At some point during the dog days of our 2017 summer, Quinn and I started in on a new pastime, call it an act. Not sure how it emerged, likely on a job site somewhere, maybe on the lawn at The Chaminade, again I don’t know. In a million dog years, I never would have thought that this would be our sort of thing, yet by golly it was. It involved a small squeaky football, and some teamwork. And with it, came heaps of glory and satisfaction.
I went with a small football because I’ve always thrown a baseball with my left hand and a football with my right. So baseball-sized footballs have always presented me with that noteworthy proposition. I went with the squeaky model because it wasn’t the annoying kind of squeak and it just had a scrumptious feel to it.
We always did our shopping at Pet Pals on Soquel Ave. It’s a giant, independently owned warehouse style pet store. I never made a point to know if I was breaking the rules by bringing a dog in un-leashed, we just did it like we owned the joint. There was likely some sign some where saying some thing about dogs being welcome but needing to be leashed, but that’s just a guess.
Nobody who worked there was ever going to say anything to me about Quinn not being on a leash. They all knew us, and loved seeing Quinn. We were in there once a week minimum, and cattle dogs just seem to get that special pass. I stopped trying to put my finger on why they are issued this pass, they just are. I actually know why, yet the reasons are unsubstantiated.
Pet stores can be strange places. Not as strange as dog parks, but strange nonetheless. Pet stores are slightly more tolerable because the majority of humans inside a pet store aren’t with their dog like they would be in a dog park. And when the human doesn’t have their dog with them, they are much less likely to strike up that superficial, one-sided conversation regarding how great or how smart their dog is. I mean imagine if every time you went food shopping, several different people came up to you and commented on what in your shopping cart, and why it’s not good for unless perhaps you were to prepare it the way they do.
For reasons both unsubstantiated and not, Quinn seemed to steal most of that unwanted attention, despite me doing my darnedest to deflect it. I always wore a hoodie and dark sunglasses when I entered Pet Pals. No eye contact, no flashy movements. Thankfully Quinn also paid little to no attention to anything either. She just followed my lead. Admittedly, the no-frills, incognito behavior could actually work against us too. I guess to some, our anti-social posturing was too contagious to let go, I don’t know.
Every once in a while a more interesting canine would be inside stealing all the favor. Purrrfect. Like a St Bernard or a monster Newfie, something out of the ordinary. And then of course there is always the puppy or the kitten that will always and forever be attention magnets too. But outside of that, the spotlight always turned to the Red Heeler without the collar or the leash.
If I was in a good mood, I’d sometimes give in and play along with the attention that came our way. Bad mood, forget it. And here’s why: In one form or another, the more time I spent chit chatting with another dog owner that I did not know, the greater the chances were that they would find a way to comment on the lump on Quinn’s back left leg. “None of your dumb business” was the tempting reply. “Aw, thanks for your fake concern” also seemed to hover near the tip of my tongue. Dog shaming is alive and well in pet stores and it really gets under my skin. Fact is, it would have been a heck of a lot easier to just leave Quinn in the van but she loved going inside Pet Pals more than really anything else in the whole wide world, so I had no choice.
Football. I remember initially buying one of these aforementioned cheap footballs, liked the composition so much that we went back a few days later and bought two more. So I had three of these toy widgets. All neon-colored. One was yellow. One blue. One orange. All the same brand. All slightly ribbed. Very soft, and forgiving. I guess they would have been thin rubber. Maybe they were a certain kind of plastic. A tennis ball it was not.
Oh yes, the tennis ball. For a good 18 months there, it was always the tennis ball. Like it is for most dogs everywhere. For us it was mainly because she(we) knew exactly where to find them free of charge. And finding them was actually a game too. I would even go so far as telling her to go and fetch us a new Penn 4, and if she came out with an older Wilson 6 I would send her back in. Back into the Azaleas. Azaleas that lined two of the four tennis courts at The Chaminade Hotel & Spa.
