Sometimes it’s not easy being a dog. Don’t get me wrong: I love my family. I really do. And after living for months in an animal shelter, I’m really grateful to be in a house with my own dog bed, dog toys, and best of all, my own supper dish. My human parents treat me very well most of the time. They take me for walks, play with me, and give me lots of attention. Plus, I’ve got them trained to be very generous with the dog treats.
But there are still times when it’s hard to be a dog living in a house that is run by humans. Because sometimes humans say and do things that don’t make any sense at all.
For instance, our house has two beds, three couches, and five upholstered chairs. Every single piece of that furniture is absolutely perfect for curling up and sleeping on. I know, because I’ve done it. They’re incredibly soft and comfortable, and obviously designed for a good nap. But what happens whenever Mom or Dad finds me sleeping on them? I get told to get down, that’s what. And not too nicely, either. Sometimes they even call me a bad dog.
Thunderstorms are another example. Whenever I hear the rumble of thunder, or even sense the change in atmosphere that tells me a storm is coming, I do the only sensible thing and hide. Everyone knows that when the end of the world is so obviously imminent, your only chance is to find a safe spot to ride it out. But do my parents join me? Nope. They just go on about their business, acting as if nothing is wrong. Sometimes (and I swear I’m not making this up), they even put on their raincoats and leave the house. I can hear them driving off, leaving me all alone to face the danger.
But the weirdest stuff started a couple of months ago, when the vet told my Mom that I had tested positive for heart worm. I didn’t think it was such a big deal, since worms are rather common in the dog world, but my parents freaked out. No more walks for me, or games of fetch. Dad even fenced off most of the yard so I didn’t have much room to run around. Worst of all, they switched me to a low-calorie dog food. It doesn’t taste nearly as good as my regular food, but I had to eat it anyway.
They made me go to the vet twice to get some injections, and I can tell you that dogs don’t like to get shots any more than people do. The second time I even had to spend the night at the vet’s office. Whatever was in that shot made me feel sore and tired for a long time, but gradually I began to feel better. Still, I wondered if I’d ever get my normal life back.
Thankfully, my vet has decided that the heart worms are gone, and my parents have calmed down. Dad even took down that ugly temporary fence, so now I can go behind the garage and hunt for varmits. The rabbits, squirrels and chipmunks have gotten really bold during the time I’ve been on restrictions, but I’ll soon put an end to that.
So, I guess there’s hope for my parents after all. If they can figure out that dogs are supposed to be able to go for walks and play in the back yard, they might figure out the other stuff too. Maybe they’ll even join me under the chair the next time there’s a thunderstorm. And if we don’t all fit under there, I’ve got some diet dog food I’d gladly share….
Love, Finn
We also found an invitation to wedding of my great-grandfather to my great-grandmother, which I plan to frame. And it was great fun looking through the folder my parents had made when we were planning my wedding, especially when we looked at the prices that were being considered. My dad had written, “I told them to forget it!” next to the name of one venue, so I guess it’s safe to assume that they were a bit more expensive than the $11.95 per person we eventually paid for my reception.
Clearly, Lucy is not quite ready to cross over the proverbial rainbow bridge. Equally clearly, she will not make that crossing until she is darned good and ready. I know that we are living on borrowed time now. As the vet so eloquently put it, we are in the “gift stage” of Lucy’s life, since every day we have her with us is a gift. And it’s a gift we’ll gladly accept, each and every time she gives it.
Many of my friends already have grandchildren, and they did their best to tell me just how special it is. And I believed them, I really did. But I still totally unprepared for the absolute joy and wonder I felt when I first saw my brand-new grandson. He seemed like nothing less than a tiny little miracle. And just as I did with my own newborn babies all those years ago, I fell in love with him, immediately and absolutely.
But if I could abandon just one of my Christmas traditions, it would be the annual battle to put the lights on my Christmas tree. I prefer the large, old-fashioned lights that throw out a warm, cozy glow on a dark night, just like the ones my family has always used. You’d think that putting a few strands of them on the tree would be easy. But each and every year year, something goes dreadfully wrong when we try to light up our tree.
In most ways, I take after my father much more than my mother. I inherited his sense of humor, his passion for reading, his deep love of animals, and (unfortunately) his sagging neck line and tendency to be a bit wide in the middle. My mother and I look nothing alike, and I have none of her teaching, sewing, or decorating skills. But there is one trait that my mother and I do share: we both have astonishingly bad memories. And that’s beginning to worry me a little.
My mother is at the age where I often accompany her to important visits, and I see the looks that she sometimes gets when she has problems remembering stuff. And I know the time is coming when I’m going to be getting those looks as well. Which probably explains why I can get a little defensive about my mother’s memory (or lack thereof), because I not only know it’s just who she is, but I realize it’s also who I am.
While I was on vacation a few weeks ago, I wandered into a clothing store and had just begun to look through the racks when my cell phone rang. Not wanting to be rude, I stepped just outside to take the call, standing with my back to the store. As I was talking, I heard a loud click behind me, but I didn’t realize what it meant until I finished the call and tried to go back inside. The door was now locked. I could see the clerk through the glass door, doing her best to look busy over by the register and deliberately not looking in my direction. I was only on the phone for a minute, but apparently that was all the time she needed to and lock me out.
They may look like a group of cheap horse figurines, but to me, they are so much more. They remind me of my childhood dream of owning a horse, and of how that dream actually came true. They remind me that dreams don’t always match reality, but that if I can find the courage to persevere, sometimes reality is just as good, if not better, than the dream.
One of the first things I noticed about life in a small town was that everyone knew almost everyone else, if not by name, then at least by sight. Which meant that when you passed someone on the sidewalk, you acknowledged them in some way. A simple nod or “hello” would do if you didn’t have time to stop and chat, but hurrying on by as if you didn’t notice the person was considered rude. The same thing was true if you were driving a car. People waved at each other as they drove past, even if it was nothing more than simply lifting the index finger off the steering wheel. No one was anonymous, and everyone deserved recognition.
I was so sure that the house would be ours that when our agent called to say the sellers had already accepted another offer, I actually cried, just a little. I had been so happy that we had finally found the perfect house for our family, with plenty of room to grow into and loads of potential for a couple (like us) who were willing to do some rehab work. Losing that house was devastating, but all we could do was keep looking, and we eventually found another fixer-upper in the same neighborhood. It was smaller (three-bedroom, one bath), but it was in our budget and although we weren’t particularly excited about it, we decided it would do.
Muddling Through My Middle Age 