We Don’t Recognize Jolene

Jolene says, hurry up, would ya? I am not dawdling. I’m getting my hearing aids, looking for my outside glasses and the remote mic. It’s Thursday. She has her harness on, and that means something. I’ll tell you what that harness means to me. It’s her eighth harness and the most expensive one. Also, the first that hasn’t sent her into violent fits. Jolene needs them because she has a glamorous combination of a small head and a big ruff. She says they pinch under her arm, and she can’t breathe. As a woman who once felt her life in danger from an under-wire bra, I sympathize and keep buying harnesses that promise to work. This one finally does. They made the nameplate with a Fast and Furious font. I think they liked her name.

Usually, change means something new happening. Lately, it’s been about noticing what didn’t happen. It’s gradual, but by the time you’re sure, there can be a cumulative leap that feels sudden. That’s how it’s been since Jolene got the girl flu. For instance, I stand at the back door calling Jolene because she is always the last one in the house. I call and call, but she is sitting behind me and can’t come more than that.

She has taken to sleeping between my feet. Sometimes she has to shove them wider, but she curls there and rests her head on my toes. Jolene used to drop where she stood, with a spit-covered toy in her mouth. Now she chooses her resting spot when I read the morning email or go to the bathroom for less than a minute. She has even stopped stealing toilet paper out of my hand. There’s every chance we’ll soon be able to take the toilet paper down from the towel rack and put it back where it belongs.

Jolene and Mister would like me to know they have spent too much time watching lately. They glumly stare across Edgar Rice Burro’s pen where work is being done. Whatever that red thing is. Not that they care, but it came partly insulated and had tiny windows. First thing I bought was an enormous window, nearly half the length of the pond-side wall.

That was when I got really smart. When the guy who delivered the shed told me he also did odd jobs, I asked if he could put a window in. He did such a good job with the window that I asked him to panel the ceiling. Are you proud of me for not wrestling panels up to a twelve-foot ceiling? Yay, me, for acting my age.

Then, the Dude Rancher and I put up bead-board panels and he framed the windows. I saved the rest for myself, hours of painting the ceiling, walls, and trim. Then installing the flooring. The pond had thawed, not a good thing in winter, and a group of mallards seemed curious about my work. They shouldn’t be here now. I was listening to a wonderful memoir, The Place of Tides, about the duck women who protect eider ducks, and gather their down on remote Norwegian islands. It’s age-old work that’s ending, fewer birds and the main character is my age. Both of our worlds are changing.

Doing remodeling work is nostalgic for me. I remembered carpeting the bathroom in my first apartment when I was still a teenager. I was far from home, wearing a halter top and cutoffs, and singing along with Patsy Cline. Definitely not a cool kid. A friend asked how I knew how to lay carpet, and I stalled my answer while cutting a hole for the toilet. How did she not know? You just do what needs to be done. Growing up, we didn’t own our farm, and money was scarce. But being independent and self-sufficient are in the job description. It means you get creative. When my father complained about my artistic inclinations, I blamed him for raising me on a farm. Neither of us regretted it.

I’ll be doing more time-traveling here in my shed, but now I have to stop. The guy at the hardware store didn’t order enough floor tiles, and I didn’t check his math. It’s late afternoon when I pull my tool wagon back toward the house. By now the dogs are truly disconsolate. What was I doing out there all day, and back late for their dinner, stinking of bad chemicals? They stare from the corner of the yard through narrowed eyes. Because they don’t know what I know.

But like I said, now it’s Thursday, and Jolene has her harness on. It’s been weeks with no scentwork classes over the holidays. She was effervescent as we neared the door. Then she launched like a heat-seeking missile, doing a half-roll mid-air, landing on her back, sliding into the waiting paws of Brody Boyfriend. Our instructor allowed this flamboyant greeting because Jolene and Brody gave us no choice. But a moment later, Jolene extricated herself, and came to sit calmly between my feet. I blinked. She waited quietly while we got instructions. Usually, Jolene behaves like a punk devil urchin in class. Peering at her between my shoes, she looked almost elegant.

The first search was for a buried scent, meaning the scent covered in sand inside of a container, in a large group of containers. She quickly located the first, confidently sat and looked at me. Wow. The same with the second, and then she ignored the other containers. All the time off, but Jolene was no-nonsense sharp. But more than that, she was being polite. I said, good girl under my breath from my chair. Jolene said she knew that. Most shocking at the end of class, I called her and she came right to me. I haven’t even thought of a recall lately, but she stopped flirting with Brody Boyfriend and walked right over. Who is this dog?

But of course, I know her. Mister and I have been waiting for her all these months, longing for the dog she would become. The one always at our heels, always keeping a keen eye. The zoomies haven’t slowed; we are shoulder-deep in hijinks. But she climbs into my lap and rests when she wants a moment, and I stop as I always do. Jolene is maturing. Call her affirmatively untrained yet growing into a good citizen. Mister watches with his eyes closed, happy with the current state of affairs. He’d like you to know he’s always preferred women. Girls make him a little nervous.

These days, I worry about us humans. Too many of us are idiots. Mister says some humans are poor in spirit. Edgar Rice Burro taught him that, but Mister has met a few. Not that they said hello to him. He says dogs are doing their best, but humans can be so self-important. They don’t care about the natural world. I agree. Maybe folks avoid dogs because we soften in their company. It’s a different intimacy. When I see these two always sitting close, eyes on me, I just feel better. How do dogs give me hope for humans?

Experts say eye contact is associated with increased oxytocin levels in dogs and human partners. Oxytocin is the “love hormone.”