Aging causes life changes. Activities we were proficient in, such as sports, may no longer be reasonable options in our sixties, seventies, and beyond.

But we should never give up the search for physical activities that keep us going and growing. Sometimes future “athletic” challenges are right in front of us, as we will see in . . .

Mutt Mitt

     You’ve heard of gloves for skiing, football, boxing, weight lifting, and even billiards. And baseball has gloves for first basemen, outfielders, infielders, and catchers. All of these are well known. 

     But when you reach your seventies, for many of us these are just a reminder of a past to which we are unable to return. So as I sat on the sofa in front of the large picture window in my living room, I thought about a sport I might be able to excel in at my advanced age.  My best friend, Rodney, sat beside me pondering what he might get for dinner.

     As my mind drifted, the phone rang. I heard it, but I’ll be damned if I could find it. It was about to go to voice mail, when the light bulb went on in my balding dome. Flash! Flash! “Under blanket on the ottoman,” lit up in my mind.

     I kicked the blanket off and grabbed the phone. “Hello,” I gasped.

     “Hey, Mike, have you given any thought to what we discussed yesterday morning when we were walking the dogs?”

     “You mean joining a bowling league?”

     “Yeah, man. I think I know three other guys who might be interested.”

     Well, that is another sport that you could use a glove for. In fact, I did, when I was a young man. “Don’t know, Max. I know I told you I was an avid bowler when I was younger, but . . .”

     “No buts Mike. This is an opportunity we can’t pass up.”

     “You also know I told you I switched from bowling right-handed to left because I developed bursitis in my right shoulder.”

     “So, bowl left-handed, my friend.”

     “Well, after bowling left-handed for over fifteen years, I developed degenerative arthritis in my left arm.”

     “Did you see a doctor about it?”

     “Yes.”

     “So what’d he say?”

     “Said if I could stand the pain, I couldn’t injure it any more than it is.”

     “Good. So it’s settled. I’ll call Larry, Ben, and Ozzie and let them know it’s a go. League play starts in two weeks. This will be a blast.”

     “Hold on! Not so fast Max. I don’t think the degenerative disks in my upper and lower back will let me do it, even if I believed I could withstand the pain from the arthritis.”

     “You know, man, you have an excuse for everything. There’s an assisted living place about a mile from here. I heard they have a sport that might suit you.”

     “I’m not ready for assisted living. But what is the sport?”

     “Bubble gum chewing and blowing.”

     “Can’t do that. The gum will get caught in my dentures. And sometimes I’m short of breath. Don’t know if I could blow the bubbles.”

     “My, God! When’s your funereal?”

     “For God’s sake, I’m not dead!”

     “How do you know? If not, you’re sure close to kicking the bucket.”

     “Cut the crap, Max. Maybe there’s another sport that requires a glove that we can get involved in.”

     “Why’s a glove so important.”

     “I don’t know. Just feels good to wear one. Let’s sleep on it tonight. We can talk about it tomorrow. Take the dog’s on a walk about nine?”

     “Sure you can hold the leash? Didn’t you say you had carpal tunnel?”

     “No, I didn’t.”

     “Okay, nine’s fine. Meet you on the corner of East Lake and Hummingbird Loop. Bye.”

     I got up off the couch and stretched. Oh, boy, I think I threw my back out. The pain’s a nine. I gritted my teeth and wobbled into the kitchen to prepare Rodney’s dinner, a canned mixture of mushy gunk, called “Doggy Delight,” and some solid, square stuff, named “Chew Chew Crumbles.” As he gobbled it down, I timed him—exactly twenty-six seconds. “Boy! That’s a record,” I yelled.

     Used to walk Rodney twice a day, but my body ain’t up to it anymore. So, since I wasn’t going anywhere this evening, I warmed up some leftovers from last night, put them in a bowl, grabbed a napkin and fork, and shuffled into the living room. I slid onto the couch and began to consume my feast. As I ate, I thought about a sport I could get involved in—one involving minimal physical exertion and preferably one that used a glove—a mitt. Why this was a condition for participation, I had absolutely no idea.

     After dinner, with all my energy zapped, Rodney and I crashed on the couch. Around eleven, I awoke from my nap, let my friend out to do his business, and got ready for bed.

     I pulled back the covers and crawled in. Then I heard Rodney bolt through the doggie door. He came romping into the bedroom and leaped onto the bed with great finesse. We both settled in. As I began to doze off, sport gloves and mitts twirled like a halo around my head.

     The morning arrived all too soon. When I looked at the clock, it was almost eight-thirty. Wow! I’ve got to meet Max and his close companion, Boomer, at nine. “Guess we’ll eat when we come back, boy.”

     I put on my sweats and tennis shoes, hooked up Rodney, and bolted out the door and up the street to meet Max on the corner. He stood there staring off into space. As I approached, Rodney let out a major league, Hello. It startled Max to such a degree I thought he was going to fall over. However, he regained his balance and . . .

     “Morning, Mike. Beautiful day for a walk, isn’t it?”

     “Yeah, if I was awake, it would be.”

     “Well, the kids are. So just let Rod drag you.”

     And drag me, he did. Up one street and down another, periodically smelling the bottom of trees, stop signs, and fire hydrants, seeking the messages left by both intimate friends and strangers. And then he began his dance, circling in one direction and then the other, on the lawn in front of one of the community fountains.

     “Look at him go. Thinks he’s on stage,” Max chanted.

     But then he stopped and began to drop his doggie presents, not once, but three times. Fully relieved, he started to pull me off the lawn. As I tried to get him under control, I felt Max grab my arm and then Rodney’s leash.

     “I got him. You go get them.”

     So I pulled out a doggie bag from the public dispenser, opened it, and slid my hand into it. Then, with the expertise of a professional, I grabbed all three poop piles, securely tied a knot in the top of the bag, and tossed it up and into the trash bin. “A three pointer,” I screamed. “I’m the man!”

     “You certainly are,” Max stated enthusiastically. “I think you’ve found your sport.”

     “What are you talking about?”

     “Poop pickin’ and tossin.’ And you used a glove.”

     “I used a what?”

     “A glove,” he said with a grin on his face.

     “A glove? What glove?”

     He went over to the dispenser and pulled out a bag and held it up in full view. I saw a picture of dog tossing a bag of poop into the garbage bin. The inscription on top of the bag read, “Mutt Mitt—The Pet Pollution Solution.”

     Max cried out, “As I said, you’ve finally found the sport at which you can excel.”

     And I couldn’t disagree.

Copyright © 2018 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.