Morrie’s Ball
I throw the ball and throw the ball,
over my head in an arc to the garden downhill from the pool
where every midnight I do aerobic exercises and yoga,
trying to stem the freezing-up of joints,
the spreading of spare tires around the waist.
I am allergic to the sun,
and so these sometime-between-midnight-
and-3 a.m.-sessions in the pool
have come to be habit,
with both me and the small black shaggy dog
who leaves his bed in the doggie domain,
no matter how late I make the trip to the pool,
carrying his green tennis ball.
It is the latest in a long progression of balls
chewed to tatters until they are incapable of buoyancy
that sink to the pool bottom to be picked up by toes,
toed to hand, and thrown down again.
When they are replaced in the morning with a fresh ball,
he still searches for the old one,
like a child’s nigh nigh, grown valuable through use.
Again and again he drops the ball in the pool
and I interrupt every fifth repetition to throw the ball.
Like an automaton, he returns with precision,
then is off like a flash so fast
that sometimes he catches the ball I throw before it hits the ground.
This little dog, faithful in his returns,
sometimes jumps up on the grassy mound
I’ve made for him in a big flower pot by the pool,
chews the ball,
drops and catches it before it falls to the water,
drops and catches,
as though teasing me
the way houseguests might have teased him in the past with a false throw.
Or, sometimes he drops it on the grass,
noses it to the edge and then catches it before it falls.
Over and over, constructing his own games.
Then, bored or rested up from his countless runs,
he lofts the ball into the water precisely in front of me
and I pause in my front leg kicks
to resume my obligation.
But this night, he returns listless after the third throw.
“Go get the ball, Morrie,” I command, and he runs with less speed and vigor down the hill to the garden. I hear him checking out his favorite places, but he does not return, and when I call him, finally, he returns, ball-less, jumps up on his mound and falls asleep.
He’s getting old, I think.
Hard to imagine this little ball of energy
as being anything but a pup.
He’ll bring it to me tomorrow, I think.
But tomorrow
and tomorrow
and tomorrow
brings no Morrie with a ball.
When I go down to the hammock the next day,
his enthusiastic leap up onto my stomach
is the same, his same insistence
that I rub his ears, his belly, his back.
But no ball proffered for a throw.
No Morrie returning again and again for more.
I am feeling the older for it,
like a mother who sees her last child
off to University or down the aisle, fully grown,
but I am reassured three days later,
when I arise from the hammock
to climb the incline up to the house
and see lodged firmly in the crotch of the plumeria tree
five feet off the ground: Morrie’s ball.
He sees me retrieve it
and runs enthusiastically up to the pool with me,
where I peel off my clothes
and descend like Venus into the pool,
arc my arm over,
and throw the ball.
He is back with it
before I get to the other end of the pool.
If they could see
through the dense foliage
that surrounds the pool,
what would the neighbors think
of this 72-year-old skinny dipping,
lofting a ball over her head
for her little dog
in broad daylight?
Morrie and I don’t care.
For Day 17 of NaPoWriMo, we are to write a poem about a dog we have known. This assignment is a pinch!!!
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 
Thanks, I have been there so many times with my animals, but it brought back sad memories with the concern over Morrie, when he did not respond. We become so close with them, with their not being able to talk and tell us their problems, we get so used to their actions and must figure out if they have a serious problem…Watching them get old or ill is a terribly sad experience. I just finished talking in a reply to a comment by Janet Waters, (slmret), about my Tami who replaced Bijou, who replaced Scooter, who replaced Duke, etc, etc, etc ~!
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I know. It is so sad, every time, but the joy of having them all those years outshines that pain. Luckily, Morrie isn’t close to his time and I think Zoe might survive me!!!!
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Judy, this is fantastic. A wonderful story told so poetically 💕🙂
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Thanks, Harmony.
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So cute. He’s watching over you just like my Newfoundland Hulk used to do when I was in the pool
Sent from my iPhone
>
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For a moment, reading the first parts of the poem, I was concerned for Morrie. But by the end, I’m cheering you both. Here’s to play fetch and swimming nude.
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Sorry Judy, that wasn’t meant to be anonymous. It’s me. Your pal, Judy Reeves
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hi Judy,…thanks for letting me know..
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I loved your story. I too was worried about him not retrieving the ball. Our pets are our lives.
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Ahhh, brilliant!! 🙂 The happy end with Venus rocks.
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Manja, I can never find a place on your posts to comment. Wanted to congratulate you on having your post featured by NaPoWriMo but looked and looked for a place to do so. If you see this can you please tell me how to comment on your posts?
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So strange! Do you see other people’s comments? If not, you are reading my blog as continuous feed. In order to comment, you need to click on the title of the post and it will open separately. I hope this is the case, at least… If you see other people’s comments but STILL can’t comment, I have no idea what’s wrong. Thank you for the thought, Judy!
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It is continuous feed. Very frustrating because I want to comment but can’t find out how nor do I really know where one ends and the next begins.
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Ahh, really! Where it says “Day 20: Chocolate Fun” (for example) – this is the title of the last post. Click this and you’ll go into the post. Same for Day 19, Day 18, etc. Give it a try: https://manjameximexcessive6.wordpress.com/
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