Happy Birthday BeBop

Our little schnoodle begins her twelfth year today, going strong. She's lost half a step going to her left, but can still get air when she wants to. She doesn't want to quite so often, but I know a couple of moves that get her engine room making full steam.  Her ability to motor at high speed inspired this line in a song: "She's got two pairs of legs, but it seems like thirty-two."

She spent the day with our 20-month-old granddaughter, who likes to feed BeBop treats, and puts dogfood in the water dish. BeBop is followed, and petted, and searched for, and petted, and followed, and petted, and followed. She's patient with this, and with the occasional pokes and hair-pulling. When she's had enough she retreats to her impenetrable fortress beneath the bed, where small children can see her, but can't touch. 

On this sunny, cold day, the three of us went to the park. This seemed like a good idea, so I clipped BeBop to the leash, and bundled The Little One into the stroller, a jogging thing a bit past its prime with a front wheel that doesn't run true. We set off down the street, and I was feeling like a pretty good grandfather, pleased with myself, and having a grand time. 

Well, it turns out that it takes two hands to manage the stroller, which due to the front wheel problem wants to turn right only a little less than it wants to go forward. It takes one hand to hold the leash, which makes three hands and I have only two. But I'm a grandfather; I sort this out, and we get to the end of the block and turn the corner onto a busier street (that's bad), with a sidewalk (that's good) that's cracked and uneven (that's bad) from tree roots. I'm still managing, but it's not getting easier, and gets harder when I go left around a tree and BeBop goes right. We manage that, too.

Of course, as a grandfather I don't buckle The Little One into the stroller -- I can manage, right? and it would be too confining, and we're just walking, and what could go wrong? Well, here's what can go wrong. While dealing with the dog, the leash, and the tree, and the stroller that wants to turn right, The Little One decides she'd rather walk than ride and begins to climb out of the stroller. A twenty-month-old loose on two feet beside a busy street takes at least one more hand, and ... well, I don't have one more. So I scoop her up, turn around, and somehow herd the dog and the stroller back to the house, where I buckle The Little One into the car seat, put BeBop in the car, put the stroller in the garage, and drive to the park. This gives me hope that we do get smarter as we get older. Or at least we can, if we pay attention.

At the park, we have a grand time. BeBop romps, at high speed. The Little One and I head for the swings, and we try them all. We try them all facing the other way. We try the big ones with me sitting on the swing with Georgia sitting on me. Facing both ways. We take a break, and The Little One heads for the biggest slide, and climbs to the top. I wait at the bottom, thinking -- I have no idea why -- that she knows what she's doing. On top, looking down, she knows what she's doing, and it surely isn't sitting down and sliding down to me. So ... I go the wrong way up the slide, to encourage her, to educate her in the fine art of the slide. 

Remember, I'm a grandfather. I have no clue. So I crawl through the bars to the top, sit down, put The Little One in my lap and down we go. Great fun. Highly recommended. When it's your turn to do this, I suggest you wear shoes that will give you traction going up the slide, 'cuz you don't want to climb up the little ladder. We do this several times until we're good at it, and then return to the swings. BeBop watches patiently, and keeps an eye out for other dogs in the neighborhood. Her neighborhood, apparently.

Did I mention it was cold? After 40 minutes of revelry, we returned to the car and home. And warmth.  And I'm sure I saw BeBop smiling. I'm also sure she saw me smiling. She's a good dog. The best.

We'll have a party for her soon, with all the granddaughters. With a cake, and home-made (by the seven-year-old) treats. It'll be a time of happiness and appreciation, warm and loving.