Lab Love

This past weekend, as I was relaxing with my steamy cappuccino and pouring over the Sunday newspaper ads, Jack, my rambunctious yellow lab, thrusted his wet nose into my leg begging me to get up from my comfy chair to play ball with him. Normally, I don’t hesitate at the opportunity to run around the house and burn a few extra calories; however on this particular Sunday morning, I didn’t want to break the unbelievable air of silence and inner peace I was feeling inside. But, knowing I didn’t want to disappoint my crazy mutt, I slowly let the caffeine take over and felt my energy level increase as Jack sat patiently, watching me, puzzled. I managed to muster up enough energy to swipe the soggy, red, tennis ball from his mouth. I made the decision that the newspaper could wait.

As I got up from the kitchen chair, I quietly hunched over and sashayed in stealth mode, in my socks and jammies, to creep behind the couch and out of Jack’s site. This always marks the beginning of our little ritual. I pretend that I can’t see Jack and he pounces around the corner of the couch, then I let out a surprised, loud howl that seems to satisfy him in his own doggy way.

My husband, who is now parked on the family room sofa, rolls his eyes as to imply, ‘here we go again’. This quiet sarcasm of his does not phase Jack or I as we continue to circle the room in our warrior dance; Jack strategizing how he will sequester his red, round, squeaky ball and me plotting to outsmart the dog. Just then, I lift my hand far back behind my head, holding Jack’s red ball in position, like a sling shot waiting to shoot. Jack is now in a bent stance, his right paw pointing towards the hallway where I usually throw his ball so that he can get a head start, as if he’s stealing a base. Within seconds, I propel the soggy ball which zooms across the room, barely avoiding a tall vase on its travels through the house. Jack takes off like lightening speed. I could almost see his face drawn back as if he was in a wind tunnel. As he leapt for the ball, I positioned myself in defensive mode as I readied myself for my ritual workout.

Jack ran furiously around the coffee table holding the ball in his mouth, like he was an overworked farmer trying to churn his own butter. Meanwhile, I’m jetting from side to side not quite letting him make his full turn as I deeply lunge, with each back and forth motion, to work my upper thighs, while pretending to go after the ball. This really is a great form of exercise. My husband, as if he knows what will be asked of him next, places his leg on the coffee table to form a bridge in Jack’s path so that with each passing from side to side, Jack has to leap over his leg like a horse jumping barriers. We continue this dance for about 5 minutes as Jack’s leaps turn to crawls under my husband’s leg to avoid yet another jump over the barrier.

Jack’s slobbery tongue is now hanging from his jaw as he’s panting of pure exhaustion. I look at him feeling exhilarated and satisfied and still full of energy. He gives me a tired puppy dog look and plops onto the cool, wood kitchen floor, panting heavily as he extends his arms and legs, preparing for his nice, cat nap. I manage to find my camera and snap my victory picture of him just before he dozes. As I’m reviewing the photo, I hear a small snoring coming from below me. Jack is now sound asleep, the ball tucked in with him and his leg twitching while in his dream state. A peculiar smile rolls across his sleepy face and then I knew he must have me beat.

I walked quietly back over to the kitchen table where my newspaper was waiting and the coffee was still steaming and sat back to finish where I left off.