Sometimes it’s hard to be a dog. I mean, I know I mostly live a good life: I’ve got a nice home with a loving human family, a big yard, and my very own basket of dog toys. But I can’t help but noticing that at my house, there are certain glaring inequities between the lifestyles of those who walk around on two feet and those of us who walk around on four paws.
I’ve written before about the fact that humans get to use an indoor bathroom, whereas I am forced to potty outside, no matter what the weather. It seems especially unfair when it raining or storming, since those are very scary situations and all I want to do is hide inside and hope that I live to see another day. And don’t get me started on the perils of icy porch steps or searching in vain for a spot in the yard that isn’t covered in snow or sleet so I can finally do my business.
But the biggest discrepancy (and the one I find hardest to accept) occurs at mealtime. My parents eat three meals a day, plus snacks. Sometimes they eat out at restaurants, bringing home the leftovers, and other times Mom cooks. My favorite dog bed is in the kitchen, so I’m right there while she’s cooking (or reheating) and the delicious aromas just make my mouth water! When the meal is finally ready, I prance around the kitchen, wagging my tail and in general letting them know just how happy I’d be if they fix a plate for me, but does that ever happen? No, it does not.
Mom and Dad might feast on a huge variety of meats, pastas, vegetables, fruits and breads, but do you know what I get served? Dry dog kibble, that’s what. Twice a day, every day. Yes I know that there are plenty of starving dogs in the world who would happily make do with kibble, but do you have any idea how hard it is to see and smell so many tasty foods, day in and day out, and never get offered more than one tiny morsel of it? Trust me, it’s enough to drive a dog crazy!
I’ve tried to let my parents know how I feel. When they’re eating, I sit right next to them and stare at them imploringly, whining a little now and then to drive my point home. All that gets me is the aforementioned tiny morsel, and that’s after they’ve cleaned their plates. I even tried ignoring my kibble in the hopes that they’d serve me something better, but Mom just said that a hunger strike would do my waistline a world of good. (Body shaming may be a no-no for humans, but clearly it’s still acceptable for us dogs….yet another inequity.)
Don’t get me wrong, I really love my parents. And I know they think they’re doing the right thing by feeding me the dry dog food. But that doesn’t stop me from hoping that they’ll eventually figure out that what I really want is to eat the same food they do, served in very generous portions. A dog can dream…..
There is no doubt that we have been through some very trying times, and that some of us have faced devastating losses. It’s easy to believe that most of the good things we took for granted before the pandemic have been lost forever, but I honestly don’t believe that’s true. There are still so many reasons to be hopeful….we just have to keep looking until we find them.
And things went mostly according to plan. As we settled into our house, I soon realized that relaxation is a rare commodity when you’re vacationing with a three-year old and a one-year old. (I’d count myself lucky if I could muster up just one-tenth of their energy and stamina.) But that was just fine, because I also realized that although sharing a house with active little people may not be relaxing, it sure is fun and entertaining, especially if they happen to be your grandchildren. There’s something pretty special about stumbling out of bed in the morning and being greeted with big smiles, hugs, and an enthusiastic, “Yea! Grandma’s up!” I mean, my husband and I love each other dearly, but mostly we just grunt at each other first thing in the morning.
I hate to admit it, but it does seem to me as if sometimes the old ways were a whole lot easier. My mother never worried about how she was going to store her photos, because she had a simple system: print them and stick them in a photo album. And even though they were taken many decades ago, I can still get out my baby photos and look at them any time I please, with no worries about compatibility, adapters or unnecessary waste. Apparently, back in 1958, they knew how make things last…….
But mostly, the problem is that my husband’s battle with cancer didn’t end with a victorious “bang.” It has simply wound down, slowly, and on an unpredictable schedule of its own. And it’s taking both of us a while to give ourselves permission to believe that the worst is truly behind us. But that’s okay, because we’ll get there eventually, the exact same way we got through his treatment: one step at a time.
When I was a young child, I loved going for a pony ride. In those days, even big cities had “pony tracks” where kids could ride a pony a few laps around an oval track, and my parents took us to one on a regular basis. The ponies would line up at the rail at the end of the track, and we would go stand next to the pony we wanted to ride until the track manager lifted us up into the saddle. When everyone was ready, he would signal to the ponies and they’d all walk or trot around the track while he stood in the center, directing them. It was usually the highlight of my week.
I’ve never wasted much time on making wishes. Even at my childhood birthday parties, when it was time to make a wish before blowing out the candles on my cake, I usually couldn’t think of anything to wish for. (Especially after the year I wished for my very own pony and discovered that what you wish for and what you get are often two very different things.) But maybe it’s because I’ve gotten older, or maybe it’s the strange and often unpleasant times we’re living in, but these days, I actually do have things I wish for. A whole list of them, as a matter of fact.
So all I can do is try to adapt to this new normal which is chock-full of strange new things. When I invited some friends over for a happy hour recently and the rain prevented us from gathering on my patio, I set up chairs and small tables in the garage instead. I figured out how to navigate Facebook’s new format, and even discovered that they hadn’t done away with “Messenger” as I had initially feared. (Although they did make it hard to find.) I keep a stash of face masks in my car and hand sanitizer in my purse at all times. And now I’m blogging in a completely new format, even though I was perfectly happy with the old one. 
Muddling Through My Middle Age 