Apparently, balls would get hit over the fence and into a thick patch of Azalea bushes that nobody dared to enter. We would pass this row of Azaleas twice every morning on our 2k jog. Unprompted and many times without me even seeing her disappear, Quinn would make her way into that Azalea scrum and without fail she would come out with a tennis ball in her mouth. I would then look at her as though I were amazed and of course tell her what a good girl she was. I’d put the ball in my pocket and we would carry on. At one point I must have had 20—30 tennis balls in my van. I could have had hundreds, but I only held onto the fresh ones.
Quinn had become very good with the tennis ball. Not great, very good. Great is reserved for the labs and retrievers out there, those bigger mouthed dogs that can practically hide three tennis balls at once in their soft mouths. Quinn had a much smaller, stiffer, fox shaped nose and mouth area. Regardless, she was treated to plenty of ball time, but fetching a ball was never part of our true everyday.
And for this reason…among a few others…I never would have guessed that we’d become the team that would have uncovered this new act of ours. Yet, for a couple three four good months there, it was on like Donkey Kong. Here is exactly how it played out:
For one, the game always began long before it even began. I would pique her interest with a theatric or two. Before I would even show her the toy I would give it a couple squeaks to make it seem like we were now about to enter the greatest dog dimension possible. When I would finally show her the thing, I always gave it one final squeak before putting it in her mouth. With the level of created excitement, coupled with its relatively small size, I definitely had to watch my fingers.
Boy how she loved this game. And that is why she would take the ball and go to where she thought the game was going to be played. Making it squeak the whole time. One of the elements that I loved most about this game of ours was that it could be played in a confined area. We didn’t need a lot. Shade and grass were best, but not necessary. 100 square feet was more than enough.
Quinn would stand a few yards away, laser focused on the football. I would role it off my upward facing open palm in a perfect spiral, maybe 5-6 feet in the air, and within her near proximity. Not right to her, rather near her. She would jump for it in such a way that way more often than not she’d land on all four legs at the same time. Much like how a cat would land. Much like some of them trick frisbee dogs might land. That was the goal anyway. This wasn’t designed as a high impact game. Rather a choreographed game of finesse and style that we could perform at different times throughout the day. Usually we’d play for about 3-5 minutes. It wouldn’t take long for her heart rate to be up and her tongue to be out.
A late season call came my way from a nice lady who’s deck I had refinished three years prior. She was hoping that I could love it up again before winter. It was a project that I really enjoyed last time for all my favorite reasons. It was a really well built deck that cleaned up very well providing excellent before and afters for the portfolio. I remembered her for regularly offering up food and drink which is always nice.(wink). She also lived very close by the RV, along the frontage road towards the bottom portion of Highway 17 near the fishhook. And yes, she was a total dog person.
Last time I was there, I utilized a patch of public grass next door to her house to eat lunch, return calls, take breaks, that sort of thing. There was a wooden picnic table under a monstrous oak tree. When the call came in, my mind went to the lunch spot, and I immediately connected it with being an ideal arena for Quinn and I to perform our act. I gladly took the work and we had a very enjoyable week doing it.
November 10th was payday. The check was already in hand. Everything had already been loaded back into the van. Our 2017 work season had a fork stuck in it, thank heavens. Before driving away I decided to treat Quinn to one more round of fun and game.
And that’s when it happened.
I flipped the football over her left shoulder like I had now probably done 1000x, and she did her 180 degree rodeo flip like she had done 1000x prior. All of a sudden, out of the thinnest of air, without any warning, both of Quinn’s eyes began glowing.
It was not normal. In fact it was the furthest thing from normal. There seemed to be a shift or a tilt that had taken place in both lenses.I remember lightly pressing on her eyelids trying to make it go away. Nothing seemed to help. She appeared disoriented.
I was totally freaking out and didn’t know what to do or where to turn. That’s about all I can remember. Everything else about that late Friday afternoon in early November became a total blur.