Old-pup body, new-pup tricks

The call comes when I’m in the middle of grading a stack of student papers, loading the dishwasher, or heading out to shovel.

It’s not a ringing phone or buzzing text. It’s a barking dog.

Cooper is in the basement, yipping insistently at me. Or, if I’m outside or not at home, yipping at my wife.

The first few times this happened, we rushed to check on him. At almost eleven, he’s well into his dotage as a golden retriever. A Facebook page dedicated to the breed displays regular posts about other goldens, a few older and many younger, who have crossed the euphemistic rainbow bridge.

So when Cooper yelps, we listen.

What he wants, however, is not to inform us of hip dysplasia, a skin rash, sore paw, or fatty tumor. What he wants is to play ball.

Forget the expensive toys at the pet store; we’ve tried them all. The fancy Frisbees. The fluffy stuffed raccoons. The plastic Kong concoction, heavy enough to bludgeon a robber into submission.

All Cooper needs is a three-pack of Wilson tennis balls with the pop-top freshness seal, like a canister of Pringles.

Since puppyhood, Cooper has been obsessed with balls. Canine Nirvana for him would be managing to fit two into his mouth simultaneously.

This fascination with all things spherical is why the floors of our house look like a tennis court. At any time, upwards of 20 balls are strewn throughout the kitchen and living room, with more in the yard. The recent snow melt that flooded parts of Ohio revealed to us tiny yellow treasures, smuggled outdoors and dropped for later retrieval, then encased in ice and covered in white.

In the past, Cooper has been content to wait for us to make time to play ball. This wasn’t always his owners’ priority. Sometimes, days would go by between backyard games. And in the winter, weeks would pass.

Maybe Cooper senses a biological clock ticking toward obsolescence, but in recent months, he’s become more vocal – much more vocal – about informing us it’s time to play.

After so many years, he’s grown weary of waiting and has taken matters into his own hands. Uh, paws.

He’s figured out all by himself that the basement is an acceptable substitute for outside, and he’s content to race among furniture and exercise equipment, chasing a ball that caroms off walls, the furnace and an old footstool.

He pants and drools and weaves like a pup. I bounce tennis balls and belt out “Are you ready for some ball-ball?” like Hank Williams Jr. on a Monday night. Cooper and I are older and grayer than when we first met, but it hardly matters. Ball is eternal.

I admit that at first I grumbled about these games, coming as I’m ready to leave for work or close to finishing a set of essays.

But I’ve learned to embrace play as a sign from the canine universe to lighten up. Good dogs — like good friends and good times — won’t be around forever. And once they’re gone, no amount of wishing will bring them back, and no volume of caught-up work will erase the knowledge that I have missed out on the really important stuff.

So we play ball at the oddest times, dreaming of a spring we hope will come, but one with no guarantee for man or beast.

It may be true that you can’t teach old dogs new tricks, but they sure can learn new ways to ask.

And they still have plenty to teach their masters.

Reach Chris at chris.schillig@yahoo.com. On Twitter: @cschillig.

This article originally appeared on The Alliance Review: Chris Schillig: Old-dog body, new-pup tricks