38. Grab that Water Bottle: Play Every Day
It’s kind of a cliche to say that, as adults, we forget how to play. I might even take it a step further and say that, when we see adults taking part in the kind of whimsical activities we normally attribute to children, we consider them frivolous, indulgent or, at worst, puerile.
After all, that’s why we found Jim Carrey in all his early movies** to be so fascinating, right? He was able to let loose in a way that no one else at his age could.
When’s the last time you witnessed a grown-ass adult finger painting (without kids present)? Or playing with their food? Or dancing wildly for no reason?
It makes sense that we revere comedians like Will Ferrel or the late Robin Williams for their ability to basically ditch the adult psychological restraints and cavort with abandon. Or think of the classic movie, Big, which highlights this very concept: when an adult plays like a child, we are startled at how unusual it is. And also enchanted.
This propensity to play at any opportunity is, to their great advantage, a natural instinct in dogs. Maybe it’s the fact that, in the wild, they never know when their playtime might present itself, so they have to be ready at any moment. After a long night of tracking prey, it’s good to let your fur down and have a little par-tay before devouring the carcass.
The way this trait manifests itself in Zoey is her constant ability to grab a toy, charge at us with a twinkle in her eye and request a recreation interlude, no matter the time or place.
A compilation of Zoey howling.
One of her favorite forms of entertainment recently has been to grab her Tuffy Bone,™ brandish it like an Olympic trophy and howl. And then howl, and howl.
There’s something bewitching and energizing about her howls, both the sound and mannerisms inviting human participation. When we joined in and mimicked the mournful baying ourselves, we could see the recognition on her face as we all shared the moment. In no time, I could trigger her howling by simply hitting that note myself for a few seconds first.
And lest we think that true play requires the “right" toys or equipment, know that dogs really have no need for the brand-name rubber bone or elaborate dog puzzle to find their own kind of fun. Their imaginations work the same way little kids’ minds work: choose whatever you’ve got on hand and turn it into a toy.
(Side note: that last sentence brought to mind “toys” when I was about seven or eight and made use of purloined paper towels as sheets on which to draw homemade comics. Later, I implemented an elaborate game of “Financial Institution” by stealing deposit and withdrawal forms when my mom took me to the bank with her, then constructing ledgers with names of imaginary clients who’d “borrow money,” “sign up for a mortgage,” “withdraw” or “depost,” etc.
Sitting at the card table in our living room, I could occupy myself all day with the game, conceiving “client” after “client” who required financial counseling. (In those days, paper forms were available as open piles of check-sized sheets at the bank, situated on tables alongside the line for the teller. Yep, waiting, right there, for a bored ten-year-old to pilfer and use as she pleased).
But back to Zoey, who is also quite adept at turning randomly accessible objects into toys.
Each morning when we arrive at the local park, there is inevitably at least one or two abandoned plastic water bottles lying on the grass. The first time I spotted one, I stooped to pick it up so I could throw it in the garbage, and something about the crinkly plastic caught Zoey’s attention.
The bottle was empty anyway, so I thought, “What the heck!” I kicked it across the field to see what would happen. As suspected, she ran after it like a shot, gleefully racing and panting to nab the bottle in her mouth. We played for several minutes, I took the empty bottle and deposited it in the garbage bin, and we headed home.
The following day, she surprised me by grabbing a (different) empty bottle in and prancing ahead of me. She knocked her head back as if downing a shot of tequila, threw the bottle up in the air and attempted to catch it. This went on for several minutes, before she left it on the ground, turned and stared at me.
“Are you up for it?” her look seemed to inquire. I kicked the bottle and a new round of play ensued.
More recently, I had the opportunity to witness the emergence of play in a new dog at our house. I won’t say too much since the deal isn’t sealed quite yet, but we’ve been fostering a massive German Shepherd named Jasper for the past two weeks. If all goes well, Jasper will be the newest addition to the family very soon!
Because of his dysfunctional puppyhood (he was born in a shelter and lived in no fewer than four homes in less than four years), Jasper seemed a bit withdrawn and rather somber for the first few days.
Once he realized we weren’t going to harm him (and that the food in this restaurant wasn’t too bad, either), he began to warm up a bit. Still not best friends with Zoey, he did seem to move closer and closer to her as the two slept on the carpet, more or less ignoring each other.
But then, this morning, I decided to try something new. After two weeks together, Jasper has already learned the feeding routine (if you need a refresher, think, “Get Out of the Kitchen”--or just re-read this entry).
He’s also much more relaxed around us and Zoey, and seemed really happy to see me when I got back from a trip to the grocery store the other evening (though, truth be told, it was more likely the smell of the goat cheese that caused his tail to wag than my return after an hour absence).
In any case, I attempted some play time with the two dogs, and threw the Chuckit rings for them. The result?
Such galloping after it! Such snorting! So much nudging out of the way to catch it! So many play bows! Such tail wagging!
Who knew? Jasper, despite his disadvantaged past, is just as amenable to play as Zoey. Clearly, it’s a dog thing.
Let’s make it a human thing, too. If you hear me howling this week, don’t worry—it’s just me competing with Zoey.
** The Mask remains my favorite. You?
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Follow up to last week’s challenge: Accept Help When It’s Offered.
I suppose the irony of this topic is that it could become more an observation on human behavior than a quest to accept offers of help. I mean, what if you didn’t actually receive any offers of help?
This past week, the HH offered to help me with dinner. Once.
Of course, I accepted. The other six nights, however, I had to request the same help.
I did receive some lovely offers of help after a freak accident this past week (I know, reading this series of stories, it may seem as if I’m incredibly accident-prone. I promise, I’m not! Extenuating circumstances over the past week. . . which I’ll explain at the end of next week. Oooh! Suspense!! OK, I’ll cave: it has something to do with Jasper, the new dog. But to find out what, you will have to wait).
Back to the offers of help. A dear online friend (whom I’ve met only once in real life) dispensed some wise advice about how to deal with extensive contusions and inflammation. I applied the advice and felt better in days. In that case, I must admit, I was not only willing to accept the advice, but more than happy it was given.
A review of the past week highlights how rare are true offers of assistance. Let’s change that. Let’s be open to receiving, of course; and be sure that we give to others so they can receive.
I said it last week, and will end with it here again: after all, it’s a cliche for a reason. Because we all know it’s better to give than receive, right?
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