When Was the Last Time?

Photo by Kara Hamilton

This story was written and subsequently published in a local magazine around this time last year. I remember thinking I didn’t want to wait to eulogize a special dog, I wanted to honor him in life. I love this story as much as I love my dear Howie. We did make it to Christmas and well beyond. And though Howie has now passed, this story lives on and there are amazing stories born from it that are still to come. But for now, join me in celebrating the story of this one special dog.

Today, Howie, my best-boy Dalmatian, is 15 years, six months, and two days old. But who’s counting?

Me. I’m counting. I’m counting my blessings every minute of every beautiful day with this dog. He’s my guy. The last of a very special family of dogs I’ve been so fortunate to love through the years. His great-grandmother and grandfather shared my home, and both are firmly cocooned in my heart.

To have a dog live 15-plus years is a gift, but sometimes it’s easy to just move through the day-to-day routine taking things for granted. Doing my “dog chores.” Getting everyone fed, out to potty, washing blankets, sweeping up hair, keeping up with vet appointments. All the normal stuff. But sometimes in that routine-focused existence you can miss some poignant moments.

The realization hit me when I read a story written by a mom lamenting about how she couldn’t remember the last time her school-aged son had given her a hug and a kiss goodbye at morning drop-off. Now the too-old-too-cool boy had stopped the routine, opting to just scoot quickly out of the car instead. She wished she had known when that last embarrassed hug happened so she could have really appreciated it.

That made me wonder. When were some of Howie’s last times for familiar routines? For example, during mealtime, when I’m passing out food for a healthy number of dogs, our own and our foster dogs, Howie always made it his habit to wait for me to close the dog food bin and then he’d hop on top of it to eat his meal. It was his idea and a good one. He is king dog of this castle, so a perch overlooking his subjects seemed fitting.

At some point, as aging joints and muscles started doubting the two-foot vertical hop, Howie would stand waiting for his meals right in front of the bin, eventually preferring a raised feeder for added comfort. What day did he make that last hop onto the bin? What day did he decide he no longer could?

As time marches forward there are more inevitable changes. I’ve learned that Howie doesn’t really want to go for walks or car rides these days. He’s a homebody now and a nap on a cushy dog bed paired with a casual amble around the familiar terrain of our backyard is all the adventure he craves. And that’s ok with me. I can adjust, though when was the last time he walked with me all the way to the road and back? Would it have been better to know so I could slow our pace and linger in the experience? Or is it best that I had no premonition in case worry robbed me of the ability to be in and enjoy the moment?

And when was the last time he jumped up into my partner Jim’s waiting arms? Jim has taught several of our dogs to leap up so he can catch them. Howie loved performing this trick and he was the master. He jumped high and executed a graceful turn midair, in complete faith that Jim would catch him. It was impressive.

Then came the times when Howie was invited to jump but hesitated, lacking the confidence to execute the move. I wish we had known when a specific leap was the last one. It surely would have been cause for a little extra celebratory hugging.

And when was the last time he gave me a high five? Actually, it was a fist bump. A much cooler move and he loved performing this trick as much as I did. Often, Howie would raise his paw high into the air for a bump before I even asked. Now, when I offer my closed hand and ask for a bump, he wags his tail and perks his ears, but does not return the gesture. That’s ok, buddy.

There are a lot of Howie-routines that are still very much in place. He is still ruler-in-chief of the dog population here, though some of the younger dogs must consider his lordly behavior just downright grumpy. He even reigns over our 118-pound wolfdog, Kainan, despite an incredible size and age difference. God love that giant hairy beast for continuing to grovel when Howie barks commands at him. If it is possible for an animal to understand he should honor his elders, Kainan is doing just that, and Howie is blissfully unaware that Kainan could easily kick his spotted butt if the mood struck him. But he never turns a hair toward Howie. All hale King Howie (thank you, Kainan…extra cookies, my friend)!

Howie also still religiously sleeps with me, my guardian in the night. Oh sure, the effortless ability to hop onto the tall bed that served him well for 13 years, give or take, has been replaced by a careful ascent on a little set of stairs, but we don’t focus on the journey in this case. It’s all about the destination and I sleep quite well with the reassuring warmth of his back pressed against my feet.

