Many-Paws...Many Hooves

               A few years ago (really just a few) I hit that age that old women animal lovers call “many-paws.” It causes temperature changes in your body—and, truth be told—other bodily changes, some welcome, most you’d gladly not have happen. SOME women—none we know, of course—seem to start collecting animals, hence the “many-paws” title.

               For well over—like lots and lots over—fifty years, I could sleep anywhere and for a long time. Then, seemingly overnight, I couldn’t. Always a morning person, waking at 5:00 chipper and ready to start the day, I like seeing the sun rise, hearing the birds wake, having time alone to prepare to face what will come, dogs and cats lying around me peacefully. However, now 5:00 is a stretch, no matter what time I fall asleep at night. Generally, 2:30 finds my eyes open, staring at the clock, betting with myself if I lie there long enough, will I be able to return to sleep, should I get up for a bathroom run, and, if I do, will I disturb Mike so much that he will wake up? For the first 30 years of our marriage, he fought for sleep.

               Payback and all that.

               Usually I slip quietly out of bed myself—but three dogs have to stretch and moan and whine and talk as they raise their behinds in the air, their front legs as far in front as they can. Then as I try to sneak down the hall to the living room QUIETLY, River stops directly in front of me and I grab a wall or door—or dog—to keep from falling.

               Mike has learned to go back to sleep quickly.

               Henry runs to get fed and, though I would let him fuss and whine and not reward him, there is that “meowing” factor and trying to let Mike sleep. So, I open a can of food he won’t eat, he usually sniffs haughtily, turns up his nose, eats three—four?—bites of kibble, jumps off his feeding table, stalks to the door (I’ll show you—I’ll just go outside and pout-and be back in 20 minutes to ask for more) and I open the door to let him do just that.

               Eventually I get to the couch and the heating pad for my back, the kindle fire playing a video to watch or putting up a book to read. If I’m fortunate, I nap a few minutes here or there.

               Around 4:30 I rise, feed the dogs, give Whisper his puppy Prozac, grab a bath (no doubt disturbing Mike again) gather my things—forgetting this or that most mornings, but at 5:00 in the morning I will cut myself some slack—and leave home soon after that 5:00 a.m. time……

               ……so I am at school early, where I check in on fb, grab breakfast, and get LOTS of my work done before the students arrive.

               What it does do, though, is shorten your day at the end…by the time the dismissal bell ends at 3:00, I am pretty dismissed myself. Like caricatures of old people, Mike and I have early dinners….he will call me and say, “call me when you leave and I will start cooking” or “order a pizza” or “go get…..” whatever. The dogs, ecstatic to see me, don’t expect much.

               But, my biggest sadness, since school has started, I miss the horses.  At times I have brought barn clothes with me, but then Mike calls, “I’ll have dinner when you get home,” and if I reach the couch, leaving just won’t happen. Seven o’clock comes…..and I’m gone.

               I try to stay up later. Even at times I make it till 9:00, stumble down the hall, the dogs looking up at me. “FINALLY. We’ve been waiting on you—what’s up with this late night?” And, then, at 2:30 my eyes open, and my brain starts in.

               I wonder if Tripp wonders where I am….on Saturday, he probably will come to me, happy I have arrived, scarfing down his applesauce, eager for other treats, and, more meaningful to me, nuzzling my hands, my shoulder:  “Where you been?” Somehow, I need to turn “many-paws” into “many-hooves.” No, I don’t need additional horses….but barn time soothes me in ways even my adored dogs cannot. I have in my heart a horse-shaped hole, like those children’s toys where they place the shapes that only fit specific figures and, as much as they try to put the triangle in the circle, it just won’t go. Just as the dogs go into the dog-shaped heart-holes, I need the horses to slip into the horse-shaped heart-holes, their soothing silhouettes to calm my running brain, keep it from thinking of topics that make that heart hurt……bring me closer to the peace that I find in their presence.

               Well, necessity mothering invention, and all that—early days yet—I’ll figure it out.  Sooner, hopefully, rather than later, I’ll keep my eyes shut till 3:30 or 4:00! And, after my workday ends, I’ll head to the barn and that horse-formed-outline will slip into the horse-shaped profile in my heart.

               Sigh…..I feel better just at the thought of it.

              

Amazing Moments

Some years back now, I saw magic. It involved a decent, caring man who worked with us, and an amazing dog.  I don’t know why it so surprised me; I knew the dog well, had been the recipient myself of the remarkable understanding that glowed from those amber eyes. But, as often as I hear about the relationship between humans and our canine helpers, seeing the almost mystic happenings always thrills me.

