Jolene. Jolene. Jolene. JOLEEENE!

Sometimes, change sneaks up behind you when you least expect it, knocks you down, and drags you off, kicking and screaming. Jolene careened into our lives like a bowling ball toward a triangle of pins. We saw her coming and stood still, waiting.

Monday: When we left off, I was all mushed up about Jolene. The question was how Mister, a dog of many deep thoughts, would feel about a puppy. Using strength that defied space and time, I put Jolene down. Then back out to park the trailer by the barn, walk Mister, unfold the trailer, and set up our ex-pen patio. In full transparency, S. parked the trailer. I would have been more sober if I was drunk.

Then I went back for the handoff. I thought we might all walk her back, but they sent Jolene and me to face Mister alone. Each step felt momentous. During an accident, our brains activate a “fight or flight” response that makes us hyper-aware. That was me, helmet-cam filming change in real time, Jolene acting innocent.

Mister came out, and we all sat in the camp loveseat. There was some quiet sniffing. Jolene tried to be invisible. Mister obliged. When that got too hard, he jumped down, barked some air into his lungs, and climbed back up. We sat like old friends on a park bench. As soon as she was curious, I put her down. I didn’t check emails or prep for a class. I just watched, in awe of Mister, who was in awe of Jolene. (https://vimeo.com/1091001111/3e5bdd8185?share=copy)

Jolene had been the tiniest member of a marauding band of murderous wolf potatoes. She was strong-willed, independent and outsmarted her siblings at play. When outnumbered, she rolled on her back. That stopped right away. He might have said, “Call me Uncle Mister.” We could barely take our eyes off of her. Jolene claimed the space under the loveseat as her den. From there, she began her reign.

Later, we went back to the house for puppy play and pizza. Mister and I were a bit glassy-eyed. And then Jolene came home with us again. And as if it was any ordinary day, darkness fell.

Most of us know the rules of good dog ownership, but we break them. I allow my dogs on the furniture, but I don’t feed them from the table. I agree that crate training is crucial. And judge me poorly, but I thought going from sleeping with the other wolf potatoes to a new home was enough change, without the plastic box. Jolene tucked in between us. We watched her sleep.

Tuesday: Years ago, a friend told me the reason I was single was because I woke up early and enthusiastic. It would be 4 am in a while, but Jolene was awake and ecstatic. She crawled toward me like a reptile, licking my face and chewing my hair. It was only yesterday that Mister snoozed belly up while I drank my coffee and read emails. Now, languishing was out. I lifted her down, and she was on her piddle pad in an instant. I wasn’t fast enough for outside. My friends sent this amazing invention with us. Jolene is housebroken, but the world would spin sideways until we got home. Then Jolene let me know it was time for breakfast. Her bark is more like a shriek, but Mister didn’t stir.

S. took us on our first car ride that morning. Jolene wore her harness, which makes her itch like the worst training bra in the world. We saw the sights and had some treats. She was exhausted. Brave girl, a good omen considering we were 800 miles from home.

Later, I tidied up while Mister followed her around the patio. When I got the hand-vac out, Jolene barked. For all the fearful rescues I’ve known, I brought the hand vac outside. She watched me flip it on and off. Once she was more curious than frightened, I put it down. She tested it with her teeth, and that went well, so she dragged it into her den to kill. Should I have taken it away, started the “drop it” training? Right now, her baby brain neurons are forming. Is it more important to build her curiosity and confidence or be cranky about a $30. hand vac?

Have at it, Jolene. Pin pricks don’t matter. Teething isn’t biting, there is time. My glasses and hearing aids are hidden in a puppy-proof spot. The electric cords contained. Scolding babies so soon doesn’t make confident adults. Sure, I value my things. I relish the donkey teeth marks on my horse’s reins. The tiny triangles torn on pages of a book by my long-departed parrot. But no possession is more precious than a dog, I say, squeaking a toy at Jolene, so she’ll release my arm.