My boy has also always had the ability to predict when I will arrive home. Our driveway is quite long with the entrance out of sight of the backyard. But it has been Howie’s tradition to stand at the side gate, alert to my approach as I round the bend toward the front of the house. Then he hops through the dog door into the house to be first in line to greet me at the door.

There has not yet been a “last time” to this tradition. His instinct is still there, but I think sometimes his deep naps override his internal alarm clock. I’m not always met with his attentive gaze to welcome me home these days, but that makes the times he is there even more special.

As days continue to pass, I’m trying to pay attention to all my moments with Howie. Close attention. Howie has lessons to teach me, and I don’t want to miss a single one.

He is teaching me that it really is necessary to circle a minimum of about 15 times before you are ready to sink into the chosen spot on the bed.

He is teaching me that sharing is important, especially at my mealtime, and yes, he DOES like whatever I have even if it’s just a stalky piece of romaine.

Over the course of all these years I have been well trained to recognize that any milk left in the bowl after the cereal is consumed belongs to Howie. He assures me with his all-knowing stare that enjoying a small amount of dairy isn’t going to kill him. I reference that 15 years, six months, and two days achievement. Lactose be damned!

I’m learning patience during the dozens of times a day Howie’s slower, slightly unsteady gate tends to consistently land him directly in my path. I think this one is also helping me develop balance and uncanny agility as I manage a quick stop or sidestep in an unchoreographed dance to avoid causing us both to go crashing to the floor.

I’m learning not to worry about the small stuff that comes with loving an elderly dog. So what if he made a valiant effort to get to the yard to do his business, but didn’t quite make it out the door in time? I have paper towels. I have cleaner. I have a mop at the ready.  

He’s taught me that if his legs are twitching rhythmically during a deep slumber, it’s not my cue to wake him. Instead, I should envision the dream in which he is surely racing across our front pasture framed by the long, golden rays of sunset as he has on so many of our adventures during his younger days. And if I happen to be there to add a belly rub to his first waking stretch, all the better.

Most importantly, Howie is teaching me not to focus on the the last times. We can never predict when a child will decide he’s too grown-up to kiss his mom goodbye just as surely as we can’t predict the last time an aging dog is able to climb the stairs without assistance. And truthfully, maybe having last times slip by unnoticed is a blessing.

Life according to Howie means you accept change, you celebrate firsts, you cherish memories of the past, and you embrace all the wonderful times in between. Each moment, each phase of life is precious.

As the holidays approach, the greatest gift I can imagine is one more chance to sit with Howie in the glow of our Christmas tree, logs crackling in the fireplace, a Hallmark movie marathon playing on the screen. But no matter if he chooses to stay with me for another month or another year, I’ll be right by his side, learning, adjusting, appreciating, and loving the heck out of my special best boy. He is the most amazing friend I could hope for, and his memory and gifts to me will last well beyond any last times.

Memorial Day, My Way.

Happy Memorial Day! What?

Yeah, I know you’re glancing at the calendar because technically Memorial Day was yesterday. But I work at my dog care business on Saturdays and that means TODAY is my bonus day off work. I did, however, recognize the actual day of remembrance with the rest of the population.

Up gray and early (it was anything but bright here…I think we’re in monsoon or something), I loaded my pre-purchased bouquets of real flowers in the Jeep. I know most people place fake flowers on graves because they won’t wilt, but I just can’t bring myself to go down that road. My dad was a Master Gardener and I think he’d prefer the real deal. Plus, I can picture Mom and Grandma inhaling deeply over the tops of the flowers and exclaiming how colorful and fragrant they are. Only fresh flowers sitting in a bucket sloshing water on my floormat on the drive to town will do.

I arrived at Memorial Park cemetery and immediately took several dead-end turns because it seems I can never just drive directly to my family’s plots. To be fair to myself, whomever designed the layout of the cemetery had a dark sense of humor because the place has lots of loops, twists and turns. I’m sure it was done under the guise of aesthetics, but I still say the designer chuckles over it to this day.

And to be honest, I applaud his willingness to indulge in a little impish mirth when creating the maze that would be the final resting place of our loved ones. I’m the self-proclaimed queen of inappropriate humor. Call it immaturity, coping skills, nerves, or just a really twisted view of situations, but I am pretty much always the one guaranteed to blurt out something off-kilter during somber or tense occasions.

