Through Thick and Thin (21 page)

There is a large apricot poodle, straining on her leash, causing Meredith to steal a quick glance at DB Sweeney. She doesn’t mean to alarm him and she hopes the combination of large dog/straining/perhaps overly excitable behavior won’t result in DB Sweeney turning to his on-hind-leg stance/gagging noise behavior. She imagines such a stance would not be Zen and that a Zen, peaceful dog is probably the best thing to be here. Next to the poodle, there’s a small Pomeranian, also apricot; then a Westie; another large dog looking a bit like a cross between a wolfhound and a sheepdog; a black pug sitting remarkably peacefully on his mat, his tongue lolling gently out the side of his mouth.
A Zen dog if ever there was one
, Meredith thinks, and figures he must be an old-timer. And last (but you can just tell, not least) there’s the aforementioned Boston terrier, doing a side step, her bulging eyes rolling around in her head, her mouth wide open, displaying what appears to be only one tooth.

At the head of the circle is an empty mat.
That must be for the G-Doga master,
Meredith thinks, and she pauses for a moment, she feels like she has to, on the absurdity of that phrase,
the G-Doga master.
And yet it seems to be the only one that fits. She and DB Sweeney don’t have a yoga mat. She feels this is perhaps cause for concern, until the woman holding the large (possibly preparing to be marauding) apricot poodle seems to read her mind and says, “There are mats in the blue bin, right there behind you, by the door.”

“Oh, thanks,” Meredith says to her, and she can notice her now, in her yoga ensemble: loose flowy pants with slits up the back and a tight-fitting tank top. As she heads to the bin and selects from all the bright blue and orange mats, one that is light purple with white circles on it, Meredith thinks she would like a pair of those pants. As she joins the circle, she thinks maybe it would be nice to sit next to the helpful apricot poodle woman, but yet she worries a bit about the propensity said apricot poodle may have to stress DB Sweeney really far out. So instead, she situates herself between the overly enthusiastic Boston terrier, who is now preoccupied with administering long, soulful licks to her yoga mat, and the peaceful-seeming black pug.

The door opens and in walks a beautiful (and also very peaceful-seeming) Bernese mountain dog. He is like a bear, and Meredith admires the sheen, the luster of each color in his coat, the sparkle in his eyes. He is so sagelike and wise that Meredith somehow momentarily forgets that he is so large and that large sometimes (okay, often) freaks DB Sweeney out. The Bernese mountain dog walks slowly, saunters really, to the empty mat at the head of the circle. DB Sweeney watches him, but he doesn’t become agitated, actually he just watches him, and nothing happens. And then something does.

He must have walked in right after the Bernese mountain dog. He’s just finished taking off his shoes, and he walks in his bare feet and faded, wrinkled khakis rolled up once at the bottom, up to the front of the circle, to the mat where the Bernese mountain dog is sitting, regally staring down the Pomeranian, who has commenced barking (yapping might be the better word choice) and is spinning himself in circles.

“Rocco. Peace,” says the man who just walked in, pressing his hands briefly together in a prayer position in front of his chest as he takes his place on the mat behind the mountain dog. The Pomeranian is silent and looks up at the man with wide eyes.
The G-Doga master
, Meredith thinks, and this time the phrase doesn’t seem absurd at all.

He’s wearing a dark green T-shirt with white lettering on it, but the white lettering is so faded, it’s hard to make out what it once said. She stares a bit longer and thinks that maybe at one point, at some point long before this class, that maybe what it said was
Green.
He has very dark, curly hair, a mop of curly hair really, but it’s shiny, like his dog’s coat. It looks good on him. He has very pretty, quite piercing green eyes, and she thinks she gets why people say green eyes can be very striking, because they really can be. He has nice skin, it’s very smooth and splotchless. He’s very lean and muscular, sinewy almost, and he’s not a large man, not by any means, and she wonders if maybe she’s taller than he is. He looks younger than she thinks she looks, but maybe that could just be his casual attire, the beaded necklace worn close around his neck. And Meredith would like to point out here, and she would hope that you knew this anyway, that she’s really not the sort to study a man standing in front of her in this way.

