Alabama, Auburn, and Arthritis

I went to Birmingham and met a doctor a few weeks ago. While most people there were getting ready to get apoplectic over the Iron Bowl and the hotel clerks were either wearing Auburn or Alabama T-shirts, I was wondering -- being from the Northeast -- whether I should pull all but two of my teeth so I would fit in with the other Alabama dogs, or just settle for a lobotomy. Remember, I said to myself, this is the state where dogs think nobody is safe unless everybody has a gun.

It turns out that most of the people really like us dogs, and most of the dogs are pretty laid back. But, like most college towns during football season, the people are spending too much time painting their chests and screaming themselves hoarse, and not enough time looking to find, or helping to fund, a cure for this dog's arthritis. The good news was that neither team had a dog for a mascot. Unless you're a dog or a Native American, you can't imagine how humiliating it is to have your likeness parade across manicured astro turf in front of 75,000 variously inebriated, partially clothed fans, and a TV station or two.

But back to my doctor. He admitted up front that, being from Alabama, he probably wasn't very smart, and who was I to argue -- my job is to be someone's best friend, and friends don't let friends know they're stupid. So I dialed down my IQ 25 points, let my tongue hang out, and was ready to listen.

Of course, he wasn't stupid. Knowing that I had arthritis, he asked -- over a dessert of vanilla ice cream nestled in a shell of dark chocolate -- if I felt better since I'd lost weight and started swimming. I glanced at his dessert and then at his paunch and said yes. Then he asked how he could tell his arthritis patients that if they lost weight and started sensibly exercising that they would feel better?

"All I know," I said, "Is that it's not that easy. When I decided to take charge of my dog's life, I needed lots of help - a trainer, a psychologist, a coach, a chiropractor, five different books, and family support." He rolled his eyes and muttered something about "Team Creak", and I thought, what a great idea, "Team Creak", for all dogs that need to lose weight and get fit so they can get a leg up (dog term) on their arthritis. (I'm going to think about that.)

Then we talked about why the rest of the country thinks dogs from states like Alabama are stupid. And we agreed, they're not, but a lot of their leaders are.

Before I left for New York, where painting your upper torso in preparation for a football game is not worth three credit-hours in the fall semester, I sniffed out an old black dog named Viola who said, referring to her arthritis, "I got it bad, and that ain't good." So I licked her nose and we put our hips together for a little cheek-to-cheek healing, and, as usual, it worked for a moment of wonderful, energy-filled, pain-free life. I gave her one last New York sniff, licked a tear from her eye, and she did the same for me. Then we both bounded off for home and a soft place to lie down with the scent of each other still in our nostrils.