So, my solo forays to pay homage to my very dearly departed are probably wise because the comments and conversations I have with myself and my heavenly family are just that…between me and them. And I think we’re all definitely giggling a bit. Especially after I once again make three wrong turns to get to the very spot I’ve been visiting numerous times a year for well over a decade.

I do, however, take this holiday seriously. It’s a time to honor those who served our country and also a time to remember our loved ones. And yes, I have shed a tear or 12 on those grounds. I have felt melancholy. I have felt my heart break anew time and again when I visit my sister in the Lakeside Mausoleum. But also, I have carried on conversations. I have danced. And I have laughed. A lot. I may well be known as the crazy lady who visits Section 48 and if so, I claim it. I own it. Navigating a traditionally somber environment and finding moments of silliness that allow my heartstrings to lift like the fluffy seeds of a dandelion swirling on a breeze may be one of my greatest gifts to myself.

And I have experienced some pretty silly-bordering-on-hysterical moments at Memorial Park. Say, for example, the time the force of mindless habit caused me to click the lock inside my Jeep’s door just after I tossed the keys to said Jeep on the back seat with my grave decorating tools. I realized my mistake just as the door and I switched into a comical slow-motion race to see if disaster would be averted or cemented.

Guess who won? Go ahead. Guess.

So imagine the phone call I made to the locksmith. You know, on a holiday. When they get to charge three-zillion times the normal fee.

Locksmith: “Oh, hi Nancy!” What’s up? (It’s possible there was a time when I may or may not have been a bit prone to locking my keys in my car.)

Me: “Hi Mike. I need a little help…you know.” (insert embarrassed chuckle here)

Locksmith: “Sure, I can be there in an hour that will feel like six days. What’s the address?”

Me: “Well, it’s Section 48 in the southeast corner of the cemetery.”

Locksmith: “…”

Me: “Mike?”

Once we established I was not making a creepy prank call, Mike promised he was meandering my way. So yeah, I had some quality time to commune with graveside nature while I imagined all the folks in the great beyond chuckling as they watched over me. Did I mention that I had chugged a Diet Dr. Pepper prior to my slight key oversight?

Anyone else consider ducking behind a super large headstone to relieve themselves? No one? Yeah…me neither. Nope. Never entered my mind.

But my absolute best inappropriate laugh came in 2011, six years after my sister Cindy’s ashes were lovingly placed in the Lakeside Mausoleum. I arrived that Memorial Day to find that someone else’s remains had moved in the space to the left of Cindy. The plaque was clean and shiny so I knew our new neighbor had arrived fairly recently.

Her name was Joan E. Clair (first of all, E. Clair? Éclair? Made my sweet tooth sing!), and her life spanned from 1944 to 2011. In that time, according to the inscription, she had earned the titles of Mom, Mamaw, Sister and Anut.

Wait. Anut? Or as I read it, A NUT?

Joan! You crazy mamaw! Welcome to the neighborhood!

Immediately Cindy and I unlocked the door to the room in my brain where inappropriate humor is stored. There, we settled in to create a whole backstory about our new bestie, Joan.

Joan was the live wire of her family. In my mind she had a personality as big as the hair she teased into a trademark messy bun. She wore colorful clothes and didn’t really have time for a lot of make-up, but her broad smile and sparkling blue eyes were the only adornment her face ever needed.

In our story, Joan lived a good life. She was very loved. One does not earn all those titles without being well loved. And while I’m pretty sure we all realize that last term of endearment was intended to read “aunt,” I have a vivid movie playing in my head of her family gathering around on a beautiful sunny day, seeing the typo and bursting out in fits of laughter. You know, the kind that bubbles up uncontrolled and sends streams of good tears to chase the sad ones straight off your cheeks.

Then I imagined them all deciding that one typesetter’s mistake actually made the plaque 100% perfect. “Oh yeah, we’re leaving it just as it is,” they would have said between gasps as they tried to regain composure. “It’s perfect and Mom/Mamaw/Sister/Aunt Joan would certainly agree—she was a nut!”

I’ve never seen anyone visit Joan’s space and that’s perfectly fine. You certainly don’t have to lay flowers on a grave to honor your departed. For me though, visiting and decorating the graves is a ritual I love. It’s a peaceful time when I can chat away, with zero restraint, with the family members that now reside in my heart.