At work he returned the call to the doctor and first got the diagnosis of a rare kind of cancer, a cancer that usually struck young people or children, not adults. Hanging up, he left the small office where a phone was available to us, a time ahead of a full population of cell phones, and returned to the office set between the two original computer labs built when the school was new, a small room right off my classroom. Brad (not his real name) wore the stunned look of someone just hearing the kind of news he had just, indeed, heard, and as I checked on him, he told me what the doctor had told him.

            Younger than I (well, even then, that wasn’t a small group to choose from), with a couple of teenage children, he could make computers dance, bring into line the bits and bytes that drove so many of us to distraction. Because I worked daily with students working on those very computers he kept going, he and I had gotten to know each other fairly well; became friends.

            And now, he faced a future of uncertainty for himself and his family. Such a kind, good man….sometimes life just hurts.

            Brad began his treatments and, as able, continued work.

            And, then, one Saturday I went myself into school to try to get sort of caught up on my own school work.  Weekend days at school give opportunity for relative quiet in a classroom, the resources in the room should be available, and the goal is some extended, uninterrupted time for work.

            At times I even meet that goal.

            On this particular Saturday I called to Millie, my beautiful, chestnut girl, as I went out the door, to come with me. By then she had her Service Dog and Therapy Dog titles…..and loved to work a room, greeting the first person she saw, then, after what she deemed an appropriate pat or hug, moved to the next one, sat beside them gently, looked up with those deep, shining eyes, waiting, and the whole process started again. I’ve seen her greet a room full of people in this way, and even confirmed non-animal people finally give in to that look of longing from that pretty girl who just wanted everyone to be happy—and love on her.

            When we arrived at school and entered the classroom, I saw that Brad had come in this day as well, no doubt to catch up as much as he could, drained from his treatments, worried he would fall behind and disappoint the staff dependent on him. He called out to me from his office, and then he saw Millie, and his face lit up.

            Millie looked like she had found the long lost motherlode….

            Brad came to her as she sat, just as trained, for him to pet her. Ah, but that would not be enough, and he lowered himself to the floor beside her, wrapping his arms around that beautiful, sweet, calm dog. This border collie, the breed known for being hyperactive, for being destructive, for needing more exercise than the average dog, this beautiful dog leaned against him, her tongue lolling out.

            I watched her, wanting to be sure she did not get too excited or rough; yet again I underestimated my dog. I tend to do that even today…. She sat as he rubbed her all over, talked to her, put his head on hers, talked to her some more, softly sharing what he could tell that accepting, loving gaze. She looked at him, shifted a bit, leaned to him more, glanced at me (she really did always want to know my location) then just settled in and let Brad have her attention and her care. Eventually, I just went and started my own work, sneaking glances at them, watching the therapy dog work in the way those dogs know to do.

           

I wish I could truly communicate how splendid it was.

            The two of them stayed down there for awhile; not too long--I imagine the floor didn’t feel too good to him. But, when he finished his time with Millie, Brad’s smile was calmer, quieter than when we had arrived. With a final pat and smile, Brad rose, we talked some more, and he returned to his office, Millie watching him. She came, then, lay down under my desk until I finished my work for the day.

            Not too long after that experience, Brad had to leave and go on disability. But, I always remember that time with Millie, how this girl who could spin, jump, twirl, and twist her glee and excitement knew to calm herself and let this kind man commune with her. She was so gentle with him…..

            I adore the dogs I have now; yet I miss Millie and her life mate, Mac, every day—our golden age of dogs. Millie converted several “non-dog” folks. “I don’t like dogs, but I like THAT dog,” one co-worker said to me.

            And, for Christmas that year, Brad gave me a small gift, a bookmark. I still have it and still have not taken it out of the wrapper….”Lord, help me become the person my dog thinks I am.” Indeed…..

            If I were even half as good a person as Millie were a good dog, everyone in my world would truly be the better for it.

I Wait for the Dogs

I wait for the dogs. Tasks must get done; that is the job, a job I’ve done a lot of years now with a whole lot of students, most of them teenagers, but sometimes adults or even little children as victim, er recipients of my teaching. I like my job….I think I’ve done good.

Most of the time. I truly, truly hope.

