by Barb Howard
Simon parks his car behind the Dog Corral, where spring grass has started to grow on the median. Cooper whines. Simon gathers up the leash and the bag of dog treats and opens the back door, clipping the leash on Cooper’s collar. They walk back and forth in the parking lot, Simon hoping that Cooper will have a pee and a crap before class.
Cooper pees on the median. He tries to crap, but without success. Simon can hear the other dogs barking at the front of the building. Cooper strains a few more times, until Simon, checking his watch and seeing they are late, decides to leave the crap to fate. They walk around the building to the front door of the Dog Corral, not on a loose lead, like they are supposed to, but with Cooper lunging ahead. The trainer, a sporty and chipper woman in her fifties, holds the door open, says, “Who’s walking who?”
“We get the general idea,” Simon says.
Inside the Dog Corral, several dogs and owners are already heeling around the room, following the trainer’s orders. “Fast. Slow. Right about-turn. Left about-turn.” Cooper stalls in confusion. Simon tries to encourage him with treats and the high-pitched happy-chat the trainer suggests. Cooper switches gears and darts sideways, then barks and jumps up on Simon. Finally, Simon sits on one of the chairs set up against the wall. He closes a treat in his fist, and lets Cooper lick his knuckles. They can kill a lot of time this way.
One Golden Retriever, two Labs, a Bichon, a Boston Terrier, one annoying cattle dog that does everything right, and two medium-sized, pointy-nosed black dogs that look quite a bit like Cooper. Until recently, Simon has never noticed that Cooper and his look-alikes seem to be the genetic default for mutts. Simon has never owned a dog, but he fancies himself a beagle man. He read a story once about a retired professor who went for long walks on the moors every day—a scone in his pocket and a beagle at his side. Once Alicia and Justin have more time to take care of Cooper, Simon will get a beagle and name it Pythagoras. No he won’t. He wants more time to golf, not more time at the Dog Corral.
Now the trainer, using her what-a-good-dog voice, announces that they are going to work on their long sit-stays. Simon takes Cooper into the circle of dogs, gives Cooper the sit signal by putting his right hand to his own shoulder, and throws in what he imagines is a stern look. Cooper sits for a few seconds, whines, wriggles, then walks toward Simon. Simon gives the signal again. Cooper manages a low squat.
“Is Cooper’s bum okay?” the trainer asks.
Simon senses the eyes of all the owners and dogs shifting in his direction. He feels as if the class is looking at his bum, not Cooper’s.
“Superb,” Simon says, patting his own shoulder vigorously so as to emphasize to Cooper that a true sit requires a dog’s back end on the floor.
“At least he keeps eye contact,” the trainer says.
Cooper sits for a few more seconds and the trainer moves on to the Boston Terrier.
All the other dogs sit obediently, smug as their owners. It is so true, Simon thinks, that people resemble their dogs. Not in the direct way that they show on TV. But in a feeling, a je ne sais quoi, as the folks in the French department at Campbell Heights would say. The cattle dog’s owner, for instance, is a woman with matching shoes, belt, and treat bag, and a tense watchfulness about her, even though her dog has never broken a sit or stay. That dog will probably take down an escaped convict some day, but it still won’t be enough to make the owner satisfied or relaxed.
Cooper has eyes like Alicia’s. They are not the exact same shape or colour—after all, Cooper is a dog—but they emit the same worrisome combination of eagerness and vulnerability. No convicts will be hauled to the ground by these two. Cooper and Alicia think everyone is good.
“One minute to go,” the trainer calls.
Cooper momentarily settles his butt on the floor and then picks it up again, hovering in a strange, thigh-bursting position. This particular weirdness about sitting is new, but Cooper’s inability to sit for more than two seconds is perennial. He is the only dog in the class that has not mastered the sit-stay. In a way, Simon admires this imperviousness to training. As a teacher, he was always drawn to the kids who questioned, the ones who didn’t follow the pack. But if he is going to be of any help to Alicia, some results with Cooper are necessary. He walks Cooper over to the water bowl and waits until the sit exercise is over.
