Things Jolene and I Have Outgrown. Things We Never Will

*I’m a full-time horse trainer who has written about horses (here) since 2010. My dogs think it’s their turn now.*

It’s the small things. One morning, I pulled the shower curtain open and, remarkably, the bathroom rug was right there, in the bathroom. Usually in the backyard, Jolene and I played a sneaky slow-motion fetch game for months. Jolene took it out when I wasn’t looking, and I retrieved it. Remarkable to find it where it belongs, after missing for months, along with pens, scissors, and dog beds small enough to fit through the dog door. The chewed-open pill bottles were all Mister’s. 

Jolene was eighteen months old on August 25th. The equivalent of nineteen human years. She’s full-grown and marginally mature. I’ve been thinking about the things Jolene and I have outgrown and the things we never will. As pups grow up, we might miss what isn’t happening, because we focus on the next milestone. 

I was capable of correcting her, or schooling her with treats, but I wanted her to connect the dots. So many of the problems dogs have come from us. I wanted a different sort of relationship with Jolene. I decided to trust her intelligence, praise the good things, and shut up about the rest. Call it an experiment. 

One by one and on her own, Jolene has puzzled things out. When she was done teething, she stopped chewing. She’s stopped fighting the leash like a fish on a hook. Now she’s the first to sit for it. Jolene no longer creeps up to the truck; now she stands on the running board waiting for a boost. She has stopped playing tug with my pant legs when I’m dressing. Kinda miss that. She stopped barking out Viking operas in scent work class.

Maturing means we learn to regulate our emotions. I only asked Jolene to do things that I thought she could understand. So change came slowly at first. Still better than creating anxiety, says every reactive rescue dog who has ever ended up with me. 

What will Jolene never outgrow? She’s a young dog with a mind of her own. I’m guessing here. She is genetically designed to be at my heel, just behind me. Probably a safe bet. I doubt there will be an end to playing ball and tug. It doesn’t look like the sheeps will get boring. She will always be more outgoing than I am.

I think Mister will remain her first friend, though he has grown both sweeter and grouchier at the same time. He may be the fun police, but play makes him nervous. Mister is our voice of reason, our touchstone, even though he wears his heart on his sleeve. All of us know who the smart dog is, but we don’t mention it. Jolene isn’t one to gloat. We cater to Mister because he is ours. 

Jolene’s a full-time dog, in my truck if I’m on the road, under the desk if I’m writing. With me relentlessly, always touching me while she sleeps. I think when she is old, she will still bring tug toys and ask me to hold them with her. She will live for me. It isn’t an overstatement. It’s simply what dogs do. In return, my dogs will remain a rare treasure each day, never taken for granted. 

What have I outgrown since I was nineteen? Numerous pairs of jeans for sure. Then I gave up jeans totally. I changed how I dressed annually and questioned everything. They told me I could never make a living as an artist, but I supported myself and boarded two horses. They told me I would change my mind about having kids, but I didn’t. When I left the church, they were outraged at my fall from faith because good girls didn’t.

So, I gave up being a good girl, too. No more listening to criticism from people who said I would be a failure. I gave up the hope of college and moved to Colorado. I knew more about what I didn’t want than what I did. I had poor boundaries and was too quick to trust, but at least I was a lousy judge of character. For a while, it looked like the railbirds were right.

What will never change about me? Horses and dogs forever. Cats on the counter. Pie for breakfast. I like short hair and dirty hands from working outside. Every Sunday morning, I went to the woods and sang. I went religiously. Now I see God everywhere.

I marvel that I’m much the same person today as I was as a teen. I knew my mind. Much of what I wanted came to pass, and much didn’t. I’m normal that way. I broke some rules, went where I wasn’t welcome. And sometimes miracles happened. Like most of us. 

My taste in music hasn’t changed. Oh, I’ve seen Springsteen in concert and the Stones live, but my secret music was different. I love torch songs by the likes of Billie Holiday and Patsy Cline. You know Dolly was on that list. I was rockin to Jolene when my friends were definitely not. A young feminist, I didn’t know what to make of Dolly. The lilting quality of her voice got under my skin. I knew men and women who thought she was a joke, but I couldn’t look away. Unapologetic, she said, “It takes money to look this cheap.” She took cheap to the bank and then gave it all away. Putting her money where her heart was.

Dolly has always been my unlikely hero, for her music as much as for the doors she kicked open. I named my pup Jolene because Dolly was a bit on the nose. The tiny runt of the litter would need a big, strong voice to get by. She was named with respect, as an affirmation. And I wanted people to sing to her.  

Dolly Parton died on Jolene’s half-birthday. Friends sent us condolences. Jolene got special scratches in class. We spent the day reading tributes and falling in love all over again with this dynamic woman who thought the town tramp was pretty. 

She inspired people, not to copy her but to be who they wanted to be. In a world of naysaying railbirds, she was a believer. Who knows how many she inspired to chart an untraveled path, including me in boots because I’d kill myself in her heels. The media is brimming with accolades for this woman who collected diverse people like stray dogs. I won’t repeat more praise, just that the song that doesn’t get mentioned has always been my favorite. I feel a bit naked telling you; it’s a Christmas carol for the rest of us. For those who don’t fit the holiday.

Each December, a mismatched choir of us, each in our homes, will crank up Hard Candy Christmas. The secret is to throw your head back and spread your arms wide. Sing loud, howl out the long notes. Fill your lungs and let the tears fly. Take the cure.

Dolly saw the good in people, a spiritual practice that dogs share.

Most of us humans are a work in progress, with weird hair and mismatched socks. We are odd shapes, wrinkly, pale, and a little frayed at the edges. We absolutely do not have Dolly’s singing voice, but the world needs us a little more now. May her memory bless us all.