But now, of an afternoon, when fatigue overtakes the fun—and, oh yes, teaching brings lots of fun, otherwise, well, why?, when my students cannot keep their phones in their pockets, no matter my threats, when I start to even wonder why it matters, that “phone out of sight” rule, I take a breath, look around at all the kids who, truly, I love, and know that as I watch and wonder, what my heart begins to do is wait for the dogs.

They will grin and wag, so overjoyed just at my presence, just at the thought that I returned to them after an absence of so many hours—even if the day were minutes.

They adore me with their eyes, tell me with their bodies’ wiggles that they missed me, that they smelled all day the scent I left in the morning as it dissipated during the day, telling them my arrival grew closer and closer, that they started to listen as the sun moved up in the sky, over the house, and started its descent, moving down its course till evening could not be far away. Just then, just as it moved halfway between the hottest time and dinner (and they all know dinner), they know to be alert:  soon they should hear my car. One of them inevitably goes to lie under the tree r-i-g-h-t behind the fence. There, he (or, maybe, she) can see as soon as I turn into the drive….and alert the others.

And, then, when the car does turn into the drive, a black and white body leaps up, flies up the steps, through the doggy door. Mike also knows his role, and the front door opens:  no matter how much they want it, the dogs do not yet ha

ve opposable thumbs. The dogs fly out, leap off the porch, encircle the car. “We knew you were coming! We knew! We knew!”

As I gather my things, change clothes, do the afternoon/evening must-dos, Mike takes them out for a bout of tennis ball throwing. By the time I’m ready for the couch, they return, eyes adoring, heads on my legs, begging for a hug, a rub, assuring me I’m the bestest human ever to have lived on Planet Earth, and would I, myself, like to throw a tennis ball? If so, here is one, right HERE!

Whatever I do the rest of the evening, I do with company. I would not have it any other way.

If I waited for students to assure me that I surpass all other humans in all areas ever known to man, I would wait forever and always know disappointment. Oh, I get positive reinforcement from them at times. And we do, indeed, have us some fun.

But, when I need to know I am loved unconditionally, want to hear and see that no one better walks the Earth, when it’s just good to know there is true, absolute, unqualified, unrestricted, unreserved love directed at me—someone who truly seldom, if ever, deserves such a gift—well…..

…….I wait for the dogs.

The Animals I Love

When I return Tripp to his pasture, and Ghost Ryder did not come with us on a given day, almost always that Ghostie boy waits at the fence or leans on the gate, waiting for his friend and, truth be told, probably hoping he can come in himself for the treats he smells mixed in with the applesauce on Tripp's velvet nose.  As we near him, Ghost rumbles a nicker, deep in his throat, a welcome, a reminder that he waits for his brother-from-another….farm, or just a gentle accusation that he got no treats today and, what the heck?

A final pat for Tripp, a scratch here, a soft word to one horse or the other there, and I return to the barn to hang Tripp’s halter, then turn the RAV4 a few miles north, heading home. At times I wish the horses lived behind my house, in that pasture where we walk the dogs each day….but they live at this farm, happy, safe, well cared for. It involves work, taking care of horses. And, the road between us is short

; I could get here more…. I SHOULD get here more….but, when I do not see them for a few days, I know they are safe, well fed, loved.

And, certainly they have more horse-y company than I could elsewhere provide.

As I pull the little blue SUV into the drive, turn off the engine, prepare to disembark……home…..behind the fence to our back yard, I see a white and black, or black and white, or both, body jump from under a tree and fly towards the house’s back door. Before I leave the car, the front door opens, and, like exiting a clown car, dogs stream out, run around me, tails wagging, Whisper, usually a fluorescent tennis ball gripped in his mouth, grinning around it, shines his joy with his eyes. Gentle Jenni runs to me, as the boys twirl circles, touches me, before reversing course, flying back into the house.

River follows Whisper……

They love me, greet me with joy at my return, but, also, my return guarantees, if Mike waits for me also, that he will saunter to the deck, pick up a chuck-it, and throw the ball.  Oh, how can they bear it?? At last! It’s been……MINUTES since anyone tossed a ball their way.

Whisper drops the ball under the porch swing as Mike settles himself, a doggy crouch behind the swing, eyes flitting from the ball to the chuck-it, his whole being urging Mike to pick up the ball he has brought—THAT ball, and no other—and throw it. River sits in front of the swing, watching, grinning, his own ball at his feet. Jenni lays in the yard, a ball between her front paws, eyeing

Whisper, waiting on him to fly by so she can herd him back.