I know my dad approves of the fresh flower choice, though he would caution me not to spend too much money. He’d also nod approval as I make sure the grass is trimmed neatly around the headstone, and that no weeds are growing over the nameplates. I think Mom, who blessed me with a good dose of her emotional sap DNA, gets a tad teary-eyed that I’m there making sure she has pretty flowers to enjoy. She wouldn’t want me to feel obligated, but she appreciates my efforts and I swear I feel her hug away any sadness I might feel.

I think Grandma might be a tad ticked off if I didn’t show up. I say that with a laugh, please don’t misinterpret it. Grandma was a classic, huggable, sweet, pie-baking, baby snuggling grandmother. But she was also old-school, and she liked tradition. If I didn’t show up, she would surely survey the cemetery and note how nice it was that the other families brought flowers. Grandpa…well…he might grunt that he has no use for cut flowers, but then his eyebrows would raise a bit and he’d get that soft, sweet hint of a smile on his face that was his love language to his grandkids and greats.

As for Cindy, well, it’s our talk time. I tell her about the family, I catch her up on her grandkids, though I think she’s constantly keeping track of all of us on her own. But she’d be patient with me and let me chatter away. She’s a great big sister that way.

I have also formally adopted care of Joan’s space as the story in my mind tells me that her family does not live locally, or perhaps they remember Joan with a different family tradition. Whatever the reason, Joan’s vase has remained empty, but I suspect her heart has always been full. When I select flowers for Cindy’s little vase, I get matching flowers for sweet, nutty Joan. And I talk with Joan too. Afterall, we’re practically family.

I realize now that the tradition of placing flowers at the cemetery is as much for me as it is for my family and my new Aunt Joan. And as always, before I leave, I kiss my fingertips and press them on each plaque, telling my angels that I love them, though I know they are not there. Then I press my hand to my chest to feel my own heart expanding and I say, “This is where you live, now and forever.”

I don’t remember them with sorrow, I smile and remember them for everything they brought to life. I dance with them. I sing with them (though it’s not our gift!). I flash a big grin and wave when other visitors catch me seemingly talking to myself and laughing to the clouds. And, as I head back toward home, I always feel a bloom of gratitude that I’m part of an amazing family that can appreciate a good laugh, even in the middle of a cemetery.

Happy Memorial Day Tuesday, everyone.

Joy Running

Lessons on Coping as Taught by my Foster Dog

Some people knit to relax. Others enjoy a glass of wine. More ambitious types go for a run or maybe lift weights. Me? I scoop poop.

Perhaps not the most glamorous of destressing techniques, but when you have a houseful of dogs sharing a backyard, it’s a necessary and oddly satisfying task. I do some of my best thinking when I’m out there scooping up the dogs’ left-behinds. And honestly, 2020 has given me plenty of incentive to get out there and “destress.”

But even still, on some days my brain just refuses to calm. My thoughts bounce around like that little white ball in an Olympic ping pong match. There are things like the always-present threat of the pandemic; concern for the survival of small businesses in its life-altering wake; hornets that apparently want to murder us; and depression associated with not being able to do simple life things like go to a movie or get together with family and friends. The list of what-ifs, can’t-dos, and oh-nos is long and overwhelming this year.

On particularly bouncy brain days, even the simple, methodical task of collecting my dogs’ poop can’t ground me. But then Ladybug steps in.

You don’t necessarily hear her coming, it’s more of a force—something you feel before you even realize what is happening. I have named the event “joy running” and it’s a beautiful sight each and every time it happens.

Ladybug, a lithe, black and white spotted Dalmatian, erupts from the house giving the dog door a healthy smack as she blasts through. Then she proceeds to do laps around the yard in what can only be described as running for the sheer thrill of being able to. She’s not chasing anything; she’s not playing tag with another dog. She is quite literally racing about the yard in silly, exaggerated, pointless loops, her mouth open in a wide, tongue-lolling grin, her eyes shining with enthusiasm.

You can step outside to watch the show, it does not deter her.  Other dogs can join in—or not. It might be a beautiful, sunny day, or dreary and overcast. It just doesn’t matter. This is Ladybug’s moment. Nothing gets in her way; nothing dampens her spirit. If the mood to go on a joy run hits, Ladybug is out of the starting gate like the most eager of racehorses.