“How’s everyone doing tonight?” he asks, and he has a deep voice, it carries very well, it projects. Throughout the room there are murmurs of “good” and “hi” and “how are you.” There are a few barks, and assorted squirming noises, rustling and panting from the four-legged classmates.

“Great then,” he says, deeply. “Okay.” And Meredith regards him again, this sinewy man with all the curly hair and the beads and the bare feet. Outside of this room, she would have walked right past him. If she were the type to still go to bars, she doesn’t think she ever would have noticed him in one, would not have considered him one of the people who couldn’t tell she had a good (though at times somewhat judgmental) personality from across the room. She’s not across the room from him right now, she’s just a pug away from him, but she wonders if he can tell anything about her personality, her character, from where he is. Because she feels right now, as she looks at him, in a room filled with what must be yoga-loving dogs, very closely to the way she felt when she first saw DB Sweeney. She feels a bit like a goner, like it’s all over for her, all through. She feels that if she were the type of person to use hokey expressions at leisure and at will, she might say something, something along the lines of,
Put a fork in me, I’m done.

But she’s not the type of person to think that way. And, he is an instructor of a yoga class for dogs at the 92nd Street Y. And, surely he’s younger than she is anyway, and shorter than she is, to say nothing at all of all-around smaller in physique.
Pull yourself together,
she tells herself, inadvertently tightening her grip on DB Sweeney’s leash. DB Sweeney looks up at her, in that way of his that is very wise.

“Okay,” he says again, scanning the room. “I see some new faces tonight, that’s great. So, you guys with the pug are new?” He says pointing next to her to the mellow pug. The pug is the one dog who has two people.

“And this little guy,” he says, stepping forward a little bit, closer to her and DB Sweeney, stooping down for a closer look, “he’s a . . .” He lets it linger there, a question. DB Sweeney looks up at her and then at him, back to her again. She smiles at him before answering.

“He’s a mini wirehaired dachshund-Norwich terrier mix,” she says in a voice that sounds a little different than the one she usually hears.

“He’s got some corgi in him, too, I think,” he says, ruffling the crest of fur on the top of DB Sweeney’s head, and looking up at Meredith from his vantage point on the floor.

“Yes,” she says, widening her eyes and nodding enthusiastically. “How did you know?”

“You can see the way he looks up at you; it’s in the eyes,” he says, taking his first and second fingers together and pointing them at his eyes and then pointing at her eyes and smiling, and she thinks the room feels so warm. “It just really says corgi to me.” He gives a quick shrug of his shoulders and gets up and heads back to the head of the circle, and Meredith waits. She waits to hear the sounds of wires snapping against each other, to see some kind of sparks, any indication that this particular room at the 92nd Street Y was about to be consumed by an electrical fire. She notices that next to her, the Boston terrier has a pile of plush toys arranged in front of her, babies just like DB Sweeney has, the ones he so carefully and tenderly carries from room to room. The little Boston picks up one of her babies (a natural-colored elephant with pink tusks) and begins smacking it down, side to side with quick, furious jerks of her head.

“Jessica,” the G-Doga master, whose name she doesn’t even know yet, says to the Boston terrier, “peace.” And Jessica puts her baby down in front of her.

“All right,” he says, now back in front of his mat. “New Guys, why don’t you take a second to introduce yourselves to the room. Just tell us your name, your dog’s name, and what it is that brings you here,” he says. His voice is calm, relaxed; placid like a lake.

He points first at the couple with the pug, one finger this time, an effortless, fluid flick of his wrist that seems to Meredith so graceful. The couple, a pretty redhead and a tall guy with close-cropped dark hair, smile at each other. The redhead laughs; it’s a laugh just between them, a private joke, everyone has them. The redhead takes a breath and starts talking, “Hi. I’m Hope, and this is Ben,” she says and then looks down and gestures at the pug, “and this is Max.” Max seems to be asleep. “We practice yoga together, Ben and I do, and we love it and we heard about this yoga class for dogs and so we wanted to share it with Max. And also, we wanted to make sure he felt at peace because we just moved into a new apartment.”

Meredith notices the way the tall guy smiles at the redhead when she’s done talking. And the way she smiles right back at him. She wonders if it was always so easy for them, if they were just born that happy and in love, if there was never any loneliness or struggle or isolation or fear. She’s sure there never was.

