Most people rake in the fall. I rake in the spring.
The reason I rake in the spring is because every year at this time my yard looks like it has giant liver spots.
The reason every year at this time my yard looks like it has giant liver spots is because I have a dog that pees napalm.
The reason I've had a dog for the past 12 years (and, as fortune would have it, one that pees napalm) is a story I've told here before, but I'd rather not tell it again today because, though I usually find some humor in it, I'm positive I'll find none at the moment.
And the reason for that is simple: I hate to rake.
There is a scientific explanation why dog urine kills grass. I've had people who know their bluegrass from their tall fescue explain it all to me – something about ammonia and excess nitrogen and pH balance and whatnot.
But science never has been a strong suit of mine, and somewhere out there is a retired high school chemistry teacher who'll freely admit to that. All I know is that every winter when the dog does its business, it does a number on my yard.
I've already raked out the dead spots once this spring. I'll need to rake them out three or four more times before grass will grow in them again.
Round one of the raking took place on a recent Saturday morning. Like she does every spring, the dog lay in the yard – a patch, coincidentally, she hadn't scorched this winter – and watched. Like it does every spring, the scene went something like this:
Rake. Stop. Wheeze.
Rake. Stop. Wheeze.
Raking isn't quantitative physics. Scratching requires more thought. So it gives one ample time to ponder other things, and more often than not my mind will drift to a certain yellow Labrador looking at me while I lean on a rake gasping like a beached sea creature.
"You know," I'll mutter, "I should put an ad in the paper. I know just what it would say, too: 'For sale. One dog. Goes by Angel. Don't let the name fool you.' "
Her tail will wag. "You think I'm kidding, but I'm not. That's just what it would say. Of course, who would be crazy enough to want you? You have more tumors than a cancer ward. Your breath could strip paint. But you know what you're biggest flaw is? You have an exaggerated self-image."
As if on cue, she'll turn her head and bark at some lap dog scuttling next to its owner down the block and across the street – a distance of at least 50 yards. And then for good measure she'll growl. The sound is like rocks in a blender.
"You see. That's what I'm talking about. Do you think that woman and that dog are interested in your opinion? I've got news for you. They're not. On top of that, now they'll think you've got a bad attitude even though we both know the only thing you care to sink your teeth into is a chocolate chip cookie."
Because I'm looking at her, she'll slowly stand up, steady herself, hobble over and plop down beside me. "You have got to be kidding," I'll grunt. "You ruin my yard, and now you want me to pet you? Well, I'm not going to do it. I'm not. You can sit there all day. You will get no pets from me."
My arms feel like they've come loose from my body. Tomorrow when I wake up, I'll think someone has inserted razorblades into my spine. And even though I'm wearing gloves, I can tell I have blisters forming the size of bowling balls.
Before people do something they can't – or at least ought not to – undo like get married or have a family, they might want to get a dog. What they'll probably discover, if they haven't already, is how much give they have to go with their take.
Because when someone finds muddy paw prints on the top of her antique mahogany table or his best pair of ostrich-skin boots chewed to shreds or the pantry door open and that 10-pound bag of rice that had been full is now empty, they learn quick how much tolerance they have for imperfection and how much capacity they have for sacrifice. If what they find is that they don't have much of either, they might want to rethink getting that engagement ring or swapping the den for a nursery.
Every dog I've ever known is part friend, part frustration, but I haven't met a single person yet whose flaws are fewer or one who can be trained.
In time I'll look at the dog looking at me. She has always had as much white in her coat as yellow, so it is hard to see how grey her face has become. To get into and out of the bed of my truck now, I have to lift her (which I think she secretly enjoys). Seldom do I catch her chasing butterflies anymore. Instead, she sleeps for hours at a stretch – even during the day.
How many more springs of liver spots will there be, I'll wonder as I drop the rake, ease onto the grass and take off my gloves.