Full Court Press

Watching Goldie soundly sleep/snore after a long desert walk, got to wondering when the face mask turned gray. The first time the vet called her "geriatric" was silently, labeled in large letters on her folder that held the history of her knee surgery, her week in Tufts ICU clinging to life after organophosphate poisoning, her intestinal surgery after eating Mexican Feather Grass, her annual weigh-ins, shots and hiding under the bench in the exam room. I saw her flinch when she read "geriatric". What geriatric she thought? How dare he label me, me the great huntress of bleached javelina skulls, the zig-zag chaser of rabbits and nighthawks. How dare he call me old. Who is old? This guy has a hard time stooping down to the floor to lure me out from under the bench. He groans when he stands up. I can run circles around him. I can catch a Frisbee, a tennis ball and a bird in leap in midair. What can he do? He can only call me names. When the face mask turns gray it can feel like a rush down the hill is coming, a moving through time at light speed, a full course press towards old, really old, can-barely-pull-the-hips-up old. But to Goldie, the full course press is towards the critters invading the yard, the birds who fly low and the torn worn Frisbee gliding through the air. It is a rush to life, always life. It is a leap to movement and breathlessness. She is my guide, my mentor and guru. I am gladly following her full court press onward and up. copyright 2009 vickers