“Release your dogs,” the trainer says.
Cooper’s ears perk up and he happily prances back to their spot in the room as though he has accomplished as much as the other dogs. Simon pats Cooper. Says “Good dog” like everyone else.
Next it’s the down-stay with distraction—Cooper’s specialty, and the high point in every class. Simon puts his arm in the air and Cooper plops down. Cooper stares right at Simon throughout the exercise, even though the trainer is bouncing tennis balls and rolling baby strollers; even though the Bichon, who seemed to be such a sweetie in the sit-stay, suddenly goes berserk on the Golden Retriever. This moves the Bichon and its shamed owner to the bottom of the class, thus bumping Simon and Cooper up a notch.
While Cooper relaxes into his down-stay, Simon thinks about how the front end of the dog reminds him of Alicia, and the back end reminds him of Justin. Not that Simon has any concrete reason to think that Justin is an ass. Justin is hard-working, smart, good-looking. Always respectful to Simon. Alicia was so thrilled with Justin that she moved in with him three months after they met. They got Cooper before Alicia finished unpacking. Alicia had always wanted a dog, but when she was growing up Simon had felt they didn’t have the time to properly take care of a dog. Simon admits that he is jealous that Justin fulfilled this wish of Alicia’s. And he admits that he misses Alicia and wants to blame the void on Justin. But there is something else, too. Justin’s perfectness. There was an English teacher at Campbell Heights who showed up perfect every day. She always got her marks in on time, never got sarcastic, never raised her voice or cried. One day, she came to school in her usual tailored blouse and skirt and pantyhose, but wearing pink terry-towel slippers. She taught her morning classes, and then walked in her slippers down the block to the medi-centre, where she had a complete breakdown.
“Release your dogs,” the trainer says to the class. She claps her hands, then she speaks directly to Simon and Cooper. “Wow. What a look. You are that dog’s hero.” The next day, Simon drives over to Alicia and Justin’s place. He lets himself in. Cooper jumps on him, overjoyed, undisciplined. Simon raises his arm, Cooper drops to a down-stay, tail wagging, until Simon releases him. Simon finds a pen and a scrap of paper in the kitchen, writes a note for Alicia, then drives Cooper to the vet.
The vet pokes and prods Cooper, says, “He’s had some trauma back there. Has he been out of your sight at any time? Got a rough neighbour who might’ve given him the boot?”
“He’s not my dog,” Simon says. “I just take him to school.”
“You know the owners?”
“Not really well.”
“Let’s take an x-ray to be sure.”
Two hundred dollars later, Simon drives Cooper back to Justin and Alicia’s condo. The x-ray didn’t show anything definitive. Simon opens the door to the condo and lets Cooper in. He fills Cooper’s dish with fresh water. Alicia comes into the kitchen.
“Hi dad.”
“Hi Al, just dropping off Cooper.”
Alicia looks terrible. Puffy-eyed and pale. She’s still in her purple nursing scrubs, but the shirt with the big pockets at her hips and the sprinkling of tiny happy faces doesn’t mask the exhausted raggedness about her. Simon hopes her appearance is just due to a long shift at the hospital.
“Thanks for taking him to the vet. I thought maybe something was wrong when I walked him yesterday.”
“The vet couldn’t find anything.”
“That’s good.”
Alicia crouches on the floor, nose-to-nose with Cooper. She kisses his forehead. Cooper steps into her and rests his head on her shoulder, pushing her hair back from her face. Simon sees that Alicia’s e
arlobe is cut and swollen.
“What happened to your ear?” Simon asks. “I should have taken you to the doctor instead of taking doofus here to the vet.”
Alicia pulls the hair back over her ear. “I’ll get it checked at the hospital next shift. Caught my hoop earring on the bedpost. What did the vet cost?”
“My treat.”
“At least let me make you some coffee.”
“Not a chance. You get some sleep, Alicia.”
“I’m going to wait up and make dinner for Justin.”
“He can make his own dinner.”
“I know. He’s a terrific cook. I just feel like doing it.”
Simon reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, pulls out his leather wallet, and lays a stack of bills on the counter. “Phone for pizza, eat it, and go to bed.”
