This New Day

Today is my birthday. I’m awake early, my mind full of all the things I want to accomplish. Not only today, though my list of plans for this day runs pretty long, but for the year ahead. My birthday, like New Year’s Day, feels like a good day for assessment, and for looking at how to do better.

In this year so far, I’ve read fifty-seven books. That number is way up over previous years; usually, I average about one book a week. The increase, I’m sure, is due to my failing vision. Lately, I need well-rested eyes, the brightest light and sometimes a magnifying glass to be able to read a book. So, I’ve been depending more and more on audible books.

I started listening to a book when I was walking the dogs. Then, I quit turning it off when I got back home. I listen while I prepare my dinner and feed the dogs. Sometimes, I continue listening while I eat. I listen when I’m driving to and from work, and often while I’m working around the house. I started with a subscription to Audible, which, for a small monthly fee, gives me access to a large selection of books at no cost, and the ability to earn credits toward the purchase of other selections. Yesterday, thanks to my daughter’s suggestion, I downloaded the Libby app, which allows me to check out audible books from the library, for free. Books have always been good companions; now, that’s true more than ever!

Since the first of January, I’ve walked two-hundred and thirty miles. I’m still on track to beat my total from last year, but I’ve fallen off in my daily distances lately. Insects, shift changes, old dogs, and general exhaustion all got in the way of my two-miles-a-day plans. Sometimes I’d barely get out of the driveway before swarms of mosquitos would send me running for cover! And there have been days this summer when even a half-mile walk seemed to test my endurance. Now that we’re getting to the end of our busy season, I’m renewing my commitment to get my longer walks in.

I have continued Intermittent Fasting, for well over two years now. It is an eating plan that suits me and my lifestyle…but, after a lot of promise and good weight loss in the first few months, it is not helping me lose weight. Which was my goal. So, I’m still thinking about that, and what changes I need to make. I eat a healthy diet, though heavy on carbohydrates. I’m afraid I’ll eventually have to give up bread and pasta. Not quite yet, though.

Another casualty of this always busy, sometimes hectic summer has been my exercise regimen. I had a good habit of daily exercise. I almost always did some simple yoga stretches, and spent at least ten minutes a day on the trampoline. I’d intersperse that with some weight training, and moves specific to arms, abs or back. Until when? I don’t even know when I fell out of the habit, or what caused it. I know the trampoline has been leaning against the wall, unused, for weeks. Well, today is a good day to recommit to taking better care of myself!

In my life, it seems that messages come to me when I really need them. Years ago, when I was alone in a tiny apartment, broke, lonely and frustrated, I got a letter in the mail. Inside the envelope was a card that said, “Do not be discouraged. You are not forgotten.” Actually, it was a solicitation for a donation, I think for Doctors Without Borders. To me, though, it felt like a gift from the heavens, exactly the encouragement I needed to hear. There have been others, through the years, offering a bit of hope, cheer, or inspiration when I needed it. Today, scrolling through social media, this message came up:

“Today has fresh air you have never smelt and sunrays you have never felt. Today is a chance to restart.”

I’ll accept that as a good message for my birthday!

When A Good Dog Behaves Badly

Darla is a good dog. She may be the best dog I’ve ever had, as far as good temper and obedience. She knows the rules, and tries to follow them. She is calm and friendly with visitors. Other than minor skirmishes, and only when she was first introduced to them, Darla has been wonderful with the other dogs in my household.

Darla was always protective of Blackie Chan. If he needed to go outside in the middle of the night, Darla would get up from a sound sleep to accompany him. If he wandered down the neighbor’s driveway, Darla worriedly paced the road in front, knowing he wasn’t supposed to be there. And when Blackie Chan died, she grieved right along with me.

Darla allows Rosa Parks to rule the roost. If the little dog barks at some imagined invader that I can neither see nor hear, Darla always heads outside to investigate. She’ll share her bed, or even give up her space when the small tyrant decides that’s where she wants to be. If Rosa Parks lags far behind on our walk, it is Darla that circles back to get her moving along.

Darla is a good dog. She knows it, and I count on it. That’s why an incident we had last week has left us both confused.

