Here in Los Angeles, kids have already gone back to school. Two weeks before Labor Day and that would suck if I was still learning my reading and writing. Back in my hometown of Mount Vernon, New York, our first day back into the dungeon was always the Wednesday after Labor Day. You dreaded that day like no other.
Of course, the telltale signs had creeped up for several weeks prior. On TV, you'd see more and more commercials for the new Fall shows. You'd notice that, at 8PM, it was darker today than it was yesterday. And, on some days, there was a crispness in the summer air that was a portent of the fall. Somebody up my neighborhood block would then be tempted to pull out the football for a game of touch in the street.
And, every year, as summer closed and school approached, I would start to have guilt feelings that I needed to purge quickly.
Had I not played with my dog enough this summer?
I've written the tale here before of how Tuffy came into our household. She was a birthday present to me when I turned eight years old. Technically, she was my dog. And I consumed much of her time in the early years. There, of course, was the day that I wrote about here as well. When she went into the vet's office for the surgery that would spay her. I suffered the same pains and wound up in the nurse's office, convinced that my dog was going to die mid-operation.
For the first few years, Tuffy and I were inseparable. But, then, as I got older, I was distracted by school, friends, and play. Suddenly, my dog became our dog.
With both my parents working at night, it fell to my grandmother to be the guardian of Tuffy while everybody was out of the house. Sure, my dad would take her out for a walk when he came home from work at midnight. But, for the most part, Tuffy became the property of Grandma downstairs. The dog would be down there most of the day, following my grandmother's daily schedule to a tee.
Lunch at 11AM. Tuffy would wait by the table for scraps. If the door between our part of the house and Grandma's was closed, Tuffy actually could turn the knob with her paws.
While Grandma took her "beauty rest" from 1PM to 2PM, Tuffy did the same and stretched out on the area carpet between the living room and the dining room. If it was particularly hot during the summer, she would opt for the cool linoleum floor underneath the dining room table.
At 4PM, Tuffy was back at Grandma's kitchen table as dinner was consumed. She would always get to lick the plate or suck some stale bread soaked in whatever gravy or sauce had been consumed that day. My grandmother would then go sit in the yard for a couple of hours. Tuffy would be nearby, leashed to the railing of the backyard steps.
It was a simple summer life for the two of them.
Until the end of August when I would feel compelled to disrupt the routine. I would suddenly realize that I would be separated soon from Tuffy. And, after all, she was still my dog. It was as if I needed in two late August weeks to reinforce that fact that I was still in charge. And could see to my dog's every want and need.
Suddenly, I was the one walking her. Almost all day long. I would walk her ten blocks to the Fourth Avenue shopping district. We would walk proudly to the 241st Street shopping district in the Bronx. We'd walk to the Penn Central train station on Mount Vernon Avenue. I was clearly overcompensating. And, while probably not thrilled by the sudden spurt in activity, my dog never wavered in loyalty. For those two weeks.
We'd play catch in the yard. For hours at a time, we'd engage in a tug-of-war battle over an old sock. I took care of all the brushing. And, in one foolhardy attempt to really show my control, I tried to give her a bath in the yard. The one who wound up soaked was me.
Then, almost instantly, I was back in school. And Tuffy was undoubtedly delighted to go back to her normal, quiet routine.
When I went away to college, our time together became even less. And, unlike those Augusts where I felt that I needed to exert my authority, I did even less with the dog. It went from my dog to our dog to their dog.
Before I knew it, Tuffy had every ailment in the world. She had somehow lasted to the age of eighteen. But there was a tumor growing on her jaw and one August morning, she couldn't even stand.
Grandma was too upset to comprehend. This was amazing since she was the one almost two decades before who had asked the question.
"What do you want to bring a dog in the house for?"
My dad was a bit in denial as well. He must have enjoyed those midnight strolls more than he admitted.
It was up to me. I made the call. It was time.
On one last August day, Tuffy was my dog all over again.
Dinner last night: Hot dog at the Hollywood Bowl.
