on presence
January 11, 2017 § 5 Comments
Today’s wind is bitterly cold, uncomfortably so to small patches of exposed skin. It was a day to tidy indoors or disappear into a story, but my dog is immune to the cold and was overdue for a walk. Her needs demanded my attention and so I layered carefully, mindful of the temperature.
It was on this walk, my hair flying wickedly around my hat and scarf, that my companion explored slippery puddles of ice and brittle grass. She understood this was her time and so she savored each minute greedily, her joy as visible as the breath that escaped my scarf.
No matter my discomfort, there was an infectious enthusiasm in my dog’s delight. I began looking in earnest for her next distraction, paying closer attention to the landscape and less to the discomfort of the cold. Halfway home I found my own treasure, easy to miss footprints left in concrete by a small bird.
I was tempted to remove my gloves just to feel the small indentations in the ground, the miracle of something so fragile forever cast in the weight of something whose strength snaked against the bulk of earth beneath it.
Like a child the weather was forgotten for the adventure of discovery. My eyes scanning our surrounding for a new diversion. Returning home I wonder, what magic might we discover beneath our feet if we only pause long enough to find the beauty hidden just under our nose?
same dog, new tricks
May 12, 2016 § 7 Comments
Our pup stopped taking the stairs during that awkward, otherwise unmentionable time, just after she was spayed. Still growing into her paws and too small for the cumbersome cone she proudly hefted around her neck, we dutifully childproofed our stairs to protect against pulled stitches or a herniated abdomen.
When her body had healed and the gates were removed, we settled into an amused irritation at our pup’s stubborn refusal to take the stairs; letting her in and out alternate floors of our home so that she could chase the difference in height through our old backyard. It was a small concession for her comfort.
Then, we moved.
Much like our old home, the second floor bedrooms were left to chaos. Our son’s desk and floor are often littered with books and incomplete tinkering; our daughter’s room, a confetti of small figurines and haphazard art supplies. Both children are champion hoarders with colorful treasures that hint at curiosities and distraction.
With the exception of bath time, I thankfully accepted our pup’s convenient disinterest in our children’s space. Less dog hair and no muddy paws, no hazardous pieces that might be ingested or unpleasant inconveniences.
One morning last week, while making breakfast, I playfully asked our pup to wake up the kids. A frivolous command, served over unfinished coffee with a hefty suggestion of sarcasm. I might have just as easily asked her to set the table.
With an ease and familiarity the belied her normal behavior, she strolled upstairs and jumped into first one child’s and then the other’s bed. Sitting over them and nudging them awake until they tumbled, still wrinkled with sleep, to the table. That first morning we watched our pup with unchecked fascination, measuring the possibility and cautious least we break the spell.
It never occurred to us she had changed her mind.
Over the past few days, she has added bedtime to her responsibilities; sitting on my son’s computer and stretching across my daughter’s books, curling against their legs or pacing between bedrooms.
The floors need vacuuming and the bedding is wrinkled and dirty, but it’s a small inconvenience for the smiles in between floors.
Murphy’s Law
April 19, 2016 § 5 Comments
It is an infallible inevitability that whenever my husband must travel for work, something will go wrong. In fact, I plan accordingly for chaos; I fold it into my expectations the way my husband neatly packs his bags. Sometimes I wonder if a cartoon cloud has been assigned my schedule or if I am responsible for inviting rain with the force of my thoughts.
Less a pessimist and more a planner, I persistently endeavor to ready myself for worst case scenarios. The truth is we are never truly prepared; we rise to challenges by choice.
Here is what a spontaneous hour at the veterinarian reminded me:
- We create space in our lives for risk. Dogs, like children, do not defer to convenience and our commitment to them demands we detour as necessary.
- Children are more capable than we assume, they thrive with responsibility because it validates their unique strengths and reinforces messages of ability over need.
I’m not in a hurry to do yesterday over, but I’m pretty proud of myself and my children. We were present for one another and accountable for ourselves. Our pup is on the mend and we’ve added a new story for when my husband returns home.
Murphy’s Law might dictate anything that could go wrong will, but I like to think everything worked out just fine.
dog training
December 13, 2015 § 4 Comments
Our dog’s leash caked in a layer of mud to match the stretch of filth that reached from tip to tail, pulled me from the evening’s holiday plans. I cursed myself for allowing her to chase after a new friend into unknown nooks of our neighborhood, but the joy between the two had been contagious and I had released her to play.
It was only after I called our dog back to finish our walk, that I considered the unlikely events that must transpire before our company arrived. Sixty pounds of mud and fur would need to be carried up a flight of stairs to be cleaned. I’m not sure I’ve previously noted her fear of stairs, but there was no doubt that she would not be bribed our commanded in the direction of the available bathroom given an equally unfortunate fear of baths. Then, our oversized, dirty chicken would need to be bathed.
I began in my head with all the inconveniences. Trotting them out for show, naming them and sulking in their company. By the time we returned home, I had set aside the frustrations of the moment and began moving through a checklist of necessity.
It was a comedy of error, our sweet pup watching through the shower door as I struggled into my bathing suit; a small precaution in anticipation of my own inevitable bath. She was patient still as I scavenged our cabinets for the shampoo I had over organized into unlikely storage. It was only when I filled a large bucket with water that she curled in protest against the tiles as I began earnestly scrubbing the layers of mud from her fur.
As she settled into a helpless trust, I too let go; dismissing my regrets and thoughts of inconvenience to the task at hand. I stopped worrying that my hair would be undone or that the bathroom would soon be a mess of fur and water. I put off the hour and thoughts of our company, focusing on the work that demanded patience and let the irritation chase the mud that circled the drain.
This is the blessing of loving a dog; they challenge us to get lost in an unpredictable moment where small fears and inconveniences allow us to center ourselves completely in a moment of care. Our priorities get shuffled and we uncover minutes we had previously allocated to other plans, we let go of the false idea of control that so often hurries our actions and distorts the importance of our distractions.
We teach less than we learn.
dog house
February 6, 2011 § Leave a comment
I have abandoned the fantasy of a clean, unmarked home. Instead, I overlook the rumpled duvet with lines that conform to the dog’s sleeping shape. I accept my clothing carries fine strands of dog hair like a name lovingly penned on a child’s garment tag. Tiny scratches from four energetic legs are accidental mementos similar to a toddler’s sticky hand print on glass. I live in a dog house.
Cursing such inconveniences as dog hair and tiny scratches are done in tones of endearment. That Dog is, after all, ours. She is the one that chases through our legs and nuzzles an open palm to be near us. She roughhouses with my husband and children, but curls into the side of my back in the middle of the night. She waits patiently each time we leave and greets us with unbridled enthusiasm for no more than returning.
There’s no doubt we’re in trouble, our hearts have gone to the dog.
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