A Croc and Ball Story
Last year, at my wife’s urging, I wrote a book about her dog, Cecil. The book is 80 pages long, is called Eat Play Poop, and is about the good fortune of one rescue dog who landed in the lap of luxury, as told from the perspective of the unbelieving husband. I won’t claim that the book is a page-turner, but I enjoyed writing it since the entire experience of dog ownership is relatively new to me. As I chronicle in the book, my prior pet experience consisted of my sister’ dog, who I had to bribe into the house with a precious piece of midwestern bologna. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined sharing a home with a dog who basically runs the household, gets continuous attention and care, has more winter coats than I have and is allowed to consider the width and breadth of our apartment as his personal playground.
Cecil’s amusement of choice is ball-chasing. That’s not too unusual for a dog, but for a small dog like Cecil, what is a little strange is that Kim has decided that Cecil can’t have as much fun with regular sized tennis balls as he can with special smaller ones that look the same but are diametrically smaller and host a squeaker in their center. Cecil’s ball program consists of attacking new balls until the squeaker is neutralized. He then focuses his attention on two fundamental ball games. One is to “juggle” two balls as he pushes them across the floor. This looks pretty intense and actually may constitute an actual skill that not just any dog could do. The other game is to push the balls, one after another, under and into any tight and difficult space he can find. Balls go under furniture all through the house. And once in a while,balls go into even stranger places.
My mother lived to the age of 100. She liked dogs, but never met Cecil. She probably would have liked Cecil and had I complained about any of his quirks, she likely would have told me that dogs will be dogs. I seem to have inherited my mother’s good genetic make-up. At 65 I get good health check-ups despite my abject refusal to follow anything approximating a healthy lifestyle. One affliction I do suffer is that my large size causes my daily fluids to accumulate in my lower legs. This edema is not a diabetes or pulmonary or coronary issue according to my doctor. Other than causing me to take a daily diuretic and making my toes numb (I’m guessing it’s from a squeeze play on my lower leg nerves), there is no adverse symptom. But foot and toe numbness has its problems. If I stub my toe it eventually hurts, but it’s sort of a delayed reaction. Not exactly a show-stopping problem. Even though I did see a neuropathist and a neurologist, there were no obvious solutions. This just becomes a situation one lives with and remembers how much worse life could be.
Now lets get personal. I’m a casual guy. I’ve worn a suit pretty much every day of my business life for 43 years. By my math that means I’ve worn a suit 42% of my days on this earth. For that reason, when I do not need to wear a suit, I consider it my right to dress down. I’ve known people who feel dressing down means wearing an ascot. Others think overalls are necessary for relaxation. I, for one, find socks to be a nuisance, and if I can avoid socks, I enjoy going casual without socks. Not to overthink this, but not all shoes do shoeless well. I personally have become a fan of Crocs. I could extoll the virtues of the brand, but suffice it to say that I find Crocs very easy and comfortable without socks (all at a very reasonable cost, I might add). I have several versions of Crocs including a particularly cozy pair of flannel-lined ones.
The stage is now set for my drama of the week. On Saturday, my wife and I decided to take a small road trip out to Sagamore Hill, the country home on Long Island of President Teddy Roosevelt. We drove out and walked around the grounds for a few hours without incident. That evening when I removed my Crocs I noted a somewhat mangled and bloodied second toe on my right foot. I assumed there was some sort of rub in my Croc that I had irritated. I knew that my toe numbness probably allowed this to happen without early warning. My wife bandaged my toe.
The next day I walked several blocks in the morning to no ill effect and then went to a cabaret show with my wife in the afternoon. On the way home, my right foot toes began to ache so I knew my foot problem had returned. When the Crocs came off the toe came out badly mangled and bloodier yet. I decided somewhat belatedly to check inside the Croc, not looking for the problem as much as checking to see if I had bled all over my favorite shoes. Lo and behold, what to my wondering eyes should appear in the Croc, but a bloodied small tennis ball jammed up into the space where my second toe would logically fit. Mystery solved.
Apparently, Cecil likes hiding his ball in my Crocs. I should have known. I should have checked. Who suffers with a shoe like that? Well, I guess a guy with numb toes who loves the comfort of Crocs and is still not attuned to the play habits of the over-indulged city rescue Bichon. My wife found this all quite hilarious. She immediately took pictures of the toe, the ball and the flannelled Croc. She texted the episode to my three adult children. I dare say it made their day. One can’t believe I put up with a dog. The next wonders how I can live with numb toes. The other thinks I’m prehistoric for wearing Crocs. The common element is that they each and all had their day made by my brief bout of toelio.