The Beagle that Binds

Last night, my teenager returned from his new, part-time restaurant job just after I’d finished a tearjerker of a movie. 
“How was your shift?” I asked, trying to stifle a yawn. 
“It was all right. Hey, want to watch Lost with me?”
I hesitated. My body said no. I had been yawning for a while now, a clear sign it was time for bed. But my emotions said yes: He’s seventeen, and he’s on his last week of vacation before school starts up again. How many chances will I have to hang out with him? Seize the moment. Even if it’s just watching a show together. 
“Okay, but only one episode.” 

I know. Go ahead and laugh.

We sat down on the couch, and our Beagle nestled in between us like a warm and furry binding agent, keeping us fixed in place. The first episode ended abruptly with a bold, capitalized, white-on-black TO BE CONTINUED. There wasn’t even a discussion as we pushed play next episode. Watching a third episode was an accident of sorts, a side-effect of the warm and cuddly Beagle binding agent now sprawled across both of our laps, and that late-night inertia that renders viewers incapable of pushing the stop button. Netflix counts on this type of viewer inertia to increase viewing time. (If Netflix were to take us as a case study with a sample size of two, they would learn that the presence of a cuddly lap dog increases viewing time by 33.3 percent.)

I finally found my backbone at 12:38 a.m. and demanded that we turn off the TV. But shutting it off does not equate to immediately going to sleep. While letting the dog out in the garden for her final pee round, we discussed the show, its merits, and what we thought would happen next. Our conversation continued as we washed our faces and brushed our teeth. It’s amazing how talkative and expressive my son can be late at night. These animated conversations with him are some of my favorite moments in life. Yet at some point I had to cut him off.
“It’s super late. We’ve got to get some sleep. We can talk more tomorrow.”

At one o’clock in the morning I stumbled into bed, angry with myself for staying up so late, yet thankful for the hang out time I had with my son. 

Whereas he’s still sleeping, I awoke at six o’clock in the morning like usual. I played my pretend I’m-still-asleep game for another hour or so before I finally got up. After all, it was time to take the beagle that binds for her morning walk. 

I had all the signs of a TV-induced, sleep-deprivation hangover: dry, red eyes, foggy head, grumpy thoughts, and a sense that everything was too bright and loud. I put on my sunglasses and headset and loaded a podcast so I could properly shut out the world as I walked my dog.

Jamie led us along the walking paths in downtown Schagen as she sniffed the world around her: bright green patches of grass, occasional pieces of litter, potted flowers, brick-lined paths, and manicured hedges. We turned onto a bike path and headed to a small, fenced dog park where dogs could be let off the leash. I sat on the lone bench and half-listened to the editing podcast I’d selected as Jamie caught up on her pee mail. This quiet moment in the sunshine while my dog roamed free seemed like just what the doctor ordered.

Moments later, a man entered the park with his dog. Jamie didn’t even growl. Instead, she wagged her tail and came to greet the newcomers. She and the other female dog connected instantly, and they started playing with each other like old friends. 

The man sat down on the bench next to me and started speaking in Dutch. 
“Do you come here often?” he asked. That sounds like a pickup line, but it wasn’t. It’s a common exchange between dog owners who meet in dog parks. It had to do with our dogs, but it also reflected a general curiosity about the woman speaking passable Dutch with an American accent (i.e., me).
“Rarely. I usually go to the larger dog park in the Waldevaart.”

In general, it’s easy to talk to other dog owners, as you know you have both made a similar lifestyle choice. But our conversation had another layer of casual ease to it, as if we’d met a half-dozen times before.

In addition to discussing our dogs, we talked about our spouses, our children, how long we’d lived in Schagen, our work, the benefits of living in a small town versus living in a city, our mutual love of museums, and our plans for the near future. At some point in the conversation, he apologized for his scratchy voice. 
“I celebrated my sixtieth birthday with family and friends at a local bar last night. Rented the whole place for the occasion.”

I wished him a belated happy birthday, while taking in the new information: we both had our own version of a hangover. Perhaps this additional commonality fostered the relaxed nature of our interaction. The conversation meandered on for a while until it came to a natural stopping point. 

“Well, nice talking to you. I’ve got to go make some coffee and then do some gardening,” he said.
“Yes. Nice meeting you, too. I’m Kristin by the way.”
“I’m _______.”
We shook hands, gathered our dogs, and waved goodbye.

I’m thankful for friendly people. I’m thankful for sunshine. I’m thankful for my Beagle whose wiggly body and sweet demeanor enhances my connections with others.

As I spell check this post, I hear my son getting up. As I read it through another time, tweaking a sentence here and there, I hear him clanking around in the kitchen. As I copy and paste this text into a WordPress post, I hear the television going on. And damn if he’s not watching Lost . . . without me.