Musings

What Were We Thinking?

Sometimes I wonder what in the HELL we were thinking, adopting a 3rd dog and a rescue at that. He’s a bit of a sweet disaster. His separation anxiety is desperate to the point he watches Adam work or plants himself directly between Adam and the path to the truck to make sure he doesn’t get left behind. Lately he’s been sitting or sleeping in the back of the car in the driveway. For hours.

When we do leave him at home uncrated, he creates a small mess each time. He started out by hauling Adam’s clothes and shoes out of the bathroom into the bedroom or living room. Never damaging anything, just leaving a little note of his fear and discontent.

More recently he’s taken to counter surfing to register his displeasure. I’ve been returning home to scenes like a bag of cereal, plastic wear, a cloth grocery sac, and a coffee mug (!?) on the living room floor.

His desperation to go along is sweet if a bit over the top. Touch keys or purse and he starts Fred Flintston-ing his feet on the wood floor to beat us downstairs to the door leading out the the garage. Being left behind, even with one of us here, is hard for him especially if it’s Adam leaving him.

You know how people have emotional support animals? Well, Buddy has an emotional support person—Adam. Adam was the first one of us to meet him and they fell for each other immediately. I think Buddy recognizes Adam as his savior.

So what WERE we thinking, adopting a third dog? For the first time in almost thirty years we were without a lab. And that was a mistake. Our other dogs are great and we love them. But major elements of lab-ish-ness were missing from our lives. We needed a loyal, smart-but-dopey, underfoot, big headed, snuggling lab.

His less attractive habits often leave me shaking my head and questioning our sanity and judgement. But then I look at his face. He sits and looks up at me, brown eyes shining out of his black fur. He looks at me as if to say, thank you so much for taking me out of that place. Thank you so much for saving me. Thank you so much for kindly tolerating my anxiety and fear. Thank you for loving me.

I wonder how anyone could turn down a face like that. Certainly we couldn’t.

And we’re all a little bit damaged, right? We all have our times when we feel like laying on the floor with our loved one’s clothes just because their scent comforts us. Times when life becomes a bit too much and we want to swipe everything off the kitchen counter in a little moment of desperation.

Oh, we probably don’t do it but that doesn’t mean we don’t feel like it. What we do is hold it inside and then later yell at the kids or snap at our spouse. Or cry in the shower before splashing water on our face and then marching on like it’s all okay. Only sometimes it isn’t okay and we need to find a way to give voice to our fear, our frustration, our anxiety, our sadness.

Hopefully we all have someone who looks at the mess we’ve created and, rather than reprimand us, recognizes our distress and helps us find a better way.

So that’s why. Because he needs us. And we need him.

(This essay also appears on Sodapup.com’s tumblr blog.)

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It Isn’t Easy Being Green

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Hand over mouth, eyes searching to make sure no one unsafe is within ear shot, she leans toward us conspiratorially. And then she makes a wild confession. My reaction is one of relief. Phew! I’m not the only one.

“Sometimes I run my dishwasher when it’s only half full!” She looks like the admission might result in her being struck dead by a bolt of lightning.

As is often the case, one admission leads to another. Here we were, a group of smart, environmentally conscious and generally aware moms admitting our deepest darkest environmental sins.

“I use plastic bags in my trash can.”

“I drive around with plastic bags in my car, hoping to come across a grocery store that still recycles them. I finally lose it and throw them in the trash.”

“I use non-biodegradable bags to pick up dog poop.”

“I use Ziplock bags and then throw them away instead of reusing them.”

As we stand talking, I diagnose this as a not-yet-recognized syndrome: eco-guilt.

Living in Boulder, CO

It doesn’t help that I live in Boulder, CO, one of the Green Capitals of the US. Don’t get me wrong–I’m proud of my community where there are tons of year-round bike commuters (even in the snow!), public transportation, curbside recycling and composting, lots of green buildings, a Prius on every block, abundant solar panels, and an overall commitment to doing right by this earth of ours.

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Beachcoming on the Darkside

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I walk along the beach with deliberate steps, peering at the ground. My eyes scan sand, rocks, seaweed, shells. Small waves lap the shore. A line clinks against a mast. I step, look ahead, step, look right, look ahead, step, look left. The shadow of a seagull passes overhead. I feel sun on the back of my neck, see a glint, pause, reach down. Nope. Just a rock.

White—good. Green or brown—better. Blue or red or yellow or orange—heart stopping.

I am looking for sea glass. It’s a love, a passion. No, an obsession. I have jars of it at home, collected over the years on various beaches but there’s never enough. Every beach, every day, holds the possibility of more. And still, finding the next piece is like finding the first. There’s a thrill, a jump of my heart, a smugness, a satisfaction at the discovery of yet another piece. I reach down, pick it up and close it into my fist.

And it’s good, the hunting, the looking. It’s relaxing and exciting. Until. I see someone else walking down the beach with a clenched hand or carrying a bag or a cup. My heart jumps, beats faster. I feel an edge of panic, a splash of indignation. I draw a sharp breath, clench my jaw. Because I want to know, need to know, what they are collecting. Sea shells, heart shaped rocks, skipping rocks? Fine. Sea glass? Not fine. No, they should STEP AWAY FROM THE SEA GLASS.

I amble over, make small talk, act friendly. Hmmm, what are you collecting? If it isn’t sea glass, I like them, they are a friend. Sea glass? A tightness in my throat. They are foe. I want to know if they’ve found anything good. If not, I (shamefully) feel gleeful. If so, I feel ugly envy. I smile at them either way but, in the second case, it is false.

Later, I walk the beach with my twelve year-old niece. When we both come upon a piece of glass at the same time, I concede and let her have it but this is more painful than I care to admit. I do this with some grace (if with internally gritted teeth) but it’s a relatively non-coveted white/clear piece. Giving up a brown or green piece would make me cringe. And honestly, I might have acted shamefully if we both happened upon the coveted blue, yellow or red at the same time. Luckily my mettle isn’t tested.

If we both tripped upon a gold piece lying on the beach, it would be easier for me to cede it to her than it would be to allow her to have a piece of red or pink sea glass. An entire bathtub full of pieces of sea glass would not be enough to satisfy me. I like to look at them, sort them, pour them thru my fingers. There is something about their burnished, tumbled surface and edges that makes me want to touch them, look at them and hunt for more of them.

People do crazy things for objects that have far more actual value. But I, I might take someone to the mat over a piece of red sea glass.

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