“Aw, Dad, we don’t need your money. We’ve got good jobs.”
“Just take it,” Simon says, putting his wallet back in his jeans. “Order enough pizza for the rest of the week. And get your ear checked.”
“Justin doesn’t like pizza,” Alicia says.
Simon bends, gives Cooper a gentle pat on the ribs. When he looks up, Alicia is slipping the money into the front pocket of her scrubs. He pats Cooper again, says, “Okay then, I’ve got to get home. Let me know what they say about your ear.”
On the way home, Simon wonders about getting a hoop earring caught on a bedpost. Can that happen? Maybe. But Alicia gave the explanation to Cooper rather than him, a classic avoidance technique. Years of teaching have made Simon pretty good at identifying the words and mannerisms of liars.
The morning of the next dog class, Simon’s friend Gerry calls.
“Simon, let the season begin. I’ve got a four o’clock tee time.”
“I don’t know, Gerry, I feel like I should go to dog classes.”
“That dog’s more hassle than a grandchild.”
“It’s just that I’ve been taking him and now, even though Justin can take him tonight, I feel like I’m letting the dog down.”
“Justin is a big boy. He can handle the dog.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Four o’clock.”
Simon hangs up the phone. He vacuums, forwards email jokes to other retired teachers. He knows the jokes aren’t funny and that he is procrastinating. Then he gets out his clubs and golf shoes from the basement. Sure, Justin can take the dog. It’s his dog. There won’t be any last-minute requests for Simon to be at dog training since Justin is on an investment course and finishing early every day. Justin told Simon that insurance isn’t simple anymore; it’s about sliding the life insurance policy in with other products.
Gerry is on the tee box, swinging his club like he’s at home plate. Since Gerry was a baseball umpire before retirement, he never learned how to golf properly; he always worked through the golf season.
“You sick or somethin’?” Gerry asks Simon.
“Thinking about the dog, I guess.”
Gerry hits his drive down the fairway, not far, not straight. “You’re up, dog-boy,” he says.
Simon’s tee shot and approach shots turn out better than he feels. His intuition about the strength of the wind is smack on, each shot landing on the intended mark. At the green, Gerry starts humming the old Hockey Night in Canada theme song like he always does, and pulls out his putter. He makes a big show of reading the green, then sinks the ball.
“Simon,” Gerry says as he bends to retrieve the ball. “Putt, then get the hell out of here. You’re a mope. Go to dog class. I’ll catch up to the threesome ahead of us.”
Simon drives to the Dog Corral. He parks and peaks in the window. Cooper is doing a long down. Rather than staring at Justin, Cooper’s head is bowed, eyes cast at the floor.
Simon gets back in his car and waits until the class is over. When he sees Justin and Cooper leaving the Dog Corral, he gets out to meet them. Justin is dressed in tailored slacks and a button-up shirt and jacket, which is what he wears most of the time, but his attire still makes Simon think of parent-teacher interview nights at the school, and he steels himself accordingly.
“Hi there, Simon, what’s up?” Justin asks.
Before Simon can respond, Cooper goes all nutty and jumps on him. Justin jerks the leash to pull Cooper off, then swings open the hatchback door to his car. He grabs Cooper around the waist and tosses him in. Simon knows this is not the time to comment on the roughness. His years of dealing with difficult students at Campbell Heights taught him that confrontation only works when you’ve got nothing to lose.
“Just getting some of those lamb dog treats that they sell at the desk here,” Simon says once the hatchback is closed. “You and Cooper heading home?”
“Picking up Alicia from work.”
“Something the matter with her car?”
“I drove her in today. I’ve got the time, now. We’re thinking of selling her car.”
Simon nods.
Justin gets in his car, starts the engine. Then he rolls down the window. “Thanks for taking Coop to the vet the other day,” Justin says.
“Anytime,” Simon says. “You know, the vet thought Cooper might have been kicked.”
Justin laughs, says, “What did he charge for that diagnosis?”
“Not much,” Simon says. “Seemed like a deal to me.”
