Hockey Resumes, Once Again.

It was the second period when things got rough. Both players took 5-minute penalties for fighting; 2 minutes for roughing. I went into the house for a time-out, myself. Things were getting out of hand.

Freezing rain had arrived again, serving to provide the slippery surface on which 'dog hockey' could resume, exciting our wiggler, the 3-year-old retriever. Hockey was here to stay. Discovering the potential of a large discarded hard plastic egg-shaped football, from last summer, turned our young retriever into a player, albeit, a gentle one. A kick of the 'puck' was no longer a prerequisite for winter fun. He would simply run to it, look at me with that piercing, suspicious look of his, then run off into the distance. It was 'face-off' time, again. He was motivated again but his 'teammate' was nowhere in sight. “I'm not that gullible today”, he seemed to think. A new winter sport had been discovered.

Looking far and wide, 'Wiggles' saw the 'puck' under the wrought-iron chair. With nimble paws he pushed it out, from underneath. With snout-a-plenty and mouth ajar, our wiggler began to set things in motion, once again. Such a revelation. Such precision. He was wiser today. His sister, the bully girl, was waiting to grab and run with the 'puck', the object of his affection. He would have no part of it, however, not this time. The 'puck' was his. They ran to the corner. As Sally approached, he stood his ground, waiting for her to push, then run. Using her mighty front legs to assert herself in this wildly spirited game on ice, she began her routine, maneuvering into position. 

 

Like two moose in the wilderness, they ran into each other, as if to dance on the ice-covered surface. Was this boarding, I wondered? I intervened. They ran. “Where was this going?” It was going nowhere. The puck was just lying there waiting to be moved, again. I kicked it. Mayhem restored, the game continued. The puck rolled near the house, under a table, where getting it was difficult. Both 'players' attempted what neither could do: retrieve the puck from near the house and roll it once again. Help was needed. There was a pause in the game as Sally pondered her next move. Should she even bother, she wondered. He was now using his snout and front legs to increase his skill, speed and agility. He had learned from the best. She could no longer compete.

I watched as these seasoned 'players'-2 highly trained retrievers- fought for control of the 'puck'. It was an amusing and exciting feat of motion. Then the unexpected happened. 'Mr'. Wiggles stopped and changed his strategy. He began carrying his large summer ball, while nudging the 'puck' he had been shooting to define a new format of this game of hockey. 

 

With his love of carrying every manner of object in his mouth, from mitts, gloves, socks, toys, bones and Kleenex tissue, he decided to push the 'puck' with the lattice silicon summer ball, his favourite summer carry-all, firmly locked in his mouth. (During the summer, moving two large balls simultaneously was normal for our little wiggler, though his sister was not inclined). Today, he wanted more leverage to play the game he loved.

Mr. Wiggles will be four next month; theMomseyblog, its 5^th. My little wiggler was being 'created' as I began TheMomsey blog. A year later this unique, sometimes 'misunderstood' puppy entered our lives. Whenever his diminutive cousins come to visit, he goes a little ballistic, barking and running, momentarily, hoping they will be staying for the day. He is so happy to see them. Mall Cop informs him, however, that certain rules of public decorum need to be respected. Adults have rights, too, not just puppies. They look into each other's eyes and nod in agreement. And so another day of busy begins. The 'puck' is ignored, when all are together. No need for its use. Family has arrived. That is all that matters. Hockey can wait. When warmer temperatures begin their ascent, the 'puck' will no longer have the power to engage or entertain our Mr. Wiggles. It will suddenly be invisible, again, lost to the 'toys of summer'.

“Bring the dogs”, our son replied. The invitation to dinner, with dogs in tow, became a busy, hilarious time for all. From the time we arrived till we left, our wiggler walked, wiggled, walked, glowing from his eyes down to his tail. He was visiting his 'cousins' where all manner of teddies, squeaky toys, bones, hidden slippers, ball of yarn and gloves were his for the carrying. He left a trail, everywhere. No mess followed. Was he genetically programmed to 'carry'? 'Hockey season' will soon be over. It doesn't matter to him, though. He can amuse himself anywhere. He is, after all, a man of all seasons.