Now, the idea of a happy pet dog getting a case of the zoomies may not seem like much of a story and certainly not a life lesson. But Ladybug is not an ordinary pet dog. She has traveled a long path to find her joy.

Ladybug came to our home about 18 months ago after being used as a breeding dog in what we now know was one of the worst puppy mills in the country. Her life likely consisted of being housed 24/7 in a small pen with minimal care and certainly no creature comforts or positive human attention. Her job was to have puppies. Litter after litter after litter.

Add to this story the fact that Ladybug is completely deaf—an affliction with a high incidence in the Dalmatian breed and not a genetic trait that should be bred, but to a commercial breeder it was of little consequence. Maybe that was Ladybug’s one escape in her small, hopeless existence. She couldn’t hear the constant, plaintive barking of the hundreds of other dogs and puppies that shared her plight.

Ladybug was sold just prior to her seventh birthday—the cutoff age for selling productive breeding stock at a professional kennel auction in Missouri. Little did the confused, cowering dog know that it was the luckiest day of her life. Instead of leaving the chaos of the auction house kennel to head off to yet another breeding facility, she was being pulled by the Dalmatian Assistance League of Tulsa. In a nutshell, that meant she was heading home with me to a quite different, immeasurably better life.

The world seemed a scary place at first.

Of course, Ladybug had no clue this was change for the better—she only knew she was being taken from the only life she had ever known. She pulled and bucked against her leash as we made our way out of the building. She cringed in the back of my Jeep. She urinated and defecated three times in her crate within the first two miles of our 152-mile trek home. We were off to a somewhat rocky and certainly stinky start.

Integrating Ladybug into our house was an adventure. Everything seemed to startle her. The motion of the ceiling fan made her hit the ground in terror as if the roof might be caving in. A hand innocently raised around her by me or my partner, Jim, caused her to skitter away casting worried backward glances. A broom sweeping the floor was cause for her to hide in her crate. Every normal household interaction seemed to be met by startle and concern.    

Afraid to leave the porch to enjoy the yard.

The backyard was overwhelming. She would barely step off the porch before she retreated into the safety of the house. After more than six years of living as a kennel dog it seemed that everything outside of her extremely limited life experience was just too much for her to handle.

Then, seemingly overnight, it happened. One Saturday morning I glanced out the window into the backyard just in time to see Ladybug running laps. She was outside alone. There was nothing chasing her; she wasn’t chasing anything. She had simply finally discovered the joy of unfettered running. She made a choice to embrace her new life.

And so, this has become Ladybug’s ritual without fail. Every day, sometimes several times a day, you’ll hear the quick slap of the dog door and you’ll find Ladybug out having a joy run. Sometimes other dogs join in. Often one of our determined cattle dogs tries to intervene by herding the galivanting spotted blur. Nothing matters, nothing dampens her celebratory laps. And since the day Ladybug decided to take her first solo romp around the yard, she truly is a changed dog.

She is now one of the cuddliest dogs in the house. She no longer startles at normal household objects or movements. She has a silly, playful nature we never dreamed possible in our early months of trying to help her adapt. She seeks our attention and is a constant, loving companion.

Oh, what a beautiful lesson this dog came into my world to teach me. On the days when my brain is all ping-pongy and I’m feeling overwhelmed by things like facemasks and securing my six square feet of personal space, all the while keeping an eye to the horizon lest a swarm of locusts start to turn day to night, I have Ladybug right there to remind me there is good to be found in every day and it’s up to me to make the choice to find it.

So sometimes you really do need to drop everything and go for that bike ride. Or stretch your body into a namaste pretzel. Or enjoy that glass of wine while you stop to really see the beautiful sunset. Or call a good friend just to share a laugh.

Or maybe you just need to follow a certain spotted dog’s lead—like I now do—and go skip silly, nonsensical loops around your back yard for the simple reason that you can. And in those intentionally carefree moments, the day really doesn’t seem quite so hard; the world doesn’t seem so looming and confusing.

It’s easy to let change drag you down. It’s especially easy to feel stressed-out and depressed when so much of day-to-day life feels completely out of control. But according to one incredibly wise Dalmatian, you can always choose to shake it all off for a few minutes each day and find your joy.