And when Mike picks the ball up in the chuck-it bowl, Whisper takes off!! Flies over Millie’s ramp (she had trouble with steps towards the end of her life) and sails past Jenni, glancing over his shoulder for the ball’s trajectory, runs it down as it goes over him or bounces past, or, at times, catches it in air, Jenni at his shoulder, her own ball glowing in her teeth, as she urges him back to the porch, where he, again, drops the ball under the swing.

About every fifth time this happens, River also drops a ball, races to get it, usually scooting on the ground a bit as he reaches it, brings it back, and again takes his place in front of the swing.

River thinks Whisper get a little carried away with this ball thing….there’s fun, and, then, there’s exhaustion. He doesn’t get that Whisper is just a t-a-d crazy.

As they fun and chase, I put on “house clothes.” Soon, the game ends, they all come in, Whisper gasping for air, lapping cold water eagerly, wagging that feathery tail, grinning his happy grin…..River runs to me for a greeting rub. “I missed you.” Jenni quietly waits her turn, or not, perhaps shoving the boys away. “Where you been?”

And, then, soft feet padding, interrupted by an obnoxious “m-e-r-o-w-w-w” brings Henry to my lap, shoving his short little nose under my hand. He has long lived with dogs….but their noses work better for such things. I rub his silky fur, grit my teeth as he kneads my legs (those ¾-inch claws hurt), and tell him, “No I will NOT get up and open ANOTHER can of food. Deal…” With, perhaps, a bit of a nip—or, at times, a firm bite—Henry jumps to his recliner, sighing. Mom fails again.

They take time, these animals…….they take lots of money…….I worry for them, over them, about them…..and do better when I can reach out my hand and feel fur or hair or some coat of an animal beneath my fingers, communication following the nerves in my hands straight to my heart.

And settles there…..restoring my spirit, confirming I am loved.

People exist who do not love animals, certainly. Good people. Caring people. People exist who do not even like animals. "Good" does not require wanting animals in your life; it is not an obligation for worth. In fact, lots of folks who do have companion animals should not have them.

But I heard a woman say one time, after a rescue group had protested the donation of a puppy to an organization’s benefit auction, “Those people are so worried about a dog. I’ll bet they care more for dogs than homeless children.” Try to explain care for animals and care for all people—including homeless children—are not mutually exclusive when someone has no concept of relationships with dogs….cats….horses….rabbits or gerbils, for that matter. Understanding why auctioning off a puppy to the highest bidder might not be the most responsible idea.....impossible.

At times I wonder would I be better off without them—without Whisper, his chemically-challenged mind working so hard to please me, perhaps the smartest dog I have ever had, and I’ve had genius-level pets before; without Jenni, sweet, quiet, shadow to Mike, his retirement present, adoring him, quietly following him all day, for whom Mike made a special seat in his truck; without River,

my sweet, big puppy, about whom a woman in our class said, “I have never seen a dog so attached to his handler as he is to you;” without Henry, who brings me live rodents as gifts, who hides under cars to escape dive bombing blue jays, who lies softly next to me at night, nuzzling me, who walks with the dogs and me whenever he has a chance; without Tripp, the answer to a lifelong dream, the realization that, yes, you can bond with a horse, can, in some very rare, magical, mystical moments, blend your minds and feel the thoughts of a creature of myth, realizing he wants to bond with you as well…and his buddy, the beautiful Ghost Ryder, who wraps his neck around my back when I hug him.

               I know people exist who do not love animals…..or want animals…good, caring, giving, people, who tolerate my obsession with these creatures. Usually they have more money than I do, a cleaner house (though, truth be told, lots of animal folks have cleaner houses than I do), and they do not buy cars based on how comfortable the dogs will ride in it or how much tack can be carried in the back.

               I know these people, love many of them, want them to love me….but when I think of not having the companion animals with whom I share my life, of what my life would be without them, I feel a deep, real sadness, my chest clenches, and I wonder, “What would I do without them?” I force myself to relax; no one will come and take them away….

               It is not required, this love of animals. But, how grateful I feel to have inherited that trait from my mother, who her whole life wanted, regarding pets, another one. She was never allowed all the ones she craved; but I think she smiles to see my life, my animals.

             

  Perhaps, in some way I cannot now understand, my mom gifted these animals to me, reminders of the kind, loving woman who raised me. Either way, understood by other humans or not, what I truly feel when I see any of my animals?

               Grateful.