Truffle Has a Ball

I was sitting at the computer, reading The NY Times while Truffle lounged on the study couch behind me. As I scanned the morning’s trove of catastrophes, I squeezed one of those grip-strengthener balls. I do this while I read the news because it’s more acceptable than chain-smoking Camels or guzzling pints of gin. Coming across a particularly odious bit of political skulduggery, I accidentally knocked the ball off the desk. It bounced on the floor, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Truffle jump up and stare at it intently.

What!! Was it possible that Truffle was INTERESTED IN THE BALL? Forgive the all-caps, but in the eleven months he’d been among us, Truffle had shown no interest in toys. Not surprisingly, the puppy mill farmers who kept him in a cage had not bothered to give him toys. No rubber bones while he was teething. No pull ropes or stuffed frogs or frisbees. And certainly no balls to chase and retrieve. When he first arrived a friend gave him a little stuffed dog, just the size for his small mouth, and I tried to entice him with a small Kong that Bisou had loved. But he would duck his head and try to get away, afraid.

In the subsequent weeks and months there was so much for Truffle to learn, so many fears for him to overcome, that teaching him to play—supposing you can teach an eight-year-old dog to play—never occurred to me. He had to learn to walk in a straight line, as opposed to spiraling around me and tripping me on the sidewalk. He had to learn that the friends we met were not out for his blood, but might offer him kibble. He had to figure out that neither the squeak of the front door nor the squeal of the garbage truck brakes were signs of the end of the world. He had to learn stairs, and his name, and “come!” and “sit!” and the dozen daily routines that I had never been aware of until I had a dog who understood none of them.

Early on, I asked the vet what I could get for Truffle to exercise his jaws. “He might like a pig’s ear,” the vet said. I felt somewhat squeamish handing Truffle this item—stiff, dry, and hairless but with all the blood vessels clearly visible—but he did gnaw on it with his toothless gums. Still, it wasn’t exactly playing.

So imagine my excitement when I saw Truffle, tail up, ears forward, peering intently at the ball on the floor. I picked it up and threw it on the bed. Truffle dashed over to it, secured it with his paws, and gnawed. It rolled out and he went after it, and gnawed some more. I put him on the floor so he could run farther, but the ball kept rolling under the furniture. It occurred to me that our bathroom, which is large and has no furniture, would take care of this problem. But as soon as we entered and I closed the door, Truffle lost all interest in the ball and started circling. Circling is his default mode, left over from his caged years, and emerges whenever he’s alarmed, excited, or confined. What to do? I really wanted to encourage this ball thing, not only for fun, but to give him exercise.

This is where the advantages of having a small dog really shine. I put him on the queen-size bed (something I could never have done with my German Shepherds) and threw the ball. Between throwing, catching, and gnawing, we spent a delightful ten minutes, after which we both took a nap. True, because of the duvet, the ball doesn’t bounce, but the bed is big enough to serve as a Pomeranian-sized pickleball court. And since there are no walls, it doesn’t trigger circling.

Of course, I am already envisioning the day in spring when I take Truffle to the dog park, throw the ball, and he brings it back. But this is not wise. He is not a puppy, and retrieving may be forever beyond his grasp, as is house training. I should learn my lesson, the one the Universe had in mind when He/She/They sent me Truffle: be grateful for what you have, and do not hanker for more.