The Gift of Birthdays

Photo by Kara Hathaway

He woke  up today like he does pretty much every morning, curled at the foot of the bed, his back pressed against my legs. Howie is not the cuddly type, but he always lets me know he’s right there. It’s comforting to stir in the night and feel his warm presence.

To Howie, our beloved senior Dalmatian, today probably seemed like every other day. Get up, stretch, rub your face vigorously into the bedspread (it’s a Howie thing). Then it’s out the door to leave a streaming calling card on a favorite fence post and back inside to watch the she-human for any sign that she might be heading toward the dog bowls to prepare breakfast.

Little does Howie know, however, today is anything but a normal day. Today is Howie’s 14th birthday. It is a milestone day. Maybe he senses it in the extra dose of attention he’s receiving from me and Jim. I give him a big kiss and a hug that results in an “oh-mom” expression on his face, his ears sticking out to the sides like those of a baby goat.

Maybe he recognizes his own name highlighted in the lyrics of the happy birthday song…especially after I’ve serenaded him about 10 times. Maybe the little bites of chicken topping his morning meal make him realize today is no ordinary day. Maybe he somehow knows that the good smell coming from the oven is a cake for him to share with his canine family.

Maybe.

Or maybe the fuss and celebration is actually more for me. During a time when the world seems to have stopped spinning and seeing those I love means having to step away instead of stepping in to give a big hug, celebrating something as beautifully normal as my special dog’s birthday is a gift. A gift to myself.

I love this dog. He is my guy. He has been firmly attached to my heart since the day I lifted his little eight-week-old body from a crate and held him close. He is smart, he is lord of this doggy castle. He is stoic and strong. He is loyal and devoted. And when he lets his boss-dog facade slip just a bit, his head nodding low, his ears pushed comically sideways, his eyes darting up to meet yours, he will surely melt you into a puddle.

And so today, on April 5th, as I have for 13 years before, I am celebrating Howie’s birthday. I am following a well-established routine and reveling in the sweet normalcy of it all. No hidden demon can disrupt this simple, day-long ceremony. I’m ecstatic about normal. It is a blessed escape from the world outside the gate of our little farm.

Today I am also celebrating the birthday of my darling great-nephew, Caleb. He is funny, cute, clever, and when he smiles his whole face just glows. He deserves a great celebration and yet his birthday party will be anything but normal. We won’t be gathering close around him to sing and shower him with gifts. We won’t be there to see him blow out seven candles with one to grow on.

This is the reality of our lives right now. But while the threat of a virus and our new practice of “social distancing” may have put our idea of normal on hold for a bit, in its place I have seen more creativity, determination, and pure human spirit than I have ever seen before.

So today, Jim, Howie and I got to be in a birthday parade. A line of cars, each filled with family and friends and festooned with streamers, balloons and signs, created a mobile surprise party parade, honking and calling out greetings to the obvious delight of the birthday boy.  On the second pass by their home, each car in the parade stopped to express personal wishes and to drop cards and gifts in a bin placed by the curb. Caleb and his family waved from their porch, laughing and calling out their I-love-yous.

In Caleb’s own words, his birthday parade was “epic.” No, it was not normal. It was not a party with a bouncy castle, games, party favors and a dozen friends. But it was filled with pure joy and fun. It was creative. It was uplifting. And the love surrounding that little boy couldn’t have been stronger.

So today was a day of celebrations. One beautifully normal, one beautifully creative. And in the end, I’m pretty sure I’m the one who received the best gifts. I have the gift of quietly celebrating Howie, my special spotted boy, who is living a long, healthy life. I have the gift of celebrating Caleb whose huge grin and waving hands served to lift a chunk of the weight from my shoulders that has been trying its best to drag me down.

Today was a day to be reminded of gratitude. A day to feel connected and grounded in a time of such extreme uncertainty. A day to recognize that normal and out-of-the-ordinary can be equally beautiful.

Happy, happy birthday to Howie and Caleb. Thank you both for the gift of your celebrations. Thank for reminding me that the human (and canine!) spirit is strong, alive, and well.

 

One Treat at a Time

The first thing I always notice is that they have no idea how to take a treat from my hand. I always offer one as soon as we are safely loaded in the car. The dogs are either too nervous to even sniff the morsel, or they lick it with interest but have no idea they can actually have it.

