our beloved Ricky the Beagle died suddenly of a blood clot, leaving our entire family distraught.  The idea of going through this with Kemba is just too painful, and I quickly move on to happier thoughts, reminding myself that my dog is just four-and-a-half.  He’s still a puppy.

I clearly remember the “dog days” of 2015, Kemba’s first summer out at the beach in Amagansett, when he truly was a bat-shit-crazy little puppy, hyperactive to an insane degree.  He’d make us heave tennis balls into the ocean, and he’d fetch relentlessly and insistently, nonstop.  For hours.  A couple strolling by recognized Kemba as a Duck Toller, and said, “We have one of those back home.”

“Has he mellowed out at all,” I asked.

“Nope.  He’s just as active as your dog.  And he’s nine years old.”  The implication, clearly, was that Duck Tollers experience something of an extended puppyhood.

When Kemba first joined our household, we were all blown away by his speed and athleticism.  We’d never seen anything like it.  Robby was particularly proud of our jock dog.  Then Greg and Kelly brought home Ruckus, an American Staffordshire Terrier mix.  (Okay, a pit bull.)  Ruckus is basically a piece of muscle with a tail.  I’m pretty sure he’s also part kangaroo and part bunny rabbit.  This dog doesn’t run; he bounds, barely touching the ground, and covering what seems like 20 yards at a stride. Early in their friendship, I had the two dogs in the yard, and threw them a ball.  Ruckus got to it first.  I said to Robby, who was with me, “Wow.  That’s amazing.  Ruckus is actually faster than Kemba.”

“No he’s not,” Robby said.

I threw another ball.  Same result.  “See?” I said.  “Ruckus is faster.”

“No he’s not,” Robby insisted.  Okay . . .

Ruckus aside, for a long time, Kemba was still the fastest dog I’d see in town.  But then, not too long ago, he was chasing balls with a happy posse of dogs at Compo Beach, and he had some serious competition.  He was still one of the speedier dogs, for sure, but he kind of blended in.  Ana the Dog Walker (you met her in “The Most Dangerous Game” back in January) was with me, and I asked her, “Do you think it’s possible that Kemba’s lost a step?  He’s only four-and-a-half.”

“Well, if you do the dogs-to-humans thing,” she said,  “and multiply by seven, then Kemba’s in his early thirties.”  And as every sports fan knows, when athletes reach their thirties, they often have slowed down just a touch.

This hit me again earlier this week when Carol and I were doing one of our favorite Vermont hikes with Kemba — up to and around Equinox Pond in Manchester.  “Have you noticed anything different,” Carol asked, “when we walk with Kemba these days?”

“You mean that he’s not constantly dashing 50 yards ahead of us, then 50 yards behind?”  This is something he used to do constantly.  I always figured if we walked three miles, he probably covered at least 20.  And though from time to time he’ll still become possessed and run ahead like a madman, then reverse direction and charge back in my direction as if he intends to sack me, for the most part he’ll just trot along, like a good little companion.

All right, so maybe he has mellowed just a bit.  I’m not gonna worry about it.  He’s just four-and-a-half.  He’s still a a puppy.  He’ll always be my puppy.

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