Morning Horses

No people (or horses) were harmed in the making of this story…..

I wanted one thing yesterday—to go to the barn…to see the horses, inhale their scent, bring in Tripp and ride his beautiful self, lose my work ego and nature in the rhythm of his movement, look ahead and glance between those gorgeous ears as he moved them backwards to listen as I sing to him, read his movements willing me to hurry up and hurry up and finish so we could open the gate (we haven’t mastered closing the gate  yet), return to the barn, and eat his beloved applesauce and treats, having done all I asked, restoring my soul.

And, no, he isn’t spoil….maybe a little.

Yesterday morning I packed a backpack with barn clothes and my NEW pink-and-brown boots. Who doesn’t want new cowboy (girl?) boots. (Well, if you don’t, that’s okay. We may not do lunch, but we can email…..do facebook….you’ll come around soon, I’m sure). At the end of the day, I changed into riding clothes (not fancy; jeans, t-shirt, NEW pink-and-brown boots), waited for the bell, raced (as fast as I am able) to my car, headed out. I even made it halfway there.

Never mind what happened.

I wanted ONE THING.  I didn’t get it.

We won’t blame my husband, Mike, but there the blame lies anyway.

So, being the mature, adult female I have grown into, I had chocolate chip cookies for supper and retired to bed even earlier than usual. It’s hard to get to bed earlier than 7:00, but you can do it if you try.

This morning, then, I thought to go and at least say hello to the horses, just a nibble of equine sweetness before work. I really do better everywhere if I have a horse fix. Now, I need all my horse friends to know that I know better, not to scold me, to understand that I understand the idiocy ……. When you go to the pasture, don’t take treats.

Even at 5:00 in the morning.

At first I just made the rounds, a rub here, a kiss on the nose there. Tripp, predictable as ever, smelled me up and down, sure there was a carrot, a peppermint, an apple slice SOMEWHERE. I left the treats outside of the gate, though, actually having a smart thought for once. As I rubbed the Black Beauty's beautiful head, he hefted up from his lying position, not sure, I guess, he should trust me (though, why not I don’t know) in the dark, and from the back of the pasture, illustrating his name perfectly, the apparition-like figure of Ghost Ryder slowly worked his way forward. Lights illuminate the path out to the pasture, but once inside, it fades quickly; for all the world, his ghostly presence took its time to clarify into the beautiful horse I know. If my sweet Tripp swept me for treats, my affectionate Ghostie boy stopped and lowered his head as I wrapped my arms around his neck, returning my cuddle, quiet, waiting for my timing.

Not, I’m sure, that he didn’t sniff a time or two, and realize that I had no food on me.

After a bit, I gave in to those searching eyes all around me. “Okay, I’ll give you all a couple carrots.”

Oh, yes, we know where this is going.

Pretty Freckles had just waited at the gate, eyeing the bag. I started with placing a few carrots in her bucket—two or three. In my hand, I gave Tripp a carrot, moved to Ghostie, handed him a carrot, walked to Black Beauty, a carrot, gave Tripp another, Ghostie, Beauty, Tripp.

Then I said, “Okay, one more for each, then I have to leave.”

I can’t SWEAR they understand English, but Tripp did not want Beauty to get one more than he should, or maybe one more at all. He turned to tell Beauty so, and, never intending harm to me at all, of course, brushed me with that beautiful left hip.

That doesn’t sound like much, but remember, even after growing at a rather alarming rate after the calamity summer before last, Tripp outweighs me by roughly 900 pounds.

He knocked me down.

Well, the ground was kind of, er, sort of damp, so not too hard, and hay littered it, but it did jar me a bit—and knocked my glasses, oh, I guess sailing is as good a word as any.

To say I need glasses to see is like saying an ocean needs water to be wet. At 16 years old, the optometry school in Memphis, Tennessee, brought in all the students they could find to let them see my eyes. “You don’t see many like hers.” Fortunately, even with eyes that have "odd" features, my vision can be corrected—with glasses. So, this morning about 5:00—in the dark—I looked for gold-framed glasses—in straw—without glasses.

I called Mike.

Who was, like most retired people with sense and a brain at that hour, still in bed.

“Um, hey, I’m at the barn, in the pasture with the horses.”

“Okay.”

“I just got knocked down.”

“Okay.”

“I’m okay. My glasses got thrown off, and I can’t find them in the dark.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in a few minutes with a flashlight.”

“And bring my spare glasses.”

“Okay.”

I do admit it seemed like a long wait….in the dark, functionally blind, on my knees in the dark, feeling the ground to try to find my glasses touching hay and, well, God knows what else (it is a horse pasture, after all), unable even to get a true picture of where I am because I cannot see. The horses, realizing something must be amiss, (they rarely see me crawling) stood around looking at me, once in awhile one ambling over nibbling at the ground for a dropped carrot, mostly just watching. “You okay?”