I guess dogs raised in puppy mills aren’t ever handed treats. But when our rescue is able to get these dogs out of the hands of commercial breeders and turn them toward a life as a companion dog, it’s my very favorite first thing to teach. I have a delicious bite of food in my hand and I want you to have it.

At first they sniff, lick, and fumble around my hand. Then, eventually, I manage to pop the treat into a surprised mouth. Crunch, crunch…and the look of confusion on the dog’s face turns quickly to one of delight and hope. “May I have another?” Yes. Yes you may. And there are plenty more where that one came from.

I know a lot of people hear about puppy mill dogs, but being hands-on to actually work with them and rehabilitate them is an interesting journey.  Getting a new dog out of a puppy mill is actually a bit like getting a mystery box where there’s a prize inside, you just don’t know what it might be or how hard it will be to get it unwrapped.

Margo came to us completely terrified of humans and shut down. Ladybug was clingy, skittish and initially latched onto me as her lifeline. Andy and Ollie were goofy, clueless teenagers.  Jack and Sally, two of our recent additions were opposites. Sally was on the wild side while Jack was sweetly reserved.

And now, on an early, chilly Sunday morning in Missouri, it was time to meet Jo and Meg, our little women. They greeted me quite enthusiastically from their holding pen inside the auction house kennel until the moment I slipped leashes on them. And then they froze and flopped to the ground. The concept of walking on a leash was obviously new territory and met with oh-heck-no attitudes from both puppy girls.

Now, I say puppy because they are only seven months old. But at seven months, they both weigh more than 50 pounds so the oh-heck-no response to the leash made life a tad interesting. You see, I had two very valid reasons why I wasn’t excited about the prospect of physically lugging them out of the building and across the parking lot to my Jeep. First, my sure-to-be-aching back. I couldn’t imagine that trying to carry a flailing 50-something pound dog was a promising recipe for great lower back health.

Second, the girls were less than clean. In fact, they stank to high heaven and the dirt I saw on them was not mud, if you catch my odoriferous drift. This was not the time to introduce them to the concept of cuddling.

With a little help from another kind/brave person and a LOT of coaxing and baby talk, we haltingly made our way out to parking lot with just one quick close encounter to lift the dogs into the car. Because yeah, “hop on in” was not in their skill set.

But I do love that moment when I climb into the driver’s seat and turn to face my new foster dogs. It’s always filled with butterflies of anticipation and a dash of what-have-I-gotten-us-into-this-time. I snap a quick photo to send to Jim, my partner in life and rescue, then I talk to the dogs to calm them. And I always offer treats.

It was the same routine with Jo and Meg. I said hello to my slightly bewildered duo and offered each of them a cookie. They stared at the offered goodies with cartoon-like curiosity, they sniffed, they stretched their necks out tentatively to try confused licks. After a moment or two I tossed the cookies on the floor and they were gobbled right up with delighted enthusiasm.

So I immediately held out two more cookies. Sniff, sniff, lick, fumble, lick. I waited for just the right moment and popped treats straight into their mouths.  I love that “ah-ha” moment. That moment when they realize I’m handing the treats to them…for them to have. And after a few more tries, these excellent students were plucking treats from my fingers like champs.

And so the first lesson that would begin to transform these dogs from kennel breeding dogs to beloved companion dogs was complete. Oh sure, there are about a million lessons still ahead, along with a million lessons in patience for me and Jim, but successfully taking the treat from my hand goes in the win column. In that exact moment, it’s all I needed.

Well, that and maybe the please-don’t-poop-in-my-car lesson. THAT would be a great one to nail down too. And so I turned the Jeep toward the highway with precious, smelly cargo and fingers firmly crossed.

Welcome Jo and Meg. Welcome to the road that will eventually lead to a place called home.

I Wouldn’t Trade My Life. Or Would I?

This morning, the alarm on my phone went off at 5:20 a.m. My entire body finds that time of day VERY alarming. In a numb haze of sleepy denial, I reach for the phone to hit snooze. Five more minutes. Five more blissful minutes.

