It’s still dark out, and I’m sitting on the edge of my bed trying to pull my pants on. Isn’t there an idiom about one leg at a time? It’s something about humility, that everyone still has to do the same basic, mundane tasks. I swear I’m not looking for special consideration. One leg would be fine, but Jolene managed to nip into both cuffs. She’s pulling back as hard as she can, wagging her head from side to side, and growling like a tiny bear.
Meanwhile, my ankle is in plain sight, now covered with a rash of broken capillaries. So many that they look like a rose tattoo, only with no petals. They were a surprise the first time I saw them. I’m at an age where things don’t happen gradually anymore. One day I noticed they had burst into full bloom in the shower, where I get all my news.
Jolene is furious now. Twisting, bucking, contorting herself like a reptile. Her growl more insistent. I growl back, but none of us growl worth a kibble. We aren’t a bit scary. Mister is peering at her like he’s the winner of the all-time Good Dog trophy. He gloats further by rolling belly up. He’s right; pick your battles. I let go of my pants and opt for some adult conversation with Mister.
Experts talk about the developmental stages children go through. Everyone knows the Terrible Twos. That hormones cause teenagers to have rapidly shifting emotions. That our brains don’t fully form until around 25 years old, impulse control being the last brick. Let’s be honest, we go through adolescent stages for the rest of our lives. Midlife crisis anyone?
Ask any puppy who gets scolded for having an accident, when they didn’t know they’d have to hold it so long. Ask a horse too immature to carry a rider, much less understand what they are being punished for. Ask any old donkey because they have seen it all. And I am here to say I’m 70, and it’s the most awkward age I’ve ever experienced. Remember? That’s how this puppy drama all started.
Mister says we can choose whether we see life as a problem or a pot of gold. Mister is the perfect age. Young enough to zoom at top speed, staying in front of Jolene, yet mature enough to appreciate going to bed early and still sleeping in. And the perfect age to fall for a puppy. But really, aren’t we all?
Jolene is five and a half months old now. The worst of the teething drama is over. In a lull before the next storm, Jolene has been standing at my knee, asking for a lap dance, and discovering companionship beyond puppy chow. Who can resist? Of course, I stop working. She can sit still for several consecutive minutes. Not long, but again, she used to be like holding a bag of snakes. But now she settles quickly and raises her nose high in case I might like to rub her breastbone. She’s discovered she can ask for the warmth of a hand. She can curl between my feet and I don’t move.
Jolene is independent and I don’t want to change that. I just want her to know I’m here for her. Not the other way around. It’s my superpower with horses, and right now, Jolene can tell I’m doing it on purpose. I’m teaching her the art of doing nothing, except all the important invisible things.
Of course, this doubles the noodle time Mister requires, but I have no pants and can’t go far.
We’ll make the most of this lull before the next storm. In a few weeks her the hormones will arrive like a party bus of drunk longshoremen. Puberty is when some pups get aggressive or lose confidence. They aren’t as obedient and can be restless and pace. More rebellious and not as cute as they used to be.
Back when I was a baby animal advocate working at a shelter, the majority of dogs turned in were mixed-breed and just under a year old. Maybe exhausted by the puppy drill, the people couldn’t see their dog’s heart was still there, under those misunderstood behaviors. They gave up and the pups didn’t all find homes.
Jolene is a wild thing. A tough, do-it-herself sort of dog. When she’s eats, she circles her bowl like a wolf. We no longer use a bathmat. Smarter to just leave it in the yard. Jolene gets mad when she’s tired and screams herself to sleep. I’ve done that. Trying to pet her used to be like sticking your hand in a blender. Well, I’ve chewed off a few hands, too. It should be obvious by now, Jolene and I are more alike than different. Maybe that’s the real challenge for people and animals.
So, my awkward life stage. I’m not retired, but I have a barn full of horses who are. Being self-employed means I work all the hours and there is still more to do. I care about fewer things, but they are all larger things. I’ve become an existential thinker. The hardest part is accepting I’m this age. Denial doesn’t work for me. I need to make peace with what I no longer have, so I can get on with it and enjoy what I can have. I can’t fight time, so I practice spreading it like thick, cool butter on all that I love.
