Just having a ball

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 05/12/2018 (2787 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

You are probably jealous of me because I get to spend most of my working life sitting at the home computer in my ratty bathrobe and staring blankly out the picture window, waiting for professionally amusing thoughts to form.

It is a pretty sweet existence, but I should warn you that writing from home is not without its hazards.

For starters, a large part of my day is spent answering phone calls from people/recordings who want me to know that I have won a tropical cruise, or that my Visa card has been stolen by terrorists, or that the Canada Revenue Agency has issued a warrant for my arrest because they have nothing better to do.

But the biggest roadblock I face in terms of being productive at home is the fact that I am a dog owner and my beloved pets feel it is their duty, when I am attempting to focus on some fleeting thought, to race to the front window and bark at invisible things they believe pose an imminent threat to home security.

My dogs are capable of emitting several hundred barks per minute at the decibel level of a nuclear blast, which can be distracting when you are trying to decide whether it is funnier to describe yourself as being “larger than a major kitchen appliance” or “roughly the size of a convenience store.”

Normally, I wouldn’t complain about this, but lately it has become even more difficult to work at home. I hate to point fingers, but the dogs and I agree that our beloved dog-loving mayor, Brian Bowman, is to blame.

What happened was back in September, my newest dog, Juno, and I joined the mayor and his 12-year-old miniature Labradoodle, Indiana, for a refreshing late-summer dip in the Bruce Park wading pool in St. James.

We did this to help promote the fact that, for the past two years, the city has gone to the dogs in the sense it has transformed two of its wading pools into canine-only facilities on the final day before the pools close for the season.

But that is not the point. The point is that our mayor and the city’s animal control staff were also giving the waterlogged canine visitors complimentary tennis balls to chase around the pool.

Our new dog Juno latched onto one of those (bad word) tennis balls and our lives have not been the same since. You think I am joking around in a light-hearted manner, but I am not.

I was amazed that Juno, who resembles the canine version of an adorable English street urchin, was able to pick the ball up with her mouth, considering about two months after we adopted her we had to have 28 of her teeth pulled because they were rotten, which means her little pink tongue now dangles from the side of her mouth.

To say that Juno is obsessed with that tennis ball is kind of like saying U.S. President Donald Trump is obsessed with writing Twitter posts. Seriously, it’s as if her entire life now revolves around this tennis ball, which continually gets hopelessly stuck under our couches and comfy chairs and other assorted furniture.

Whenever “ball” gets stuck, Juno instantly launches into Emergency Canine Alert Mode, wherein she flings herself onto her side, yelps pitifully and scratches wildly at whatever home furnishing is refusing to release its grip on her prized toy.

When that fails to produce results, our distraught dog will race over to the home computer, where I will be attempting to write a column such as the one you are reading right now, and will stare up at me with laser-like intensity and begin BARK BARK BARKING non-stop until I get up and follow her to wherever “ball” has become trapped.

It is exactly like watching an episode of the classic TV series Lassie, wherein the beloved collie would emit machine-gun-style barks to convey the concept that Timmy had fallen down the well, or become trapped in quicksand, or some other member of her idiotic human family had become pinned underneath a heavy piece of farm equipment.

Like Lassie, Juno will lead me over to, say, the couch in the den, and bark until I agree to lie down on the floor on my stomach, peer under the sofa, locate “ball” and then free the trapped toy from its furniture prison, either with one of my own appendages, or a broom handle if necessary.

Once this is successful, Juno’s goofy little eyes will sparkle with sheer delight and she will play play play play with the newly freed tennis ball for several minutes until… OH NO NOT AGAIN!!!… the ball once more becomes firmly wedged under the liquor cabinet or the huge leather sofa in the living room, and we will have to stage another dramatic rescue.

During a typical day, this elaborate process will be repeated several dozen times. It can be incredibly time consuming, largely because I am not as flexible as I used to be and, after setting “ball” free, it takes me several minutes of intense groaning and creaking to get my body off the floor and into the upright and locked position.

I’m starting to think that she might be getting the ball stuck on purpose, because she gets a kick out of watching me struggle to get off the floor.

I’m considering complaining to the mayor, but I think I need to get in touch with Lassie first, because right now my arm is pinned underneath the hide-a-bed in our den, and that thing weighs as much as a tractor. Go get help, girl!

doug.speirs@freepress.mb.ca