From the moment we brought her home from the
San Francisco SPCA, her fervent intent has been to greet every passing stranger
with exuberant kisses and hugs. And as every puppy knows, you've got to jump to
plant a kiss on a grown-up. Not that anyone minded. She was 2 months old -
velvety black, big floppy ears and even bigger clumsy paws. And when that tail
started to wag - no, not just the tail but the entire caboose - the cuteness
factor trumped the jumping hazard every time.
"OK, Glicka. Easy, Glicka," I'd
warn as yet another giddy stranger approached in response to her irresistible
puppiness. "Easy, Glicka ... no, Glicka. No jumping. No jumping. No
jumping!" Too late.
She has proved to be a quick study. She might
not know that Glicka is the feminine construct of Lucky in Yiddish, but she
quickly concluded that "no jumping" was her second name. At the dog
park, on hearing a stranger admonish his own dog with the two-word exclamation,
as often as not she'll turn and bolt in that direction. "I'm here! No Jumping
is here!" When I'm looking for recall (training the dog to come when
called - the holy grail of puppy training), instead of "Here, Glicka"
I'm better off shouting: "No Jumping!"
That
first year went like lightning. If parents of preteens lament that their babies
grow up fast, puppy owners learn that you get just four or five months of
sidewalk-clogging lovefests centered on the cuteness of that bouncing, kissing
canine.
By the
time we celebrated her first birthday at the end of January, Glicka had grown
to a svelte 70 pounds - and she knew her name was Glicka. She had also found
her roots - her mama was a golden retriever and her daddy was a black
Labrador-rottweiler mix, or so the SPCA said - and Glicka had become a ball
hawk. Retrieving her ball became her mission in life.
At the
dog park, I pull my long-handled ball chucker way back and catapult her ball
high into the air. From a sitting position before me she's in full sprint in a
flash, nose in the air, eyes locked on the arc of the ball. She times her
arrival to allow the ball to bounce once. Then just as it reaches the
motionless pinnacle of the bounce, she leaps 4 feet into the air and snares it
in her jaws. It is a thing of beauty. She lands gracefully, turns to me to
display the rainbow ball now locked between flashing white teeth, then prances
in circles to accept my adulation. "Yahoo!" I shout to her.
"Good catch, Glicka. Good jump, Glicka!"
"Good
jump? I thought my name was No Jumping." Is that a smile as she races
toward me? "Here you go, Daddy. That was a good one. Now throw it
again!"
All dog
owners know this soft-rubber, bright rainbow ball that feels as though it's
stuffed with a marshmallow. It has surface ridges for texture. Best of all, it
contains a loud, indestructible squeaker at its core. Glicka cherishes her
rainbow ball. She's faithfully retrieved the very same ball going on almost six
months.
The few
times she's lost her ball, she's gotten anxious, almost frantic, as I helped
her find it. She runs in circles, sniffing, searching, looking. Twice I have
suffered an injury while searching for it off trail. Once, just as I found it
lodged in the crevice between two rocks on Bernal Hill, I slipped and twisted
my knee. I yelped in pain and Glicka ran to help me. I stuffed the ball in my
pocket and hobbled down the hill and into the car. She stuck with me,
whimpering almost as loudly as I. She knew I was in trouble. Eventually the
torn meniscus healed. We were only recently back to the old routine when I
sprained my ankle (same leg) hunting for the ball in the woods.
Telling
my Glicka stories in a long-distance phone call to my son, he asked,
"Aren't you guys a little old to be raising a kid?"
"Absolutely,"
I answered, but I knew there was no turning back.