Darla and I were headed out for our walk. Rosa Parks had opted to stay at home that day, and was curled up on the back porch. We were at the end of the driveway, about to step out onto the Fox Lake Road, when a bicyclist came down the road right in front of us. The young woman on the bike was holding on to a leash attached to the collar of a fairly large German Shepherd-type dog. The dog had noticed us, and lunged toward us, causing the bicyclist to wobble. Not knowing the dog, or the young woman, I took hold of my dog’s collar.

Darla is generally good with people and other animals, but she doesn’t like deer, turkeys, chipmunks, or even a robin in my yard, and keeps a pretty vigilant watch. I wasn’t sure how she’d react coming upon them right at the end of our driveway. Darla is a seventy-five pound dog, a pit-bull, boxer mix; she looks a little scary to people that don’t know her. We often come upon bicycle riders when we’re out walking. Because it can be disconcerting to see a dog rushing toward you, even with a wagging tail, I call out, “She’s friendly! She just wants to say hello!”

On this particular day, however, being surprised so close to our yard, with a big dog on a lead, attached to an unstable bicycle, I thought it best to have my dog in hand. So, I had firm hold of Darla’s collar when she noticed the bicycle and the dog. Both dogs barked, and pulled. Neither looked particularly aggressive in their stance; both were wagging their tails. They might have had a friendly encounter, if left on their own. Maybe. In that moment, I wasn’t willing to take that chance.

Darla suddenly lunged, pulling me to the ground. The woman stopped to ask if I was okay; her dog lunged, nearly tipping the bike. “I’m fine,” I told her, “just keep going; I’ll hold my dog.” That was a lot harder than I’d anticipated! Darla was determined to get away. As I heard the hum of the bike’s tires getting farther down the road, it was all I could do to keep hold of that collar. Darla twisted, and jerked, and lunged forward again and again. I couldn’t get to my feet, but managed to get into a seated position. She braced her front paws against me to get out of my grip. It was only a few minutes, but seemed to go on for a long, long time. I didn’t want to let go too soon, sure that she would tear down the road after them.

That didn’t happen. When I let go of her collar, Darla ran toward the house, her tail between her legs. I had a hole in one leg of my jeans, and a skinned knee. My forearms were scraped and bleeding. I was shaking. When I had my wounds fixed up, I went to check on Darla, with intent to continue on our walk. She ran away from me! Finally, I set out down the Fox Lake Road on my own. I looked back at one point, and there was Darla, following, but at good distance. Back home, it took Darla several days, and lots of reassurance, to stop being skittish around me.

It seems that, knowing in her own heart that she is a good girl, when we had a conflict, she was sure it must be ME that was behaving badly. She was surprised at that, and more than a little disappointed, but it does appear that she has decided, finally, to forgive me.

What’s Good?

A few weeks ago, an actor – whose name I cannot remember – was killed in a car accident. In reporting his death, the news crew also talked about his attitude toward life. His last post on social media, not long before he died, said, in effect, “I’m mowing today…and I love the smell of freshly-cut grass.” That’s how I want to go out of this world, I thought: reveling, right up to the end, about the things that bring me joy.

I do try. I start each day with my gratitude journal, writing a list of things that I am thankful for. It gets repetitive. I am grateful for rain, or sunshine, or warm weather. I am grateful for good sleep, good coffee and good conversations. I am thankful for flowers on my table whenever I have a bouquet there. I wonder sometimes what people will think, when they come upon these lists after I am gone. “Oddly obsessive about coffee and sleep,” I imagine them saying.

Perhaps it will look, to others, as if my life were sad and small, with little of interest. If that’s the case, well, they are missing the point. It is not in the constant search for big, life-changing events that we find joy. No doubt happiness sometimes comes to us that way. There are days I remember as good ones that are associated with big events: the births of my daughters, or the completion of a difficult challenge. Most of my days, though, are much quieter than that. That’s why I choose to find joy in the small things.

Last week, I mowed my lawn. The grass was slow growing, because it has been so dry, but the weeds take right off in that kind of weather. Some were almost two feet high! So, I mowed. And, since – like that unnamed actor – I also love the smell of freshly-cut grass, that’s what I focused on. Not on the fact that my family was here, and taking time to cut grass was time away from them. Not on the heat, or the dust, or on how tired I was.

