The Shit No One Tells You About Poodles

The Yoga Poodle

My Hugo passed away just over a week ago leaving me bereft but this post is not about that, I am not ready, I am still in the raw and lonely wasteland of the first stages of grief at having lost a soulmate.

Condolences have been wise, heartfelt and understanding. Some people have memories they have shared. One in particular mentioned they would miss him at yoga:

We live in a rural area mostly farmland, some scrub, some pastoral and rolling. There are beaches and campgrounds for the tourists and a few fancy hotels for the wine sippers and foodies. There’s a large arts community, thriving and of course the long-established dairy livestock and crop farms. It all seems to function fairy compatibly.

I say all this to set the scene of Saturday morning yoga in the summer. Not always, but when we could, Hugo and I loaded our stuff into the car (normal Saturday morning included our beach walk and some chores). We drove about half an hour to Saturday morning yoga. On a beautiful property on a tended lawn of about an acre in front of a colonial red brick house shaded by black walnut and giant maples trees that lined the edge of the front, we attended a by-donation yoga. We had all come to know our colleagues, Michel, a dashing French singer owned the house and we were all linked by the instructor, an upbeat blond with a movie-star presence in her convertible Miata and shades. Yet it was an altogether down to earth gathering with occasional potlucks or meeting for post yoga coffee all encouraged by our instructor. She had a knack for creating community.

Hugo and I, being joined at the hip, attended these sessions together, loading blankets water bowls, yoga mat etc., etc., as if we were going camping for a week.

Now Hugo takes after his dad (even though his dad has taught yoga): I was the kid who stared out the window at school, couldn’t wait to be out doing nothing in particular other than not be in school. Needless to say a bad example to set for a poodle.

Anyway, in the shade of one of Michel’s massive trees we set up, bowl, toys, treats and I got to finding my centre, my breath, cross-legged, listening to the wind in the leaves, enjoying that July warmth blowing over me, while Hugo got his bearings finding the “just right” bit of cool grass to lie on in the best bit of shade. Class had begun.

He let out a bark, of course, he’s a dog, he’s outside surrounded by fresh air, swaying fields of wheat and a bunch of people over there breathing into their centres.

What the heck I thought, I brought him closer to me, which is likely what he wanted. I did have him on a long leash mostly for my own peace of mind––there was a road of very intermittent traffic but I have never trusted dogs near moving cars.

He barked more. Water? Of course. Treats? Yes. Anything else? The toy you have never shown much interest in? Why not? Why not eviscerate the damn thing.

Now let me get back to touching my toes. Bark. Can’t you be like that retriever Molly over there who is just taking it all in? Bark. I think heads are moving now. Folks glancing under their arms in mid toe-reach to see what all the fuss is about. Bark. Bark. I get it. Totally. I was the kid who had to sit hands crossed in a church pew on Sunday mornings. The kid who didn’t practice piano or violin, or clarinet (but can burst into tears at the symphony). The kid who drove the French tutor crazy as I squirmed on the couch (even though I am a sworn Francophile who speaks French every chance he gets). The list goes on but you get it.

And I got it. Why be “good” when you can just be. And what is good anyway?

So there I am in downward dog and sixty pounds of poodle decides to, well, climb on me. Surely this is a game? I am doing my best to keep focussed on the instructor. He’s humping me now, but at least he’s being quiet. Spoke too soon. Maybe not. Our messy little corner of the yard, bunched blanket, yoga mat askew, spilled water dish, treats being eaten by a squirrel, shredded toy, is now not much different than the back corner of the grade 3, 4, 5 etc., classroom to which I was relegated.

Once again we are now reaching toe-ward and Hugo is helping with my back flexibility having climbed on my back, not sure perhaps trying to bite my ear or my hair. I am sure I will be banned from future Saturday yogas. I dare look at the instructor but she has lost her ability to convey instructions and is simply laughing at the circus going on at the back of the gathering under the black walnut tree. I am flushed, my face hot with embarrassment. But she is just simply laughing quite openly. I suppose that is yoga at its truest. The ones between us and the instructor employ their spinal twists to have a look at the side show in the cheap seats. Hugo is busy, as squirmy as a noodle but has now worn himself out, after all, the class is almost over.

I used to tell him “when I was your age ….” We had similar likes, found joy in similar places, being outdoors, finally getting to the beach, being in each other’s company. I guess we were soul mates. We got each other. I found him infinitely fascinating watching how his mind worked, what caught his attention. He wasn’t a toy or an accessory, not a thing to be brought out for entertainment or distraction. He was an era, a chapter that will never be finished, in my life.