If I can’t carve out a few extra minutes to hold Jolene and rub that place on her breastbone, what is any of it worth, anyway? Mister nods and looks at the treat box. He’s even more pragmatic than I am.
This week, the Viking Princess and I went to a dog-friendly patio restaurant. When we arrived, there was a couple with two small doodle-looking dogs. They started barking, and one broke free and ran after us. The man jumped up, angry at his dog. Jolene and I kept walking to a table a bit away from them, hoping distance would help.
Why can’t they hang on to a nine-pound dog, I grumbled. But immediately felt guilty because both dogs cringed as their owners scolded and spanked them. The dogs where as overwhelmed as frightened children. Where is the logic in making them more anxious trying calm them down?
In horse training, we call it flooding. A horse is intensely forced into a fear-inducing situation without escape, until they stop reacitng. We call it desentization. It’s cruel, damaging the horse, and wounding our compassion. Mostly, it’s foolish. Horses will always be intelligent creatures who have real emotions and feel pain. Just like dogs and just like us. We were born to be sensitive. It isnt’ a fault.
The last thing I heard was the man say was, “If you can’t behave, you have to go home.” Like a frightened dog doesn’t want that. I was the one who felt punished.
Maybe we are all as flooded as a horse having a plastic bag banged in their face. Life happens, but every moment isn’t meant to be a challenge. The cure isn’t fighting because what we are doing is what we are learning.
It’s dark out and Jolene is sleeping on my feet. I’m writing, hoping to send out a cheer. These are uncertain times, every day there’s something horrible in the news, and changes are trickling down into my little world. Cynicism is easy. Age is a good excuse for quitters.
I see every dog I’ve ever known in Jolene. All the shelter dogs and all the rescues. The ones we love and the ones our love has failed. Even now, we are not defined by time. Not the past or the future.
Finally, Jolene speaks. She says, maybe too enthusiastically, PLAYING TUG IS LIFE. So we grab on, bark it out, and persist.
[Part 12. Read all the episodes of Jolene’s Story here.]
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“The ones we love and the ones our love has failed. Even now, we are not defined by time. Not the past or the future.” For some reason, this line brought out the onions. I’ve learned to listen when I react like that but it takes a while to figure out why. It’s good to be reminded that we are all works in progress and that never stops. Even, I suspect, when we do… thank you, my friend, for this one. Jolene is a master class…..
She is the master class, but I stand with every animal I’ve known. As you do. It’s consequential. Thanks Paula.
It’s such a joy to read you every Friday! Thanks so much for sharing your profound insights and your humor.
Thank you, Maureen. Writers need readers!
❤️
Thanks, Jane
Anna,
Sorry, but I couldn’t get past the broken capillaries before I continued — I had a shock in the shower last year, when they all just appeared to ‘bloom’ together and I laughed until I was sore about your comment. And I won’t start of the varicose veins — however, I could cross a city with them now. The delights of old age.
That pup is growing so rapidly, she’s just gorgeous, and I can see her personality and how much fun you will have with her.
She knows she has landed in a paradise with you.
Love, Nuala
I confess, I did chuckle on about that shower scene. I love what I discover there. Thanks, Nuala.
I don’t think the tight breeches and boots have helped much throughout the years…
Maybe, but wearing support hose is a help now… (nothing is off limits)
“In a few weeks her hormones will arrive like a party bus of drunk longshoremen.” Wow Anna, this description hit the mark for me. The latter part of my nursing career was in public health where I took care of pregnant and parenting teenagers. My goals were healthy mother and baby, positive parent/child bond, and no more babies until the mother reached adulthood. The last goal was challenging with “hormones arriving” as you referenced in your writing. Your words are magic, they cross all facets of life!
Oh Laurie, thanks. And not for the first time, I thank you for the lives your work impacted. I think back about what I thought I knew and what I actually knew. Scheesh.
