Jolene Says, Doesn’t My Title Entitle Me to Something?

Jolene expects that we will have an adventure every single day. Mister hopes we don’t. He likes to keep it between the lines.

As for me, I want to build a life that I want to live in. That goal has never changed, but age and my cantankerous nature redefine it every few years. I don’t pretend I can do what I did at thirty. Rather than ruminating about the ever-lengthening list of things I can no longer do, I ponder my possibilities.

Social media has a game of posting before-and-after photos of famous people. One in the prime of their youth and one where they are, well, somewhere around my age. The youthful photos are airbrushed with chins held high. The current ones made the person look like a drunken pirate, ninety days from a shower. Extra horror points if the person has committed the ultimate crime of gaining a few pounds. They either look like mummified versions of their youth, or they look homeless and meant to prime us to tsk-tsk like our grandmothers. Shake our heads and say, “Oh, look how she’s let herself go.”

If I looked in a mirror, my face would show every horse and dog, every long day working with my hands, every sad loss. I might check the corners of my mouth because they leak these days, but instead we’re off. Yes, I’ve let myself go. It might be my greatest accomplishment.

I put my computer to sleep; that’s the cue. Jolene says, Doesn’t my title entitle me to something? Now? Now? Now?

Yes, she is entitled to an adventure every day. Mister hopes we are leaving so he can have a big chewy to himself. Jolene has no idea where we’re going; I might be returning packages at UPS. She is waiting at the gate, looking at the truck and then back to me. Yes, little miss titled dog who was undone by a flight of stairs. We go now.

We are in search of the thing that doesn’t exist out where we live. We headed into town to a place dog friends suggested. Scheels, a sporting goods store that has stairs and allows dogs. On the road, I noticed I had forgotten treats. Stairs are truly scary, so I stop at the new gas station to get something. A cup of Cheerios? Some $10 cat snacks? Dog jerky seems like the best bad choice.

When I came out, Jolene was standing on the armrest and staring at the door. She will wait as long as it takes for me to come back. Mister would like you to know he has the common sense to take a nap, but Jolene doesn’t blink.

A woman was leaning against her car, smiling at Jolene. She saw me and blurted out, “This dog is so beautiful. I’ve never seen a dog like her. She’s so beautiful.”

There was a space between our vehicles, so we were standing a few feet away. I gave the Vallhund/Viking speech, and the woman just stared at Jolene, who is still staring at me. Jolene can’t believe I’m dawdling. The woman asks more questions, and I see Jolene’s nose go straight up. I can’t hear the high-lonesome howl, but I see it. It’s my recall, and it finally dawns on me to ask the woman if she’d like to say hello.

She says, “Oh yes, I knew better than to come close and knock the truck window because she’s clearly protecting the truck. I didn’t want her to feel I was attacking her or anything like that.”

I thanked her profusely. She’s right. Dogs hate that.

Then I opened the door and Jolene looked at me in that scolding way, like I was late and the woman didn’t exist. But I stroked her neck and encouraged the woman to do the same. Jolene finally noticed her, and the woman raved more. How beautiful! And never seen a dog like… Jolene has that power over people. I gave the woman my email address, and finally, we were back on our way.

A half-hour later, we pulled into the Scheels parking lot. I’d picked a good time, Saturday around supper, when it wouldn’t be busy. But the parking lot looked like Disneyland with no compact spaces, much less something my truck could squeeze into. My truck has let itself go, too. We cruised past the entrance, bubbling with families, on our way out. Jolene would have been fine, but I wouldn’t have survived it.

We headed toward home. Who knew stairs would be so rare. Then I saw a half-deserted shopping mall with a parking structure. There were metal stairs on an outside corner; two flights that were open on all sides and in the shade. Funky shadows and breezy.

Jolene gave me a hard no, so I let out the leash and sat about four steps up. Jolene, who rarely swears, said hell no. I respect that. I didn’t nag or pull. The question was obvious. I gave her time. Jolene suddenly launched herself and landed between my shoes. I told her she was good as she pressed close. The gas station dog jerky was offered and refused. It did seem trivial after her death-defying vault.

We leap-frogged a few steps, slow and steady at first, but were walking together by the top of the second flight. There was a tree in full blossom at the top. The only living thing in this cement world. We had a moment just looking at it. When we turned to go back, Jolene squealed Wee! and slid down the steps like a snake, leaving me holding the rail and high-footing it behind her. At the bottom, we cheered and pumped our fists. Me mostly, because the turtle won the race again. Cue the Rocky theme.

When I was little, the biggest event of the year was the county fair. We showed our sheep, looked at farm equipment and sewing projects. I begged to go on the rides. No one in the family wanted to, but me. Waste of money with nothing to show for it. I loved being tossed around. It’s how you might end up being one of those people who travels to ride roller coasters. Yes, I did.

Eventually, that’s what showing horses became to me. It was like going away for the weekend to ride a roller coaster that was scary and fun and exhilarating. You and your horse got into a challenging situation. You had to cope with your emotions and also help your horse cope with theirs. Facing twists and turns while floundering toward success. It was rarely pretty, but trust is earned in the trying, not the winning.

And now it’s me and Jolene who head out to ride the rides. The thing you don’t always expect is the collateral learning that happens. The learning alongside the other learning. After scent work, she seems to have a more balanced interaction with the environment. It engaged her thoughts with a task, and her energy has become more stable. But she is also calm around other dogs and friendly with people. She is confident even when she is anxious. Her recall is incredible, but maybe I’m just that fun.

Now, it’s the crap of dawn and I’m squinting at my morning email. Jolene stands on my knee with a ball-on-a-rope, pushing it into my hand so I can tug with her. I dangle my limp hand, but it’s enough for her.

Mister would like you to know that we still work together to mitigate Jolene’s joy. It’s too much for either of us to handle on our own. I feel a different tug on the rope and look down. Mister says I’ve got this and drags Jolene back toward his bed so he can tug more comfortably.

Of course, Mister is a very intelligent dog, and he soon bored with this game. Jolene is a very intelligent dog, so she doesn’t quit. As for me and the life I can have at this ripe age, I’ll continue to let myself go. To the dogs. In all directions. No plastic surgery required.

To be continued…

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Women Aging Cantankerously