The G-Doga master points at her and DB Sweeney next, “You guys?” he prompts. She hesitates for a split second, she has to, because she has to think about her anonymity. Someone here could be a chef, or a restaurant owner. Maybe she should use a different name? She has to say something. And so she does, really quickly. “Hi. I’m Meredith, and I’m here because of DB Sweeney,” she says and nods her head vigorously a few times, and leaves it at that. She thinks maybe the G-Doga master could be looking at her a bit quizzically, but he doesn’t say anything and no one else does either, and she just nods her head again and even though she really hates waiting, she waits for the moment to pass.

“Great then,” he says, and puts a hand on his chest. “I’m Gary, and welcome to G-Doga, and welcome back everyone else.”

Gary?
she thinks.
Gary?
For as many names as she has loved and thought were very cool names indeed, and for just as many names as she has thought to be boring, mundane, dull, Gary has been one of the few names, along with Barry, that she actually dislikes. She thinks that a yoga teacher, a G-Doga master at that (wait, is the
G
for
Gary,
do you think?) should have a more spiritual name, a name more in sync with his yogic mission in life. A yoga teacher should be called Eagle, she thinks, or Yan. Sebastian perhaps, or Paisley. Not Gary. Though Gary could be short for Gareth, maybe? Gareth is an excellent name.

“Okay,” he says next, “last thing for the new folks. If you haven’t checked out the book
Doga
by Jennifer Brilliant and William Berloni, I highly recommend it. I, for one, find it inspiring, and it’s great if you’re interested in continuing your doga practice at home, something I strongly encourage.” He claps his hands together twice, slowly, loosely, fluidly, and the Bernese mountain dog stands up regally. “And last, last thing,” Gary says with a chuckle, gesturing to his dog. “this is Ellery.” And Ellery, it seems, nods at the class. Maybe, or maybe she’s just imagining things.

Gary places his hands in front of him now, back in prayer position, and she notices that all the other people are standing on their mats, behind their dogs in the same way Gary is standing behind Ellery. Or not. The woman with Jessica, the Boston terrier, is standing on her mat at least, and Jessica is dancing in a circle around her, tossing her head exuberantly, her feet moving in a quick side-stepping motion. The woman with the Westie is saying softly, “Carlie, no,” as Carlie smears her face sideways across the wood floor much in the same way DB Sweeney does when he comes across something especially vile on the sidewalk.

“Let’s start with three
oms
,” Gary says and then, yes, says,
“Om.”
It’s very deep and resonating. Around the circle some of the dogs are quite focused, and others are quite not; all the people answer Gary’s long, reverberating, completely unselfconscious
om
with their own. As
oms
fill the room, Meredith joins in, too, though she is a little embarrassed, a bit self-conscious as she looks around to see if anyone is looking at her. Her
om
is not free. Hers is a self-conscious
om
, and she can’t say for sure, but she imagines such a thing, a self-conscious
om
, is frowned upon at best.

But before she can fully ponder the oxymoronic qualities of an embarrassed, stifled
om
, Ellery, the Bernese mountain dog, reaches his nose skyward, or ceilingward as it were, and lets out a long, low, quite soulful howl. It’s a wonderful sound, and then Gary begins another
om
, and the others chime in, Meredith included, with a far less self-conscious
om
than her first one. All the dogs, the ones that were focused and also the ones that were not, sit on their mats, and each one, the apricot poodle, Jessica the Boston terrier, Rocco the Pomeranian, Carlie, the face-smearing Westie, the giant sheepdog mix, the Zen pug, and yes, even DB Sweeney, each one reaches a nose skyward and lets out his or her own take on a howl. Meredith hears DB Sweeney’s howl and it’s a little high, and it sounds to her so much like
wooooo.
She wants to get down on the mat with him, and hug him. She wants to tell him that he is absolutely fantastic and amazing and wonderful all at once. She is so taken, looking around at all the gently howling dogs. There is something reserved about them—they’re all wild things in this moment, and yet they’re also not. She’s struck by the desire to hug every single one of the dogs, to hold on to each one, tell every single one of them how special and important they are. For reasons most practical, she resists the urge. Rather, she puts all of her enthusiasm into her last
om
, as it seems everyone else is doing, too. And the dogs continue to howl.