A little over twenty years ago, I had a laminectomy, a surgical fix for degenerative disc in my spine. Before picking up his scalpel, my neurosurgeon listened patiently as I expressed my desire to continue my passions of rock climbing, rappelling, whitewater rafting, and hiking with heavy packs.
D. K. Wall:The surgery was a resounding success. I felt none of the pain or sciatica that had plagued me before. Intent on a full recovery, I threw myself into physical therapy.
D. K. Wall:A few weeks later, I performed a series of tests in my neurosurgeon's office. Satisfied with the results, he released me for normal activities. Then he paused, looked me straight in the eye and said, and I mean normal.
D. K. Wall:So maybe I haven't always been kind to my body. Rising from bed every morning now creates a chorus of joints popping and creaking, a symphony composed of nearly sixty two years of what I generously call an active lifestyle.
D. K. Wall:And as those degenerative discs suggest, my body has its innate flaws. Odds are good, I'll be a candidate for knee replacement someday. After all, my parents stand at four out of four knees replaced. So, the genetic odds are not in my favor.
D. K. Wall:I am doing my best with what's left me through regular exercise. We walk six miles a day, three in the morning, and three in the afternoon. I work out three days a week. Every morning without fail, I perform a series of calisthenics, 50 deep knee bends with a dumbbell, followed by three reps each of leg raise holds, Superman holds, and planks. Not bad for a guy nearing his 62nd birthday.
D. K. Wall:These are family events. My ever patient partner in life joins for the fun, and the dogs help. Well, sort of.
D. K. Wall:Look, they're great at walking. They love meandering along the trails morning and afternoon. Six miles equates to roughly a 77 bazillion sniffs and pees. For the dogs, not the humans.
D. K. Wall:Bonus points are awarded for each squirrel spotted, fellow canine sniffed, or ear scratches received from passing humans who tell them how cute they are. Funny we humans never get told the same.
D. K. Wall:As for the thrice weekly workouts, they happily trot into the exercise room with its array of agony inflicting devices, but quickly spiral into profound boredom. By the time I'm sweating, they are snoring.
D. K. Wall:The morning calisthenics, though, fascinate them. Let's start with the deep knee bends. They open their eyes and rise from their curled donut napping positions, amused expressions on their faces as I grunt my count.
D. K. Wall:Concerned and curious, they approach and sniff. At unpredictable intervals, they snake between my legs mid squat. Not exactly as helpful as you might think.
D. K. Wall:But what they're really waiting for comes next when the mat rolls out on the floor. That's when calisthenics morph into caninesthenics. The first exercise is known as the nap race. You will probably be challenged to find that in any exercise program, so allow me to describe. The goal, for the canine, is to curl up on the mat before the human can claim it. That thick foam is perfect for an early morning snooze, the canine equivalent of a freshly made bed at a five star hotel.
D. K. Wall:I made the mistake once of stretching the mat out before doing deep knee bends. Sally planted herself dead center, soon snoring in rhythm with my squats. When I came to do my floor exercises, she was quite disgruntled when I told her to move. I explained I needed the whole mat, not just a tiny corner. She suggested otherwise.
D. K. Wall:Once I stretch out on the mat to begin my leg raise holds, the real challenge begins. The exercise is simple enough. Lie flat on my back, hands at my sides, lift my legs so my feet hover six inches off the ground, and hold.
D. K. Wall:Not exactly a picnic, but doable until Landon chews on a toe. He has quite the affinity for toes. That's a real challenge since I prefer to be barefoot. I'm Southern. Shoes and socks are optional clothing, and I opt to avoid them whenever possible.
D. K. Wall:One morning, years ago, he napped under my desk as I wrote. He woke, spotted my feet, and decided to test whether toes were a new variety of chew toy. He concluded they were. I suggested with a yelp that they were not.
D. K. Wall:I would love to claim that this was a one time incident, but he's a slow learner. So am I. My toes suffer the consequences.
D. K. Wall:Even when my toes are safe, though, I have to beware of the Paw of Sally. She approaches while I am distracted with the safety of my digits. All she wants is a belly rub. Nothing particularly rough.
D. K. Wall:Except Sally isn't much for asking when she wants something. She demands. She saunters over, rears back with a paw, and slaps as hard as she can. You try holding your feet off the ground, wary of a drive by nibbling, while being pummeled by a 45 pound Siberian Husky boxer with claws.
D. K. Wall:I wonder how normal my neurosurgeon would have considered that. But that's not all.
D. K. Wall:Roscoe, ever the daddy's boy, doesn't cause such problems. No. His issue is more one of concern. Why is dad lying on the floor? This requires investigation, which consists of planting his wet nose directly on my forehead and sniffing for clues. No diagnosis has been reached, but he's thorough.
D. K. Wall:Once the leg holds are completed, I turn my battered body over for Superman holds. Lying on my stomach, I extend my arms in front of me and raise them in the air while simultaneously lifting my legs behind me. Thus, I look like Superman.
D. K. Wall:Well, Superman if he were a slightly out of shape writer in his sixties. Come to think of it, that might be a plausible description of an elderly Clark Kent. He was, after all, a newspaper reporter, and decades in journalism are not kind to a body. Of course, at my age, the name would be Super Geezer.
D. K. Wall:Whatever you call it, the problem with this awkward position is that Landon can still chew toes. Roscoe can plant worried licks across my entire face, and Sally can climb onto my back to claim her napping mat with me still on it. In essence, I become the world's most unstable dog bed.
D. K. Wall:Finally, I wrap my morning with planks, an exercise clearly developed in the Middle Ages as a dungeon torture device that somehow rebranded itself as fitness. Balanced on my toes and forearms, I focus on breathing and hold the position until fire races through my abdomen and my arms begin negotiations for surrender.
D. K. Wall:Fortunately, my toes are no longer within chewing range. Though the bottoms of my feet are still quite lickable, a loophole Landon exploits with enthusiasm. I've raised my head just enough to allow Roscoe to nibble on my ears and with some impressive contortionist skills on his part, the tip of my nose.
D. K. Wall:For the record, Sally may be the lightest of the three dogs, but 45 pounds of Siberian husky is still formidable, particularly when she is standing on my back wondering why her comfortable napping spot is quivering.
D. K. Wall:So yes, good neurosurgeon, I am trying to take care of my body. I'm working hard to never see you again. I am doing only normal activities. Assuming of course that caninesthenics are normal.