Except Freckles. She, who had missed the ruckus thought, “Hey! Look! There’s a carrot on the ground! Thanks!” I tried to shove her away, terrified SOMEONE would step on the glasses I could not see.

Finally I saw a blur of light walking towards the gate and heard a familiar cough. Freckles saw (and heard) it, too. She ambled towards Mike. "Hey! Did you bring carrots, too?" Mike, not as comfortable as I am around horses (and, it must be noted, never having been crushed, broken, or concussed by them), excused himself, walked around her, and made his way--carefully--to me.

I stood, my knees cold and wet. Great. Now my quick stop at the farm and early arrival at school plan had flown the coop—or barn, anyway as I saw the return-trip-home-cleaning-up-clothes-changing in my future.

Mike handed me my glasses. Anyone who cannot see the wall when you wake up in the morning understands that relief of putting on glasses and having the dark come into focus. Those with good vision, just take the glasses of someone who does not see well, try them on, and kind of reverse the process. "Miraculous" fits the feeling.

We began the search. Of course, I did not know exactly where I had been because, well, couldn’t see where I had been. Then I had moved as I searched, though not too far for fear of getting too far to search for the glasses. After five minutes or so, I said, “Well, I'll just get another pair. I need a new pair anyway.”

  

I heard Mike say, “Wait! Here’s some carrots.”

The things you hear at 5:00 in the morning in a horse pasture.

And, then, “Here they are!”

So, to be angry because of yesterday or grateful because he’s my hero this morning. Life, surely brings difficult choices……but, as I am sure I will, again, want chocolate chip cookies, let’s just go with hero.

And, here is the beautiful Tripp…..butter wouldn’t melt.

Soon, again, I’ll go to the barn. I hope I’ve learned………no treats in the pasture. Ever. Not ever.

Usually.

He Came to Work

He came to be my service dog.

I had thought my puppy raising days behind me. I tried rescue….and, surprisingly, all the rescue folks turned me down. That’s a bit of a shock, having rescue tell you that, no, they don’t believe you can have their dog. In one case, I was one of several who applied for a particularly sweet-sounding girl, and the foster home who knew her believed another applicant would serve her better—and the heck with me.

Well, who could blame them? Their interest lies with the dog. 

Baby River

I had queried with another group about another dog, and, after getting answers understood to not even bother to apply. I gotta tell you, I have a reputation—and it is NOT one where dog people don’t want their dogs in my house. Generally, a dog in my house gets all the exercise he needs, all the tennis balls she wants, quality food, soft beds (usually a person’s), training…….

So, though I thought puppy raising days behind me, here he came. 

He has big paws to fill. My previous service girl, Millie, defied the prototype of her border collie breed. Calm, sweet, she actually had been a rescue, a beloved companion before injury brought to me a need for a helper. Wild as a buck on arrival, her sweet nature responded to training, bonded to human outreach, and a couple of years after a time when no one wanted to be in the same zip code with her, she morphed into the dog for whom I was envied. “I wish my dog listened like Millie……obeyed me like Millie does you……was as sweet as Millie is…..” It took time and work, but, oh, man, not one iota of effort failed the worth of it. When she went anywhere with me, she kept close, watched me, willingly let others love on her when appropriate, but never let there be a doubt to whom she belonged.

Millie

The loss of Millie, that beautiful, big, chestnut, flame-coated girl, devastated me, taking a friend and more—my helper. For two years I wore a surgical shoe and walked with a cane. She wore her service dog vest, my wallet in the pocket, so I did not have a purse or bag to keep up with.  The injury came after a routine surgery; I had dreamed of pedicures and pretty shoes and, instead, through no animus or intention, received damage and new boundaries. It took a toll, this adjustment to new limits. When unable to do some things I saw others doing, a walk up a hill too strenuous, a group outing beyond my new capabilities, I reached for my sturdy, beautiful girl who read my spirit, bringing comfort as well as physical aid. I still miss that lovely dog.

And I need, well, not a replacement, but another assistant in the day, not just from my own wants, but a couple of medical practices have recommended a service dog for a couple years now. Though out of the surgical shoe and past need of a daily cane, restrictions from that injury haven’t changed much. Stability can, at times, be an issue…..well, the medical folks recommend a dog.

And, so came a puppy.

I read on a herding dog board about a girl who had a dog named River, and I thought that name so beautiful, so different…..so, River.

The dogs who were already here adore River; he adores them, and they taught him lots of useful things.  “That flap in the door? It lets you outside and inside quickly and easily.  It’s better to potty outside. Chasing tennis balls is fun. We run in a field every day, and they have ponds for swimming!”

Perhaps the most appreciated—“When the bell rings, a person is at the door. You stare at it, look at Mom or Dad. But, don’t make any noise.” Not having dogs bark at the doorbell? Priceless.

