A Retiree in Training

We’re getting there. I think. The Coleman’s hound-shepherd puppy, Obi, is in the writing hut with me, nosing around for something to nibble on. After trying a wrought iron table leg, a wadded-up Kleenex and his back right foot, he’s licking peanut butter out of a hollowed-out cow hoof. When he conquers that, an ostrich’s ankle bone awaits.

Eventually, Obi will settle down and take to the couch, which his predecessor, foxhound Sherlock, occupied for five years. As I worked in the morning, he snoozed. Nobody expects such reasonable behavior yet of our new arrival from a high-kill shelter in Kentucky. What he needs now are plenty of walks to burn off energy and satisfy his curiosity. Even now, the hoof and ostrich joint having lost their attraction, he wanders about the yard, flops down in the shade, lifts his snout to the breeze, gets up again quickly for some mysterious errand and so on. His leisure is spiked with urgency.

Son Micah, wife Kathy and restless Obi are enrolled in an obedience class, but the father of this household is actually the one who needs training. As it happens, I retired two months ago from parish ministry, so I’m getting my bearings as much as the dog is. He has no choice but to take the world as it comes, on the fly and with the wind; I’ve always figured that mastering time and circumstance is desirable. Turns out, the puppy with four months under his collar generally points the man with three score and three years under his belt in the right direction.

Don’t worry, I’m not going to yammer about animal wisdom. No, Obi fits the backhanded compliment the famous detective Sherlock Holmes gives his chronicler Dr. Watson in “The Hound of the Baskervilles”: “It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it.”

Dogs aren’t wise themselves, not really. Watch what Obi puts into his mouth on our strolls along the peninsula that juts into Lake Erie, and you’ll know that his judgment is iffy. To contemplate his environment, he chews it. When our sidewalk path intersects with goose crossings, he strains to snag what I call Presque Isle Slim Jims. I tug at the leash, chanting, “No, those aren’t for you.” The other day he sent part of one down his gullet, resulting in a temporary ban on kisses.

For a few weeks when we first got him, he was obsessed with dandelion fluff, constantly stalking, pouncing and chomping. He picks up sticks, some hardly an inch, others long enough to qualify him as one of the Wallendas on the highwire. He lolls acorns and pebbles like Starlight mints.

Obi savors life, but not because he read a self-help book. He stops and tastes the roses by instinct, a habit that can bring this goal-oriented man to the end of his tether. In this situation, my luminosity clearly needs to be goosed. First, a pet that benefits from long walks is doing me a favor. My pounds have kept pace with the years, and I need to get my carcass moving. Second, retirement has nudged my reality. While I still have goals, it’s small-minded to keep stepping to the ticking clock and insisting that all paths be straight shots between start and finish.

In this season of calendar and life, choices are before me. 1.) I can measure walks in miles and minutes, holding to old standards that now feel like a pinch collar. Or 2.) I can recalibrate myself, forget about increments all together, and laugh at my dog. In short, I can get either frustrated or philosophical.

What’s the purpose of heading with Obi to Presque Isle and taking the path? To burn off the dog’s energy? To alleviate his boredom? To reduce my waistline? Those are nice outcomes, but a better way occurs to me. I can notice that the trees grow and bend to make the road seem like the center aisle of a cathedral. When the sun shines through them, it doesn’t take brilliance to realize that holiness is everywhere. Worship is as important as exercise.

Not a single metaphor dwells in Obi’s head. He just samples what’s on the concrete and keeps vigil as we drive, never worried about how much distance we’ve covered or what we’ll do when we get home. He’s earnest about everything out the window. His vocabulary lacks yesterday and tomorrow. Leaning over to kiss the ripples on his forehead—to run my lips over them—is evidence of my lone genius and the only place worth getting to for a retiree and the family dog.