Not only did I enjoy it, Anna, but I was nodding my head along the way in delight. Why? Because I did it! Got a little one (he’s now 3 months) and he marched straight into my heart and we are sharing that place perfectly. Are there accidents, yes! Is there punishment, no! Just a gentle little “that’s what we do outside, Finnegan!” And out we go. Now he gets it and goes to the back door himself. What a good boy!! We take naps together. Okay, he naps and I sit quietly next to him listening to him breath. And the best part is that I found, FINALLY, “the art of doing nothing”. Wow! The world looks very different now. Better. My house is not as tidy and, unbelievably, that’s just fine. Of course, in a few months I’ll blame you when my little darling has turned into the pup from hell. Can’t wait! Thanks for sharing Jolene and inspiring my own trip with Finnegan.
Thanks, Kathy. Hey, Finn. Good boy.
“Football is life!” At almost 76, I do relate to those things we can no longer do, but treasuring the ones we still can! I gave up riding a while ago, after breaking my pelvis in a fall and recognizing I’m clumsy and not that experienced, but I still love reading your columns and watching the reels about rescue horses. We have cats, not dogs, though I forward your dog stories onto my dog friends, but I do see all of my cats, whose remains lie in lovely containers on my mantle piece, in the one we currently have who is both pain in the ass — of course! he’s a cat — and becoming a good friend.
I so appreciate your commentary, your writing (I’m a retired English teacher!) And your insights into both animals and people and yourself.
I’d love to come and help you muck out a few stalls! I do miss that. As crazy as it sounds.
Thank you!!
Thank you, a compliment from an English teacher means the most! Hope you are healing well. Here’s to growing into Gray Mares together.
Gotta love cats. If you ask my cat, she’ll tell you I’m not smart enough to write about cats.
And thanks for sharing. I appreciate it.
Anna Blake though I have never met you in person. I love the person you share with your readers. I have read all your books and in the last one when you spoke of how you dealt with dead animals on the side on your travels, I began to use the phase God’s armadillo etc. I find it comforting. Thank you
Recently I lost my thoroughbred to Hemangiosarcoma. It was rare and was so shocking He was only 10 and in the best shape of his life. He bled out when his spleen was aspirated. We had moved to a small town in S. Carolina which was two hours from University of Georgia Teaching Veterinary Hospital. I believed he would come back to me in a few days. When the Vet called to tell me I could finally come to see him. He was in a concrete isolation stall, away from any other horses or pastures . My heart breaks to say that we arrived 15 minutes after he died . Had I only known, he would have stayed in the pasture at home surrounded by his herd mates. I would have been there stroking his head and neck, my heart space open, my breathing synced with his. Letting him know how much I loved him and thanking him for his daily gifts of grace, forgiveness, kindness and his funny antics that made me laugh. He was a gentle soul and I should have been there to say good bye. I am so incredibly sad, but He is God’s horse now and even I couldn’t have taken better care of him than God.
Thank you for this comforting phrase, it leaves me with hope.
Donna, I am so sorry. Yes, for all the things out of our control, especially the lives of our loved ones… there is relief in knowing that he was always God’s horse. That means he knew your feelings. Nothing is lost or missed. But it sure feels like it, doesn’t it? But we make the best choices at the time and that has to be good enough. And the best you. Sorry, so sorry.
And thank you for the kind words.
So much here resonating.
having just lost a much loved (arent they all) dog ,an an equally but ifferrntly loved horse of 27 years.
and being that damn age of 70 and trying hard to appreciate and not resent my oft times inability to do the things i need to do, let alone the ones i want to do
finding new things to enjoy, finding peace in the present
and yes every dog is every dog, past, present, and hopefully future
Chris, we are living the same life an ocean apart, and no farther than a dog hair. What to make of this age. Thank you, my friend.
So very true!
I just loved this post! As someone in the seventies I wonder how I got here!
I have two horses and mine at 23 is pretending to be old with fake peeing and let’s go slow even though he can gallop miles alone in the arena.
I’ve learned from you compassion for them and patience. Thank you for your beautiful writing. I met you in Flsgdtsff at a clinic with my young Rocky Mountain Rio