“Well, thanks again,” Justin says, as he rolls up the window.
Simon watches the back of the car as Justin drives out of the parking lot. Cooper is in the hatch, his ears laid flat against his head, his dark eyes locked onto Simon.
When Simon can no longer see Cooper, he turns and walks into the Dog Corral. He will enroll Cooper in the next set of classes: Advanced and Games. After that, he and Cooper will be eligible for Agility. Maybe even Flyball. Whatever it takes, for however long it takes, for Alicia’s sake.
EULOGY FOR THE FEMINIST MOVEMENT
I paid attention to my socks this morning. The first pair I put on, red wool shin-highs with fading reindeer and threadbare soles, are my favourites. They are like me and my saggy old feminist friends—comfortable, functional, and clearly approaching our expiry date. Then I revised my sock decision since, as a woman going to an OB/GYN appointment, an appointment where my socks will be prominent, although not front and centre, threadbare won’t do. And considering Christmas is months away, reindeer won’t do. After rummaging around in my drawer, through executive trouser socks and sturdy hikers, I decided on short tennis socks that speak of physical fitness, although they have never been used for that purpose.
The nurses always say, “Take everything off from the waist down, but you can leave your socks on.” I suppose it’s just a roundabout way of saying, “Uncover your pooty.” There may very well be women who put their bare feet in the stirrups. But until doctors think to update their 18th-century stirrups with something else—say, a carpeted footrest—I will be a sock woman.
As it turns out, when I get to the appointment, Dr. Duescher’s nurse tells me the doctor will come talk to me first, then I will uncover my pooty. The nurse offers to stay in the room during the examination. This is a new option for me; I have never gone to a male doctor before. Surely there’s only room for one medical professional to be working down there. I say no thanks.
In my younger days, I made a special point of only going to female doctors. They were paid less, were respected less, and the men sure weren’t going to them. Then, as time passed, I went to female doctors out of habit. But here I am, referred to Dr. Duescher, the senior specialist at the Centre for Women’s Health, for a biopsy. He wears a navy cardigan and a humble-pie smile. Mr. Rogers as an OB/GYN.
We shake hands. He looks at my file.
“I see you work,” he says.
This is obviously a lame attempt at pre-stirrup conversation. But at least it’s an attempt, so I give him a break.
“I teach women’s studies,” I say, which is a bit of a lie. I retired last year when the department shut down the women
’s studies program. There’s still a course, one course—“History of Women and Activism”—but there’s no degree program anymore due to lack of enrollment.
It seems Dr. Duescher isn’t interested in where I work or what I teach because, instead of inquiring further, he says, “Okey-doke, let’s have a look at you. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Get yourself ready. Don’t be cluttering your head with worry about this.”
I’m not worried; I’m way over that. My mother and aunt died of cervical cancer. I have the same symptoms. It was bound to come down the tubes, so to speak. The whole point of this visit, to me, is a rubber stamp that says “uterine cancer.”
Jeans and underwear off. Given the nature of the appointment, I didn’t spend as much time considering my underwear as I did my socks. I tuck my greying, stretched-out jockeys under my jeans on the chair. Then I get on the examination table, sit my bare ass on the white paper sheet and cover myself from the waist down with the blue cloth sheet. The cloth sheet is a definite upgrade from the paper sheet at my regular doctor’s.
There’s a soft knock at the door, followed by Duescher coming back into the room.
“You can lie down,” he says. “Slip your feet in the stirrups.”
I lie down, adjust the cloth sheet over my knees to create the peculiar open-door tent that doctors like to work under. The window at the end of the bed is wide open, blowing fresh air up my pooty, not in a bad way at all. My regular doctor’s office doesn’t have any windows. This warm September breeze, I must say, is a treat.
“Scoot down,” Duescher says as he gathers his instruments together and walks to the end of the bed.
I scoot.
“Little more scoot,” he says.
I scoot, thinking it was nicer when Dr. Duescher wasn’t blocking the breeze.
“Bit more, please,” he says.
I feel satisfied with my white socks. There would have been something crass about having my big old toes on either side of this man’s head.