I ask my
husband over supper “What should I write about?”, the creation of my blog
having completely extinguished the flame that brings forth the wisdom my doting
public seeks. A clear case of performance
anxiety.
“Health care”, he concludes after considerable
furrowed-brow taco shoveling.
“What do you
mean health care?”
“Your
knee. Wait times. Think of all the Babas just like you waiting for years for surgery so they can walk normally."
“Well, maybe it’s
good to have to wait for replacements - so you don’t jump into anything.”
“So you don’t
believe your doctor when he says you need a new knee?”
Well, maybe I don’t.
Maybe I think he’s got ulterior motives.
Maybe I think tomorrow I’ll wake up and the knee will be cured, and so
maybe a year or two wait to “Think It Over” is reasonable. Maybe there’s an outside chance that with the
right combination of physio, yoga, acupuncture, diet, shark cartilage,
meditation, and prayer that a costly, unnecessary, and potentially embarrassing
surgery can be avoided. The whole topic
is disturbing and I’d rather not think about it.
So I opt instead to write about Babas and their Dogs and the observation that there are a lot, of both of them. At dog parks.
Except I haven’t been to a dog park in a long time because of the
farking knee. But I digress.
I have a theory (actually 2 theories) about older women and
dogs. One is that long ago, wolves ingratiated
themselves with cave people by keeping the local cave-bear riff raff away, in
return for mastodon leftovers. Over the
next several million years, the co-evolution of the “Oh look how cuuute” mutation in humans and the “Shake-a-paw”
mutation in wolves cemented the deal and the wolf-cum-doggie became an
essential part of the tribe – or maybe we became part of the pack. Having earned
their stripes, wolf-dogs were promoted to guarding the old timers and kiddies
while ma and pa beat the bushes hunting and gathering. From here it was a very short hop to Rover
sharing the pillow and Baba cooking chicken livers for Muffy.
The second theory is that older women, having been abandoned
by ungrateful offspring, need, I mean really need, something warm and hairy to
take care of and to love unconditionally.
Prior to the advent of Monday Night football that lasts all week, this
position was held by the husband who, having analyzed the risk/benefit ratio of
the cost of doggie hair-stylists, designer poop bags, and Juicy Couture puppy
parkas versus the sheer joy of hearing Peyton Manning yell OMAHA!, chose the
latter.
So now you know. Now, when you see those happy old ladies
dragging their sorry-ass titanium knees around the dog park you’re going to
know why.