River grew and grew and grew….. training started early.

And continues still…..

But, though I try not to compare, I see a bit of Millie in this dog. In the class where we practice jumping or climbing or fun things, he watches me closely. Another dog mom says, “I have never seen a dog so focused on his human as River is.” At times we switch dogs, working each others’ dogs to see how they do—and how we do with another person’s dog, giving commands. River will do what they say, but he continually checks with me. “Where are you? Why are you there and I’m here?

Because I still work each day, the dogs and I go to sleep earlier than my husband. River touches me—albeit through covers—all night. Whisper, my beautiful white-faced boy, starts on the bed with us. But, fortunately for human house inhabitants, he gets warm after a bit and goes to the floor. River scoots closer to me.

Whisper

When my husband leaves for a car ride with the other dogs (we also have the gorgeous Jenni, Mike’s retirement present, a girl who herds), River never lifts an eye. He stays with me.

When he came, a car ride made him so sick, the poor little puppy ran away from the very thought of a ride. “No! No! NoNoNoNoNo!” We took him on short rides, but no joy. We got him medicine, but by then his mind had settled. Poor boy grew so terrified at the thought of a car moving that he drooled if I just set him in the car and didn’t even turn it on. It took months, but finally he could get in the car, drool, but not throw up.  And now, if I go somewhere—anywhere—besides work, my sweet River wonders why he is not in the car with me. Especially he looks forward to our class of running, jumping, climbing. The first time he ran to the door excited to go the whole class clapped at the news, excited for the puppy who had overcome his fear and sickness!

And we still work on his basic skills. Soon, he will have his Canine Good Citizen Certificate. Though he tends to pull when we walk outside, like in a park, he improves each time, and inside, as in PetSmart, you have never seen a better loose leash walk. He doesn’t want to sit, but he wants to do what I want him to do, so he works to please me, to help me.

River practices "Down!"

He learns.

After his CGC, we can get him the skills he needs for Service Dog certification. Still a big puppy at a year-and-a-half, he learns quickly. This puppy, this gift, already he shows the talent he brings to the help he will give. Ah, what a gift, the promise of this puppy.

He has come here to be my service dog. Though his job does not entail some of the detailed tasks others with that title must perform, I wait impatiently for his training to finish, for his help with mobility and stability issues, for his help when my limits bring frustration, for his very presence and usefulness to lessen that physical pain, hopefully decrease the strong medicines I take.

Training takes as long as it takes, worth the time, worth the work.

Beautiful River, rolling along….

Beautiful River

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.

The Missed Picture

Watching Mom

            I take a few…..hundred pictures of my animals, I know. Because the dogs live in the house with me, and, truthfully, right next to me as much as they can arrange, pictures of them jump onto my phone even more than the horse, no matter how much they try to hide.

            But, the pictures I miss cause me great regret. I can click 25 cute or beautiful pictures of dogs smiling, running, catching balls, jumping…..and miss that one great picture that should surely grace the front of a calendar, if I ever sent them in for consideration. Even more, that one picture should be printed and slapped on my fridge or in a frame to grace the wall with the portraits of other (or same) dogs watching me and other (or same) dogs—and Henry the cat—as we live our days.

            The other evening I watched a program on the kindle fire on the couch. That goes along the lines of eating dinner or breathing—nothing new. Whisper ambled over, looking towards me with his beautiful eyes, outlined in black in his white face, his mouth split with his happy smile. “How about a love-rub?” I sighed. I adore this dog, but his needy side does cause me to, sometimes, tell him to “Settle!” which then makes me feel guilty, causing me to call him over and rub him, which, of course, reinforces the unwanted behavior. No wonder he gets confused.

     To short-circuit the process, I just started rubbing him. He sighed and l-e-a-n-e-d into the couch,

half closing his eyes in bliss, and I smiled myself, feeling my blood pressure drop.

            That’s what dogs are for, of course.

River Watches Whisper

            River, seeing—sensing?—good things from the other side of the room, pasted a smile on his own face and walked over. He and Whisper are of a size. He couldn’t get to me, but, just as well, he could get to Whisper, and, gently, he placed his pretty head on Whisper’s back, lifting his big brown eyes at me,  happy in his place, sharing in everyone’s good will and contentment.

Happy Whisper

            I’d have given anything to have my camera…..that picture of a sweet, content, non-anxious Whisper, a happy, sharing River, resting his handsome head on Whisper’s back, both of them standing as close to me as they could get because, of course, I am the source of serenity for both, with Whisper a big plus for River.

            It didn’t last long. In just a moment Whisper shrugged River’s head away:  “Hey, whatcha doin’ there?” But what a picture it would have made!  Ah, for just such moments do pictures shine; they make pretty good memories, too.

         

River

   I will keep that phone close, just in case it happens again.