The Power Nap
After taking walks with Simon and eating cheese sticks with him while watching favorite TV programs, I enjoy with Simon our afternoon Power Nap, though, of course there is not much to record since we are both asleep, if everything is working correctly.
The Power Nap, however, can take place in only one of two ways: either he follows me to the bedroom, I boost him—one hand cupping his butt, one hand on his chest—onto the bed and fall down panting next to him. Or, he wakes up from his own day-long Power Nap on the sofa, discovers that I am not in the dining room working; then he walks back to the bedroom, gives one very loud dachshund bark that shakes the house and scares the bee-jeebers out of me, so that I wake up, quickly get out of bed stiffly and slowly, and boost him in the previously described manner on to the bed.
In either case, the second stage of the Power Nap is the best. With me on my back, his butt fits perfectly into my right armpit (it is as though he were made to fit there, for a bit, anyway). If all goes well we both fall asleep in that position. Deeply. Comfortably. Asleep.
One hour uninterrupted is exquisite. The only problem occurs if or when Simon hears something he thinks he needs to investigate—elsewhere in the house, for then he launches himself off either side of the bed like an unstoppable dachshund-shaped missile.
Jumping from those heights is not good for a dachshund. They can develop serious and extremely painful disc and spinal problems. Therefore, I always try to catch him and gently lower him to the floor. But he is fast and I am usually groggy, so I miss him as often as I catch him. Today I caught him, all firm and well-packed 1800 pounds of him. And the nap was just long enough.
Our last pre-Simon dachshund, Pookie, a lovely, silver-dappled dachshund, developed disc problems. I can still see the moment on our back deck when the excruciating pain began. She was twelve years old. She had just left the house and was about to run off the deck to the yard, when she let out this terrible scream and tried to turn to bite her back. Our veterinarian in Berea recommended a specialist in Lexington. The operation cost 2,000 dollars, there were no guarantees; Pookie lost the pain in her spine, but she never regained the ability to walk using her hind legs. She never fully recovered.
The thought of that trauma haunts me every day as I watch the irrepressible Simon racing up and down stairs on the slightest provocation, jumping off sofas and beds, and off the big-dad chair. It also makes me understand that, as with all things, the best Simon moments are the ones that are always this moment. That are always now.