by Alison Pace
“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.
Next, Ellery, who clearly seems to have this down, presses his two front feet into the floor and scoots down, his hindquarters reaching upwards.
“Downward facing dog!” Gary says happily. He looks out at the assembled circle and repeats, “Downward facing dog.” He nods and then in a more imploring tone, “Guys? Want to give it a try?” To Gary’s credit, or perhaps it is to Ellery’s credit, the apricot poodle crouches down and gets into a position somewhat resembling the one Ellery is in, though she keeps her head up.
“Kind of an upward facing dog, great job, Cassie,” Gary praises. Jessica the Boston terrier gets down on her belly and begins crouching toward him as if she were stalking her prey. Gary nods seriously at her. The sheepdog mix sits down, the pug is sitting on his haunches contentedly, and the Westie is heading determinedly for the door.
“Okay, people,” Gary says clapping, the Westie stopping midstride to see what the clapping is about, “let’s join in here with a sun salutation. Person of DB Sweeney? You’re gonna want to take off your shoes.”
“My shoes?” Meredith says, even though she heard him. Suddenly she feels nervous. It’s not really about the shoes, it’s more about the fact that it does seem that the people will be participating in the yoga, and she’s never done yoga.
“You got it,” he says with a grin, it’s a very lovely grin. DB Sweeney is standing on his mat. He’s not doing doga per se, but in the scheme of things, he might be closer than some of the other dogs.
“Um, Gary,” she says to his back, as he has now turned around and is heading back to his own mat. He turns around again and she motions him toward her. She would like to think the motion is subtle. He walks a few steps toward her, a look of casual concern on his face. She angles her head down, lowers her voice, “It’s just that I haven’t ever done yoga. I thought, you know, just DB Sweeney was going to do the yoga.”
“Not a problem,” he says, smiling. His smile is so warm. “Just hang out. Watch everyone else and join in when you feel comfortable. Yoga is about going at your own pace and doing what feels right to you.”
“Uh, okay,” she says, looking down at her sneakers and thinking to herself, You will unlace them. “Any pointers?”
“Sure thing, two: try to say practicing yoga rather than doing yoga. It’s an ongoing thing, it’s a practice not an action.” She nods her head, taking it in. “And if you look at them closely enough, you’ll notice dogs are always practicing their yoga. And have fun,” he finishes with another grin. “I guess that’s three things.”
“Thanks,” she says, and bends down to unlace her sneakers. She makes an effort not to think too much about how many other people’s bare feet have been on her borrowed yoga mat, too.
“Let’s all come to the front of our mats,” he says next from the front of his own mat. She takes her place right behind DB Sweeney and watches and listens as everyone begins their sun salutation.
“Look up, reach up, inhale. Bring your hands through your chest center and look down. Fold down, and set your hands to the floor and then lift halfway up here.” As everyone, in unison, looks up to the sky and reaches their hands above them, and then swan dives down, all extremely flexibly she notices, she sees how each of the dogs gets so excited—so really puppyish is how she would describe it, even though she’s never had a puppy. Their tails all wag quickly and they excitedly circle their mats, even DB Sweeney, except he is tail-wagging and circling over on the next mat with the happy couple and he is circling along with the now quite zealous black pug.
DB Sweeney, she thinks, really? And she thinks DB Sweeney does not know from happy couples and it must be very novel to him, as novel as doga. Except of course for the fact that Gary did say that dogs are always practicing yoga.
“Now you should come into your high push-up position. And you should be able to see your ankles here. Can you see y
our ankles here?”
Even though she is not in the push-up position, Meredith tries not to think about if she can or cannot see her ankles.
“Gently lift your chin and take a deep breath in and then hover, and now, to your low push-up.”
Meredith is starting to feel a bit dumb listening to the yoga practice and not doing it. Or practicing it. But yet the dogs are so excited, and so cute, and so charming, and so fetching really, every last one, that she feels a bit less dumb than she would in other circumstances.
“Upward facing dog,” Gary says next, and everyone arches forward, “and downward facing dog,” and everyone is now in an inverted triangle pose, and breathing, and then Meredith thinks she can do that, and she gets herself into the position and it’s really not hard. She stays and she breathes and DB Sweeney hustles right back over to her, and together they listen to Gary’s velvet voice as he says over and over, “Inhale. Exhale.” She winks at DB Sweeney, who has situated himself right underneath her, and she can feel everyone breathing in and out with her. She gets the strangest feeling, one that she doesn’t think she’s had before. She doesn’t have a name for it, but she suspects it might suffice to call it being part of something. She smiles, an upside down smile, at the thought of really being part of something.
And so with Gary’s next direction, “Walk or jump forward,” she decides to follow right along, though admittedly she makes the decision to walk, rather than jump forward. She wonders if maybe G-Doga class is really just people practicing yoga with their dogs around them. Except of course for the thing that he said about dogs always practicing yoga, which could be a bit of a brain scramble if you let it. But even so, even if they just do these sun salutations, she thinks that would be okay.
