Ruthie Tushy

My pup, Ruthie, cannot play poker.  Not for the obvious reason, her lack of opposable thumbs, but because she cannot maintain a poker face or in Ruthie’s case, a poker tushy.   

Ruthie came to us from an animal rescue group.  We are her third and final home.  From the cowering behavior it was obvious she had endured abuse.  Forty pounds, wiry blonde hair with highlights of honey, long legs and soulful amber eyes, we are not sure of her breed mix.  When asked, I tell people she is a Celtic Laphound; they usually nod their heads in that knowing way, “Ah, yes.  My friend had one years ago; they are great dogs.”  Afterall, why should Ruthie be judged for her lack of pure breeding when I know she does not lack in pure loving?   It didn’t take long to win her trust and affection, nor her mine.  I knew it when she first wagged her tail.  I shouldn’t call it a tail wag; it was an entire back half wag.  This dog was built with hinges at her hips.  When she is happy, her body folds from side to side in syncopation with her tail moving in an opposite direction.  Dog lovers understand that feeling of joy when your four-legged family member greets you with a wholehearted/whole-butted wag.  I come home from a day at work … unhinged wag.  I open the door after pulling weeds from my flower bed … unhinged wag.  I walk into the same room with her … unhinged wag.  Ruthie cannot tame her delight.  Imagine her anteed-up in one of Cassius Marcellus Coolidge’s paintings of dogs playing poker:   a pair of deuces would set the tail a swishing, a royal flush and she would sweep the table with euphoria.

I was thinking about Ruthie and the painting recently when shopping for groceries [insert pause to give you time to worry about my mental health].  It is not as odd as it sounds.  Like myself, shoppers were wearing face coverings.  As I neared other customers, I smiled.  An unplanned and unwarranted smile.  It just happens.  I walk in a room, even with strangers, and I smile.  I drive down neighborhood roads and meet another car, or cyclist, or pedestrian, I smile and wave (Small Town, Texas culture mandates at least a one or two finger wave from the steering wheel).  I even smile when I answer the phone; call me sometime and you’ll hear it in my voice.  My smiles are genuine, sincere and a second-nature manifestation of my joy in human connection.  But standing in the produce section of H.E.B., evaluating avocados for tenderness, I realized my smiles were unseen.  The head nod acknowledgements that complement them went without notice.  The smiles of comradery at the empty shelves were unshared.  Eye contact became a casualty.  We went about our tasks without talking, without connecting.  My heart ached.

We must isolate.  We must keep social distance.  We must wear face coverings.  I know!  But can you hear me screaming, “See me!  Let me see you!”  from beneath my mask?  I need to acknowledge you, and to celebrate our connection, our humanity.  And, this is the moment I thought of Ruthie.  A mask would not stifle her delight.  

So, if you see me with a wild-butt-shake or even a little tushy-shimmy, know that I do not have a wedgie, I am simply ecstatic to see you.

… another sip of wine.