Jolene Just Knows the One Word

I’m starting to look like Garrison Keillor. You know, if I dyed my hair brown. I’m not bragging, just stating the facts. Mister nods.

I don’t know why we compare unknowns to famous people. It’s crazy. Once, someone compared me to Ann Lamott. Wow. We’re both pretty spiritual, but I let animals say the God stuff. Just sounds more real that way. And twice, David Sedaris. Remember him reading Santaland Diaries? I couldn’t breathe for laughing. I’d recognize his “voice” anywhere, and it’s ridiculously hard to write humor. He’s my hero.

Once an interviewer referred to me in an article as the Bard of the Prairie. A leap too far, Mister hacked a hairball with all the drama of a sword fight. Even he knows Shakespeare would think me too high for my nut. Never Shakespeare. I do aspire to write my best, but at this age, my guess is Garrison Keillor, even though I’m pretty sure the red suspenders wouldn’t work the same on me.

In the very beginning of my blog, I wrote about my little farm on the flat, windy, treeless prairie of Colorado. About winter storms and llama line dances. About a team of small donkeys dragging the arena until it looked like a Zen garden.

Then there were so many years devoted to advocating for horses. I wrote about calming signals and affirmative training. Hundreds of essays about horses and wondrous years of traveling for clinics. [Do you miss the horse training essays? Search through 1500 of them on my website. Or subscribe to The Gray Mare Podcast on Substack and I’ll read them to you.]

I’m proud of that work, but now I’m writing my way back to Lake Wobegon, I mean, my Home Farm. Where it’s been a counterfeit winter. The warmest on record. March should be our snowiest month, but every day has a red flag warning. There are four horses and Edgar Rice Burro here, all elders, none of them kid-safe. But at a certain age, who is?

Not Mister who lodged a complaint against Jolene. It seems she is playing tug with his tail. She gets a good mouthful, jerks hard, and growls. It’s genius because his body is too long to snap at her. He attempts a spin, and she gets a ride. He tries to ignore her. Futile. Then he gives me the can’t-you-do-something-about-her look, but he knows the rules as well as I do. Mr. Fun Police will have to resolve this himself.

Mister let me know early on that playing was against his sensibilities. He cringed if I reached for him. No fetch, no tug. Sure, Mister was a born curmudgeon, but on top of that, it’s possible he never learned to play. He doesn’t read the signals; play bows seem like fighting words. He is trying to be a late bloomer for Jolene’s sake and for his survival. But it’s exhausting. Jolene has just jerked his tail for the third time.

I take pity and make the tsk-tsk-tsk sound. This is one of Jolene’s recall sounds. She also comes to “Shhhhh….” but I have no idea why. I have trained none of it. But it’s diversion enough that Mister escapes into the crate with a sour look because sometimes kindness hurts just a little.

Jolene puts her front paws on my knee, which is my cue to stop what I’m doing. If I don’t, she pokes me with her nose until I surrender, so I just give in and she crawls on my lap. Is Jolene spoiled? I’m sure some folks think so, but this is a science experiment. What happens if you never correct a dog but only praise them? What happens if the only word they know is yes?

I think about my lifetime with dogs. They were always with me through the day, but I still shooed them away. Not now, I said, as if my work couldn’t wait. I thought I was too busy to stop, as if knowing I didn’t deserve their constancy. Even with a home filled with animals, underestimating what it meant to have a creature choose you. How much I miss each of them. What would I give for just one more scratch.

So Jolene wins. Each time she asks, I stop to acknowledge her. Absurdly, I do manage to finish my work in good time even with the dawdling. If anything, my work quality improved. Jolene soon got bored with me and was off. The minute of distraction didn’t ruin my precious concentration. Letting go of the hurry, I took time to praise Jolene and it trickled down to me.

This year I’ve learned that playing and engaging a dog’s curiosity, even a crusty naysayer, does more than all the obedience training in the world. Mister nods like an amen choir.

It’s about getting your dog to pay attention, not because they are in trouble, but because there is fun to be had. I’m capable of training a recall using treats. Reversed, I have welcomed her with cheers and praise when she chooses to come. It takes more energy, and Mister agrees, Jolene is exhausting. But we have an agreement. Everytime Jolene comes, something really good happens. Unbelievably, Jolene heels off leash, waits at gates, and has a quick recall, even if she is moving sheep. Who is this dog?

Mister feels he deserves some credit for his changes since being here. He can now walk into the vet’s office on his own four feet. Radical change. He flirts with his manicurist. Kids and dogs still make him nervous, but he lets some people touch his head without flinching. And he has found a solution to the tail pulling. Of all things, he creates a height advantage.

Jolene streaks past, trailing a five foot long yellow rope. Then two small house sparrows land in the lilac bush, and she attacks. These escape, but Jolene catches one often enough to keep the game fun.

Mister comes and sits close. This what-if fantasy, he says. Who would we have been if someone only said yes to us? When do the old voices fade away? How long does it take to rebuild a cold foundation into a soft landing?

I tell Mister the secret. He is number one, the best dog, and he has nothing to prove. Mister’s ears go soft because he knows it’s true, even sitting next to a toothy Viking warrior princess, who is also the best dog. Because every dog is the best dog. They don’t care who else is. They are inclusive that way.

I have a plan to build a watchtower for Jolene so she can stalk me from a better vantage point. For now, I’m repurposing an old barn cart turned upside-down, with a mounting block next to it. The first dog up, Mister says, this is great. Best idea yet. That’s what I love about not training. They figure it out on their own.

Mister asks to have his neck scratched. He is still a dog after all, and I oblige. Mister slowly touches me with his tongue. It sticks to my skin an instant before he pulls it back. Jolene rushes to help me, licking his ears and nose. This girl never stops.

Jolene licks people. She likes people. As I pet her, it occurs to me. What if it’s the only way they can pet us? I don’t correct her and I don’t like it, but I’m a grown-ass woman. I’ll take the compliment. Dog spit won’t kill me.

And this author stuff is because I was part of a book event last week. I stood in front of a crowd and read aloud. When I’m nervous, I don’t recognize my words, but people laughed and cheered. Good girl, I thought. Special to be reminded how much I love my writing. How much I love to let the words fall out my fingers onto a page. Even though I’m no Shakespeare. Even though sometimes they come more as a prayer than a comedy.

It is enough. My dogs like me. The horses trust me. And the sunset never fails me.

…

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