Wednesday: Rain all day, not that Jolene cares. The Rollin’ Rancho is seven feet wide and twelve feet long inside, including the double bed. Mister and I never felt crowded. But Jolene has stuff. Her piddle pad takes up room. Then there’s that extra dog bed. Her 200 toys lay scattered everywhere. She spills their water bowl hourly. Then she tee-peed the whole place in less than two minutes.

Sometimes she cuddles close, buries her nose, and goes soft for several consecutive seconds. Other times she uses me as a height advantage with Mister. She plays hard, yawns when she’s anxious, and every time she asks for my attention, she gets it.

S. came for brunch and brought Sebastian, a brother pup. It was the perfect visit. Mister watched the pups wrestle a broom. My rescue dogs were all afraid of brooms. No need to guess why, so have at it, pups. Own the broom. Meanwhile, S. shared her breakfast with Mister because that’s their rule. We listened to the rain. I felt rich in friendship and dog love and future hopes. Not the first time a tiny pup changed the world.

Thursday: The band was splitting up, puppies going to their new homes, so well prepared that there was no crying. Jolene didn’t look back. Maybe I got a little weepy. We drove, all of us strapped in for a short travel day. Mister fell asleep first, his nose just over the edge of Jolene’s car-seat. She fell asleep, and over the course of the day, her nose made its way to his.

Jolene walks on a leash like a sturgeon on dry land. If either of them feels the leash anywhere near their feet, they stop dead until I untangle it. Mostly, I stand with arms stretched, trying to slack in both directions. Mister doesn’t mind the slow walk, he’s not much of an athlete. But Jolene thought the world was like her yard. So pavement, feral cats, air brakes, they all distract her. We’re moving about three feet per minute. Maybe only two.

We made more rest stops for her tiny bladder. Is she peeing? She is so short, she might be sitting. Nope. Good girl. Mister must find just the right place to pee. He sniffs for the perfect spot. Jolene pees within seconds of toes on ground. She looks like a mini wolf, camouflaged by the landscape. Mister looks straight out of a velvet painting of dogs playing cards.

In four hours, we landed at an RV park outside of Lubbock. It was a bad guess, next to the freeway and with the ambiance of a bustling parking lot. It’s okay, the upside of my hearing loss. And the dogs and I don’t use many words. Calming signals are more honest.

It’s blog night and I’m writing about that touchy subject, aging with horses. It goes slowly because my solution chews on my keyboard. When she sleeps, I write. Finally, I give in and climb into bed with them. Mister gets some goodnight belly rubs. I doze off, wearing Jolene like a reptile corsage.

Friday: Up at 3am to finish, as I have weekly for years. Jolene is part of the routine now. She falls back asleep. She does what Mister does. After we publish, we try the dog pen but it’s full of barking hounds from hell, if you ask Mister.

Even when I go into the gas station, she waits like Mister. Not a tiny bark or whine. She does what he does. They sleep closer everyday on the drive. Something I didn’t expect from Mister. Not sure it will last, but she still likes me best. Barely.

Our last night has us in Las Vegas, NM. A wooded park with lots of trees and loose dogs. Jolene can’t walk for looking. Bless her piddle pad again. These two are a riot of opposites. Mister seems an enormous brute of a dog and Jolene delicate and fragile. But he acts delicate and she, like a brute. She sleeps with her paw in his eye.

Saturday: It’s freezing cold and windy here. Jolene shivered inside my shirt while Mister did his sniffy business. But Jolene has proven herself a traveling dog. She begins every sentence with “Oh Goody-” followed by do we get to pee now? Do we get to wait in the truck while she sets up our trailer? Do we get to have dinner? She reminds us of our wild luck.

We had no option but to surrender to her. We wanted to change. Life feels easier as I finally pull onto our dirt road and look at my sleepers. It occurs to me we’ve been crate training after all. All three of us, in the cab of this truck for 800 miles. We were home the whole time.

…

To be continued. Part 4 in a series. (Here’s Part 1 and Part 2 and Part 3.)

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