Jolene Forgets Her Name

Jolene would like you to believe she is very mature for her age. And by that she means listening bores her. She already knows everything. Unburdened by rules, she is a free spirit. She will let her freak flag fly. Is she just like me or what?

Nostalgic, I thought about when I was certain of my maturity. I left home young, and it was the 1970s. I did not know what I did not know, but I did not care. I had a life to live. I can’t be the only person who feels there was more freedom then than now. But I digress. 

Mister and I are exhausted by this wolf-tornado. She does nothing wrong; it’s just that she’s relentless about it. This week, she forgot her name. And everything else we agreed on. It’s August-hot. These are literally the dog days of summer, and Mister and I are holding on by a thread. For every minute Jolene ages, we age three. And we’re besotted.

I’m not proud to say it, but Jolene is faster than I am at mucking up the backyard. Meaning cleaning up after Mister before it hits the ground. Of course, I say, drop it, which Jolene translates as, go faster. I step toward them, but Mister looks nervous and trots away, mid-poop. I explain that he isn’t in trouble, but the drama leaves a mark. Now, he skulks out of sight to do his business. Mister is insecure and a little ashamed because now his business is big business. His business is traded publicly. 

When Jolene and I head out by ourselves, Mister is disconsolate. I give him a chewy, but he can’t bring himself to enjoy it if she isn’t there to steal it. Then Mister runs the fence and joyously barks us back home. The welcome-back party is remarkably short, and then he puts himself into Jolene’s crate. It’s a sardine crate. His tail squished, his hind trotters press into the wall, and his nose leaks over the threshold. Then he gives me the eyes that say, Close the door. For the love of cheese, close it.

So, it’s a normal week. This socialization thing has to continue, even if I’m up to my sneer with it. But I found the perfect class. I set an appointment at a dog training facility to test into it without taking the prerequisite puppy class. We are not much for obedience, either of us, but if we can ace the meeting with the instructor, we’re in. The class is called Brew Dog Club. 

I set this up right before Jolene forgot her name. It isn’t that she has no recall. She has no conscience. She’s a reluctant witness testifying before Congress. I refuse to answer on the grounds…

Here is where my history with horses is a real benefit. I understand what progress looks like. That one step forward means two steps sideways. Not back, but somewhere unknown. And really, how different is it to forget your name or just have no recall? Those thousands of dollars on horse show entries are all coming back to me.

We left home on time, but in less than a quarter-mile, Jolene developed a severe allergic reaction to the harness she’s worn for the last thousand miles at least. After flipping over a few times, the harness is cutting off her circulation. I pull over and unwrap her, commiserating about underwear in hot weather. Jolene is still twitchy. We stop and untangle again. Jolene is having a temper tantrum.

People don’t take their animals out in public for fear of embarrassment. If Jolene sees a stranger, she’ll scream abuse, she doesn’t feed me. But staying home, my dead rescue dogs remind me, doesn’t solve anything. Our expectations are out of line if we want our horses and dogs to behave like stuffed toys. A lesser woman would have turned around. But I am fearless. Or exhausted, it all feels the same.

We arrive as someone with three Golden Retrievers goes in the facility door. I tell Jolene to check her hair to buy us a minute. Then we enter the unknown. I have my confident smile on because it’s all I’ve got. It was the instructor, and those Goldens are hers, behind a gate now, wagging away. Someone on their side barked. Jolene barked back. Her bark sounds like a new sneaker on a gym floor.

Luckily, the Goldens totally ignore Jolene. So, it’s just her barking. I lean down, give her a kibble and tell her she’s a good girl. And pigs fly, she settled and noticed when the big dogs lay down, they’re the same height as her, and she inches toward them. My smile is real now.

When Jolene meets someone, she politely folds her ears down and lowers her body to approach them. Humans call that submissive, but we love to put animals in boxes, when language is more nuanced than that. This is more like a fair warning. That’s what calming signals are. A message, not a lifestyle. The instructor pets her and says something to me about it, but Jolene is sitting like the star pupil now. 

The instructor asks about her background, what Jolene has done, how she is in public. I told her my dogs travel with me for work, and when asked, I tell her what I do. Because I can’t shut up, I asked if she was familiar with Turid Rugaas and Calming Signals. She had seen Turid talk live. So, I’m good with the instructor.

During this long-winded conversation, Jolene sat in front of the instructor, looking up adoringly. Moved to a heel position at her side. No praise, but she is as sharp as a Marine. Jolene looks like a champion obedience dog, and I don’t recognize her. Wait, I know this scam. Somehow, Jolene knows who the instructor is in the same way horses know who I am at clinics. So smart, and then Jolene whispers out the side of her mouth, I’m teacher’s pet… I grimace like her elderly maiden aunt. Oh, I deserve this.

After our week, I thought about canceling. What would Edgar Rice Burro do? I wondered. We stubbornly march on. It’s what horsewomen have in common with donkeys. We don’t let the fear that something might go wrong stop us. We already know it’s inevitable, but we run toward the fire.

The reason to take a horse to a show isn’t because you think he’ll be perfect. It’s because it’s a controlled environment where you can work out new challenges. Yours and theirs. Bottom line: Jolene and I get to go for a beer with the big dogs. I feel equal parts pride and dread.

A few hours later, Jolene runs in screaming, he’s got my thing! She’s tired and almost hysterical, so this is good shrieking. A sure sign of sleep soon. I’m behind on work, but I stopped because she asked. I signed up for two years of this. And she’s right. He has her chewie. Now she is burning her eyeball into my eyeball from six feet away. Jolene is tattling on Mister. Who is probably a bit constipated. But I slowly shake my head and almost under my breath, I singsong the words, quit-quit-quit. More of a chant than anything. Certainly not a command. 

And she instantly comes, her ears happy, her eyes shining. She wiggles into my lap. Jolene gives me a little lean and tucks her nose into my neck. My heart swells; these are the moments to train. I praise her, glorify her, call her my bean. It’s only then that I wonder if she has just trained me to call her by a new name. quit-quit-quit 

To be clear, Jolene has not solved even one of my life problems. I just don’t care anymore. I’ve gone to the dogs.

[Part 13. Read all the episodes of Jolene’s Story here.]

…

An audio version of this essay is available to subscribers on Substack.

Find Anna Blake and The Gray Mare Podcast on Substack or BlueSky social media. Contact me directly at annablake.com.

My books include three creative nonfiction books, two memoirs, and two poetry books. Available at all online booksellers, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and signed copies from me. Please consider leaving a rating or review.

Join us at The Barn School, our social and equine educational site, with member sharing and our infamous Happy Hour. Everyone’s welcome. For specific horse training advice, search 1500 essays archived on my website. Want more? Become a sustaining member, a “Barnie.” Subscribe to our online group and support the best bunch of like-minded horsepeople anywhere.

Ride for a new brand. Find our Relaxed & Forward and Undomesticated Women swag at Zazzle.

Women Aging Cantankerously