Jolene’s Nose, My Ears, and the Death of Embarrassment

May I brag? I have celebrated the death of embarrassment. It was a freedom I gained by competing horses. Horses are transparent and spontaneous about how they feel. When something happens, it’s obvious to the rider. And some of us even paid the judge to notice. It’s the fast track to realizing you can’t make a horse do anything. If you care about tense backs or sour ears, it’s a time of discovery. You either quit, fight harder, or gain finesse.

It means trading the fantasy of control for the nebulousness of early trust. You find odd ways to let go a little at a time. It can mean some public humiliation; it’s also an opportunity for near enlightenment. Every dime spent on entries was worth it for freedom from the gravity of shame, worrying about what others think. And entry to the place horses dance with ethereal rhythm because their rider got out of the way. I am remembering that for Jolene now.

This morning, we went into the wild for scent work class. The means out of the training studio and to a huge asphalt parking lot to search the exterior of a defunct restaurant. It was a crisp 30° with wind gusting, that dry cold that makes your cheeks hard. A couple of hours earlier, I’d mucked out the barn, so it wasn’t news. I layered for it, but Jolene has made it clear she will not be wearing any ridiculous sweaters. She can barely tolerate her harness. And she would like to remind you that, contrary to the man in the feed store who said she looked like a miniature German Shepherd, she is a 19 lb. 8 oz. Viking queen. Nothing less.

Two of the hides were doorknob height, not much of a stretch for Arya, the Weimaraner. Jolene had to stand on her hind feet, bounce a bit. These days we ask for a more precise answer. Other hides were tucked between bricks or obscured in devious ways. Some in the shade, others in sun. This matters because scent behaves differently in changeable environments. Did I mention the wind?

My role involves not only alerting when Jolene locates a scent but also interpreting the nuanced messages within her body language as she searches. I need to make my eyes as sharp as her sense of smell to keep up. But I stand back and let her work. She doesn’t need coaxing. When she gets close, I ask her to show me. And she zeros in to the spot. It’s a conversation between our senses. 

The last hide looked nearly impossible to me, but Jolene moved directly to the first scent and I immediately called alert. In the past, I might have hesitated, maybe over-thought it. Jolene’s tenacity has cured my doubts. The second hide was just as clear. We are getting to a place, not consistently but often enough, where we find a synchronity between us. It’s addictive.

Ironically, as I watch Jolene’s senses become more acute, my own become foggier, thicker, unreliable. It’s the six-month anniversary of my hearing loss. A quick recap: I lost it between the barn and the house. I already had a hearing loss in the right ear, but now I have a “profound” loss in the left. My hearing aids barely help. 

Here’s a practical measurement of my hearing loss. I drive a three-quarter ton pickup. Twice I’ve gotten out of it and walked away, forgetting to turn off the ignition and take my key. It’s an older truck with an audible engine. To test myself, I listened before and after turning the key. No difference at all, except that I’m paranoid now. This plays out in real life as I can’t hear cars come up behind me in parking lots or horses moving near me in the barn.

As the hearing left, tinnitus moved in. Tinnitus is internal sound, too relentless to be a hallucination. It’s usually a buzzing, but sometimes a clicking or hissing. I’m trying to learn to ignore it. It’s incurable, and this is the real medical suggestion. Just don’t listen. Sometimes it almost works for a while. Other times, I turn the volume up really high, hoping to drown out the tinnitus. Then the static lifts to an operatic heavy metal level. 

I can hear if my hearing aids are connected to a Bluetooth device. So I listened to 78 books last year, but cannot check out at the grocery store without asking for the small talk to be repeated several times. Ordering in a restaurant involves finger-pointing. Trying to understand what others say is as exhausting as building fence all day.

It makes me feel I’ve aged overnight. It’s like my skull is a conch shell and the ocean is far away. The upside is that it’s easy to cut out distractions when I write. My peripheral vision has improved. I can follow Jolene more easily because I don’t hear external noise. And, like Mister always says, taking life a little slower isn’t the worst thing. I hope he’s right. 

They warn you that hearing loss can make a person feel isolated. This is an actual threat to an introvert like me, but I am lucky. Teaching classes online, plugged into my computer where my hearing feels whole, keeps me engaged. The Barn School started during Covid, when everyone felt the isolation. It’s grown to become a supportive respite for those aging with horses. And those facing life changes that are expected but not comfortable. Together, we are cultivating what it means to show ourselves, and each other, grace. How grateful I am to my clients and their horses, who keep me immersed in that more important kind of listening.

Earlier this week, Jolene and I were on our way to a scentwork class and got a flat tire a few blocks from the studio. It would’ve been a really lousy day if we missed class, so we rolled the truck on her rim to park. Then we hurried on foot, arriving almost on time. Jolene got to meet a Samoyed who paid her the ultimate insult. He ignored her. It was a special prep class for our first odor recognition trial where Jolene must recognize birch, anise, and clove odors, a requirement to compete in higher-level events. 

Afterward, we hiked back on the narrow sidewalk with six lanes of traffic screaming by, I was disoriented, nearly flinching with each step. Jolene was cringing, too, almost under my feet. We are so fragile, I thought. If a car swerved… Jolene said it was no reason to stay home.

Back in the day, I changed my own tires, but now I call AAA. The rest of the afternoon went as you’d expect. The first truck arrived in an hour, and after another hour, decided I didn’t have the key to unlock my spare. Then another hour for the second truck to arrive to haul my truck to the tire dealer. Jolene and I climbed into the cab just before twilight. I stayed cheerful because nothing else works on days like this. Jolene did the same. I’ve never had better company. 

The reason to get out in the world and compete with a horse, or a dog isn’t to prove you are better than anyone else. It’s knowing that they will initially misbehave and embarrass you. Eventually, you both achieve a level of synchronity with someone who is different in every way. Jolene and I strike out, knowing something might go wrong, but still taking action against fear and exile. 

And because I don’t know the meaning of the word embarrassment, here’s a photo of Jolene congratulating me for finishing my taxes. I’m wearing a three-day-old sweatshirt, my hair freaking out in that charming pasty, slept-in look I commonly have. And Jolene is sticking out her belly, looking half-drunk, like somebody’s weird uncle. We have that kind of relationship.

To be continued…

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