As readers well know from earlier installments, my guy Mike is a big sports fan. Pretty much all day and most of the night, the radio, or the TV, or his computers, or all of them at the same time, are tuned to sports. To me, it’s all white noise until my bud Penny comes over to wrestle and beg for snacks, and Penny is on hiatus for the summer. Until fall arrives, the best thing I could say about sports is that I can fall asleep to it.
Through the din, however, I have recently heard voices talking about flopping. Professional basketball has a problem with flopping. In World Cup soccer (which is all the rage these days), flopping is an even bigger issue. Everybody but the floppers seem to be against flopping.
I am strongly pro-flopping. When I was a puppy, learning to walk on a leash, I often flopped down suddenly on the pavement, sidewalk or trail with no provocation. As I got older, and better behaved, I didn’t flop nearly as often. I just continued walking, or chasing after my ball a few dozen times. Recently, however, just to reinforce for Mike’s benefit the concept that I am in total control of our relationship, I brought back the the flop. I’m happy to report that, despite the layoff, my timing and execution have been impeccable. Walking on a sidewalk or along a trail, at any time I choose I might find a particular spot I like, lie down, and stay there for as long as I damn please. I get myself comfortable, survey the landscape, twitch my nose a few times and swivel my neck around so my eyes can take in everything that’s moving by: like Brooke and Jan with their walking sticks, or another dog or a jogger, seriously clad bicyclists or some hapless soul with a metal detector. (They are evil, those metal detectors. I must bark to ward them off.)
Sometimes I just like to flop and smell the roses, or whatever else is in the air. I am, and therefore I flop. When I’m done with my flop and it’s time to go, I’ll be the first to let you know. In the meantime, some cool water and a few Charlee Bears would be nice.