Hillbilly Dawg

I’ve always sort of admired those dogs that hang out in the front yard without having to be fenced in or chained up. Just the way they acknowledge you with mild interest as you walk by, then go on with their contemplation of the grass growing or the shadows of the trees moving. They are one with the house and garden; their Buddha nature is touching.

And now I have a dog like that: not a new dog, it’s still Kayla, but she has a new habit of wanting to lie out on the front grass or the porch. Bill likes to call her a hillbilly, I guess because she’s not like them city dawgs that have to be on the leash all the time. I like to leave the front door open for some fresh air, and Kayla is free to wander in and out. The trouble is that flies also tend to wander in, but they don’t wander out so easily. And I’m not sure Cosmo is as proud as I am to own a front-porch kind o’ dawg.

So yesterday Bill and I put up a screen/storm door to keep out the flies and (in a few months) the cold wind. We (mostly Bill) worked all afternoon and the thing actually works! I mean, you never know: old house, a slightly wonky door frame, an imperfect world. But the window slides down smoothly; the hydraulic closer whooshes quietly and keeps the door from slamming, and the latch clicks in with factory precision.

That didn’t change things for the dawg, however. Her circumstances may have gone upscale, but she is true to her nature, loving lots of fresh air, friendly neighbors, and flies. So when you have some time, be sure to come on by to say howdy and sit a spell. Life is good on the porch.

The Tennis Lesson

Cosmo’s thinking is that, since summer is synonymous with vacation, it is antithetical, even anathema, to learn anything, even for “fun.” In past summers we’ve signed him up despite his protests for swimming and theater classes. But he is eleven years old and 103 pounds, and his desire for independent decision-making must also increase in weight. (Moreover, even if the Cabaret Theater hadn’t gone bankrupt last year, he really is over the experience of sharing the stage with 30 kids, most of whom are younger and don’t know their stage right from wrong.)

Cosmo gets exercise walking the dog, riding his skateboard, and wrestling with his dad, but I’d like to see him do more. I gave him some options: fencing class, swimming with friends, or tennis with me. He chose the latter. So Tuesday morning we head out with rackets, a new can of balls, bottles of water, and the dog, to the courts, which are about three blocks away.

This wasn’t a lesson in the sense that I was there to teach him something. Like any good lesson, this was not about technique; and what we learned may not be what we think we learned.
And since this isn’t really about tennis, I won’t make this about Cosmo, either (he might not appreciate that last blog, come to think of it!), but I need to start there.

In short, we both stunk. But whereas I—une femme d’un certain âge—don’t have any illusions about my tennis-playing abilities, Cosmo expects to be good at whatever he undertakes. And why not? He’s handsome without trying, smart, loved, and generally happy without trying. When he falls short of his expectations, though, he doesn’t know what to do with his intense frustration. It has nowhere to go but back on himself, and the failed attempt (as he sees it) becomes a referendum on his character. He’s a terrible tennis player, so he must be a terrible person.

It’s a twisted logic I know too well; this is so painfully me at his age. (And for many, many years after.) I remember actually throwing the tennis racket (he at least has more scruple about that than I did), ripping up the botched piece of sewing, and trashing the drawing that didn’t look exactly like the lumberjack I found in a magazine ad for art school. (“Can You Draw the Lumberjack? You May be an Artist!”) I remember feeling that I was good at nothing, and therefore good for nothing. And nothing anyone says can shift that nothing out of your head. That nothing is a boulder you keep pushing and pushing until you realize that you can let it go and watch it roll easily downhill. It sounds easy—easier than hitting a stupid yellow ball with a stupid racquet. Until you have to do it.

Thank god for the dog, is all I can say. She has another non-lesson for us: if a ball comes your way, grab it, even though someone’s going to take it away again.