“Karen!” The Cop bellows, “Have I been using WOMEN’S SOAP?!?!”

Me: “Huh? Why?”

Cop, with his hands under my arms: “One! Two! Three!”

Me, getting heavy so he can’t lift me up: “What are you doing?!”

Cop: “You jump and I’ll catch you up over my head. It’ll be fun. One… two…”

Me: “No! I don’t want to!”

Cop, disappointed: “Why not? It’s like ice dancing. What’s the worst thing that can happen?”

Me, nodding toward a 7 foot tall bookshelf made of 95% glass and 5% metal: “I don’t want to fall on that. We’re not trained to do this!”

Cop, setting up to throw: “If anything goes wrong, I’ll throw you toward the bed. One… two.. three!”

Me, up in the air over his head, having made the jump: {screaming sound}

Cop, putting me down: “See? Like ice dancing.”

When we first arrived at Starbucks this morning, a man was sitting outside at one table talking to a young woman at another table. She had on a yellow and gold dress and looked like she’d been up all night. She was very thin and twitchy and I understood she was a meth user even before I saw The Cop’s eyes, which change a little when he sees… uh, persons of interest.

As we were sitting with our coffee, an older man dressed in golf clothes stopped to look at Waylon.

“That is a big pit bull,” he said.

We told him that Waylon is not a pit bull. He asked a few questions, then said, “He seems friendly.” When we agreed, he smiled and drew closer and spasmodically poked the air in front of Waylon’s face a few times. “Nice dog,” he said as he walked happily to his car.

I wondered what kind of animals the man usually interacts with. His gesture wouldn’t be appreciated by cats. I thought about birds, and imagined him being bitten. Reptiles? I couldn’t imagine they’d respond well, either. The Cop had wondered the same thing and come up with his own explanation: “Maybe he has a five year old at home that he likes to flick on the head.”

***

Here’s a picture of Waylon with his true love. He can only play with it when Maxine is asleep. She does not allow anyone else to play with a ball when she is awake. Seriously. I have to hide yoga balls and tennis balls because she bites and “kills” the big ones, and declares ultimate ownership (she will NOT share, but will pretty much fight to the death) over smaller ones.

I was worried at first that Waylon might swallow the tennis ball, but as it turns out, he just wants to carry it around and lie down next to it and gaze at it lovingly.

***

Nothing like a super short short story. Lydia Davis. Here’s a good story — and a link to an interview, and a link to more samples…

Karen:
are you on a stakeout?

Cop:
yes

Ah, quote — why do I love thee? Well, mostly ’cause you’re pragmatic and straightforward. You remind me that all of the whining we do about poses is really about US. All of the fear we feel? The desire? The hatred? The shame? The pleasure? Yup — it’s all about us. Not about the pose. The pose is a tool. To dig into the stuff of us — whether we do it well, or badly, or fanatically, or slackerishly. All of it is just part of the excavation effort. Whether we want the pose, or don’t want the pose. Whether we idolize the teacher, or hate the teacher, or beseech the teacher, or reject the teacher.

None of that matters. ‘Cause the pose is just the pose. A tool. Like a hammer or a shovel. Do with it what you will. But if you make it into an emotional issue or a physical issue or a psychological issue, at least recognize that it is an issue of your own making. ‘Cause the pose is a tool, not an issue.

Okay, so The Cop and I go to Target after dinner because I want a ball to roll under my back. I was thinking one of those small play balls. I tried a soccer ball, and it was the right size, but too hard.

At Target we found a red ball that was the correct size and a blue ball that was the right material. I decided to get both, since they cost less than $3 each. I figured the red one would probably be the correct one for back rolling.

At the cashier, The Cop asks what the ball is for and I tell him it’s to drape myself over. “Doesn’t that sound good?” I ask. He responds by draping himself, front-first, over the ball as it lies on the conveyor belt of the cash register. This is hilarious, because the cashier has no idea what he’s doing as he drapes his 6’2″ frame over the ball, arms outstretched on the conveyor belt. I couldn’t get my phone out fast enough to get a picture.

We get home and The Cop bounces the blue ball. Maxine, decrepit old lady that she is, springs into action and attacks the ball. She can’t get her mouth around it, though, so the ball is safe. I bounce the red ball. She springs, and I hear, “Pop! Wooosh!” Yeah, that’s the air coming out of the ball.

Maxine looks up happily and goes into the kitchen for dinner.