Sinewy is a tasty word. The shape of the letters, the way it slides off the tongue. It sounds like a tree root reaching out from the tip of your tongue, long, strong, and lean. This is the perfect word to describe Half Moon’s front limbs and upper back. His muscles ripple, each perfectly defined, carving out its space on his arms and chest. His wrists, elbows, and shoulders are sharp and well-angled. These hinges cranking the movement machine.
So when I see him perched on the second step of his stairway to the couch again, I just smile, amazed by his power and ingenuity. Half Moon is pensive and alert, ears pointed and perked. His front legs are planted at the base of the steps. His hips rest on the second step, rear limbs extended in front of him, crossed casually at the paws like Little Dedo. These steps were meant to provide a safer descent from the couch, and they do, but he’s discovered an additional use for them: a pedestal for observing the comings and goings in the main part of the house.
How he gets in this position is a picture of physics and perseverance. In the months following his ruptured disc, Half Moon pulled himself onto elevated surfaces like dog beds, folded blankets, anything that put him a little higher. After about six months of this, he discovered it was easier to push himself up onto surfaces than drag himself onto them. He developed his technique in my office with a stack of dog beds. The dogs come to work with me most days, so I keep a stack of dog beds, mostly one-inch orthopedic foam, but a few other beds, thicker and thinner. Half Moon wants nothing more than to climb to the top of this stack.
One day, after trying and failing to pull himself onto this stack (again), he sat up to consider his next step. While pushing into a low handstand to maneuver his rear end for a scoot across the floor, his rear end bumped the stack of beds. I could almost see the light bulb above his head. He scurried a few feet away from the beds, did another handstand, this time tipping further forward, hoisting his rear end skyward. He quickly shuffled backward a few inches, and like a skilled crane operator, dropped his butt on top of the stack of beds. Then, with a few final pushes with those muscular front limbs and back, he pushed the rest of his body onto the beds. Triumphant, he draped his wrists over the edge and beamed.
Smart boy that he is, he’s adapted this method to many situations, but none as amusing as the couch steps. When I turn the corner from the back of the house and see him sitting there, I can’t help but think he’s sitting on the toilet. If he could, he’d be reading the newspaper, likely the comics, giggling at the antics of his favorite characters. When he senses me watching him, he turns his head and flashes his best grin, mouth open to display an amazing number of teeth for his small head. He cocks his head as if to ask, “What’s next? Are we leaving for work now? I love going to work!” He barks, a sharp, clipped exclamation point as his eyes sparkle and his ears stretch higher than I thought possible. He bounds off this throne, ready for his next adventure.