I paid attention to the green, bright smell of fresh-cut grass. It always reminds me of summer Sunday afternoons, after church, when I was very small. That’s when my Dad would cut the grass. I also thought about how good it was going to look when I was done, and how much it would help to keep the mosquitoes down. I thought about how wonderful a shower would feel when I was finished. And how, over dinner with my family, I could boast about what I’d accomplished.

Today, I’m working around the house. I have the kettle simmering, filled with the makings of chicken broth, that I’ll then package up for the freezer. It will taste so good next winter! I’ve had three delightful telephone conversations, two with friends, and one with my daughter. I weeded around the flowers. I stripped the bed, washed the sheets, and hung them on the clothesline. Now I’m thinking about how that nice breeze will help to dry them. And how lovely it will be to get into bed tonight between those sweet-smelling linens.

To have joy in my life every day, I focus on the little pleasures. There are plenty of those, every single day!

The Secret Life of Good Dogs

Both of my dogs have an idea what it means to be a “good dog.” It doesn’t quite line up with reality, though.

Rosa Parks goes to the door. She taps on the glass, and waits. If I don’t get up, she taps again…and again. She never gives up. When I get up and walk over to open the door for her, one time out of ten,, she actually goes out the door, and takes care of her business out there. Good Dog.

The rest of the time, as soon as I get the door open, she spins around and makes a beeline for her rug under my desk. There, she sits at attention, waiting for her treat. She’s in the position, and wearing the expression of a good dog, waiting for a much-deserved reward. “You didn’t even go outside,” I remind her. I wave my empty hands in front of her face, indicating, “All gone.”

Rosa Parks holds her pose. “I am a good dog,” her look reminds me. If I don’t give her the kibble, she begins to whine. This goes on and on. I have clocked her at more than thirty minutes. I think she will never give up. So I do. I give her the treat. A few minutes later, we repeat the process.

When the little dog does something she knows she shouldn’t, like using the laundry room floor as her personal toilet, she takes a different tack. Rather than taking the “good dog” position, her stance is one of complete indifference. “Oh, Rosa Parks, this is NOT good,” I tell her, as I gather paper towels. She gives me a look of abject boredom.

I can read her expression. It says, “Where were you when I wanted out?” Or, “Oh, yeah, that…big deal.” At other times, she simply feigns deafness. Rosa Parks doesn’t care.

My big dog, Darla, on the other hand, cares deeply about being a “Good Dog.” She tries hard be be easy to live with. She would never tap on the door when she needs to go outside; she just goes to the door. Glances around to see if I notice her there. Eventually, she may make the tiniest little noise, but that’s it. And, when I open the door, she goes out.

When I’m home, Darla follows every rule. She often lays on the big rug in the laundry room, in close proximity to the big trash can. Just guarding it, it seems. She rarely gets onto the bed when I’m in it. When she does, it’s always timidly, and only after being invited. Once I’m up, and the bed is made, she is allowed, and often spends time on the bed, looking out the window. She’s careful to not disturb anything as she rests there, though. Darla is a Good Dog.

When I’m at work, that’s not the case. Then, Darla loses all respect for my neatly-made bed, with nurse’s corners and tucked-in edges. When I’m away, Darla wants to be in the bed, between the sheets, on a mound of comforter and pillow. If I forget to put the trash can up onto the washing machine before I leave the house, Darla will tip it over, and snuffle through all of its contents, strewing them around. I come home, then, to garbage, combined with whatever surprises Rosa Parks has left, all over the laundry room floor.

Darla, though, at least has the decency to show remorse. “Not good,” I say, as I re-make the bed or pick trash up from the floor, “this is NOT GOOD!” As Rosa Parks works to combine looks of both innocence and boredom, while appearing completely uninterested in my ranting, Darla hangs her head. Her expression is one of both shame and regret. She brings me a peace offering: one of her toys.

One day, while I was on my hands and knees, grumbling and cleaning up quite an extensive mess in the laundry room, Darla brought me, one-by-one, her three best toys. After gifts of stuffed moose, sheep, and chicken didn’t soften my mood, Darla appeared in the hallway again, still hanging her head, this time with a sofa cushion as offering. Such a good dog!