Clean Run - August 2017 - 10

Tipping the Balance:
The Teeter Terror
By Laura Hartwick, illustrations by author

A comfortable life could be lived in the manner of hostage
crisis in a continuous loop of Tom Petty songs. Like a living
inside a souvenir snow globe, the wilder parts of life only
observed from within a bubble of perfectly smooth glass.
With sparkle glitter for air. Always on the verge of thrilling,
instead of ever having actual thrills. Tom Petty is really okay
for sometimes. His soothing, thin-lipped voice always rolls
reliably back to the nostalgic, singable hook. But sometimes
we crave more. A jolt. Elation. Sun Ra's entourage cloaked
in majestic tunics descending with unsingable grooves from
outer space. We are agility folk, after all. We expose our adventurous souls in the intersection between impulse control
and crazed balls to the wall speed.
But what about our dogs?
At Gustavo's very first trial, he flew to his teeter like flapping bat wings were taxidermied onto his hairy little feet.
The teeter totter was a rocket he loved to soar on, his
space dude ticket to the moon. He was one of those
WHEEEEEEEEE dogs who rode the teeter with maximum
flourish and then some, running to the end and hanging
on to grab the adrenalin rush of wind blowing through his
bouncy hair on the drop, then
running off to do the next thing.
Like a shampoo commercial of
majestic shine, ear-to-ear smile
smeared on his face. Because
Otterpop had started out
with an aversion to teeters, I'd
worked hard for a year to make
Gustavo's seesaw his object of
cult like devotion.
The teeter was Gustavo's Fountain of Donut. His go-to,
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non-negotiable It Bag. His rainbow unicorn-waving banner
of magnificence.
Except that, a few trials later, he scooted off before I could tell
him to, and as he ran off the end the teeter totter rebounded
back up and hit him squarely in the sensitive ass.
This is living life on the agility edge. With great daring, but
with copious oodles of careful preparation. Trying new things!
That move! That are high above the ground! Extreme adventure sometimes involves getting a little bit scared. Like
jumping out of aircraft, and risking, oh, I don't know, horrible
smashing death by parachute non-opening? Galloping a horse
across a wide open plain knowing that you have an ice cube's
chance in hell of stopping him before his lungs blow out of
wind on their own? Hiking through deserted woods where
you see mountain lion tracks laid out right under your feet?
I saw a mountain lion footprint just the other day, a sight to
make your heart go pitter-patter in a cold sweat kind of way.
Always prepared, junior nature scout that I am, I had choices of
how to face the fright. I could turn back and efficiently, not frantically, hightail it to where I left the car on the side of the road,
expressing to the dogs that we need to move in right-now high
gear, and then stay out of that forest
for a good long while. I could use my
super effective mental techniques of
positive thinking, ignoring the possible
danger, not worrying because my brain
extinguishes all negative thoughts.
Even if they have claws and fangs. Or, I
could just pick up a weapon, the stick
kind with sharp twigs poking off of
one end, swing it around my head as
I moved onward, singing loudly a hit
from Broadway's Hamilton.
Clean Run | August 17

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