In what SURELY was only 30 seconds, the annoyingly diligent alarm sounds again. I reach toward it aiming for that lovely snooze feature “just one more time.” My attempt is efficiently thwarted by a rather large, insistent paw planted firmly in the middle of my chest. Fifty-plus pounds of reality shifts her full weight onto said planted paw and proceeds to lick my face into consciousness which in turn awakens my often impatient bladder. God forbid those 50-plus pounds shift the pressure from chest to lower abdominal region.

I’m up. I’m UP!

Twenty-someodd tails wagging in approval, I stumble to the bathroom knowing I have a moment of solitude before the avalanche that is also known as my normal day starts rolling around me.

My own “pressing need” attended to, I start the routine I can thankfully move efficiently through in an I’m-not-a-morning-person-by-choice zombie state. Dogs rotate out to potty. The foster puppy pen gets cleaned while delighted puppies wiggle exactly in my way at every turn. Water buckets get filled. Ears get scratched. My feet get trampled a hundred times. Somewhere in there I mumble a good-morning to Jim and stop to give him what he may perceive as a hug, but I actually know I have collapsed against him for momentary support. He’s strong in the morning.

Dogs are pottied and as several of them annoyingly return to MY bed for a little extra slumber, I climb the stairs for a life-giving shower and five more minutes of warm, steamy solitude. Well…sort of. There will be noses poking through the shower curtain in ongoing wonder at my willingness to get drenched and shampooed without being forced. There will also be two dogs reliably curled on the bath mats outside the shower, forcing me to step barefooted on the cold tile floor instead of on fluffy warmth. Brooke and Stormy are always there waiting for me. You may think it a sweet gesture on their part. I’m fairly sure they’re just on assignment to make sure I do not escape the house without feeding everyone breakfast.

For the record, I never fail to feed them breakfast or dinner, but they are ever-skeptical.

Shower complete, I come back down the stairs a tad more sturdy on my own feet. I rotate dogs out for another romp in the yard while I make my breakfast smoothie and head back to do damage-control on my face and hair. I may not FEEL awake and raring to go, but I need to look the part. Maybe it’s ambition, maybe it’s Maybelline.

My morning routine does not take long because I eventually look in the mirror and say, “Oh, screw it. That’s good enough.” I then get dressed in my finest professional attire (thank GOD that’s jeans, a t-shirt, a hoodie, and running shoes). It’s a huge plus to glance in the mirror and see no pre-existing slobber smears glistening on my clothes in the flickering light of the bathroom (flickering because I need to change some bulbs and keep telling myself to do that when I have a minute…and I religiously forget until the next morning’s routine).

Dressed and presentable, I turn to face the herd of expectant faces at the baby gate that steadfastly guards our shoes and clothing from the creativity of canine family.

Time for breakfast. Stand back, don’t try this on your own, I’m a trained professional. I can feed 20-someodd dogs in 10 minutes or less.

I stack the bowls in the unique order that makes perfect sense to me, but to no one else on earth. I sling the right food in the right amounts into each bowl. I add warm water because, gravy. The salivating dogs move in eager, choreographed groups as each bowl is placed in each specific dog’s eating spot in exactly the same order as the day before. They know when and where they eat, they know “bowl-diving” is not allowed. It all goes smoothly in a fashion I lovingly call controlled chaos.

As the satisfying sound of 20-someodd dogs slurping up water-logged kibble surrounds me, I make another pass to fill water buckets. I re-clean the puppy pen (this happens a lot). And then everyone else goes outside to potty once again.

I say my goodbyes to Jim. I deliver pats and “be goods” to all the dogs, stooping to give my boy Howie a kiss on his forehead. I grab my stuff and head out making sure no furry bodies slip out the door with me.

The household as conquered as it possibly can be for now, I bolt out to feed the chickens and open their run for a little daytime free-ranging. Mental note, must clean the coop later today. Must.  Then I jump in my Jeep.

Guess what? NOW I get to start my day.

But the next 30 to 40 minutes are Nancy-time. Relative peace and quiet with a few hundred other commuters heading my direction. Ahhhhh…drive-time.

I listen to an audio book. Right now I’m addicted to the Andy Carpenter series of murder mysteries by David Rosenthal. Great stories salted with a healthy dose of humor AND there are always dogs written in because, in addition to being a prolific author, Rosenthal, runs a dog rescue out of his home (Hey, me too!). Where he lives with 20-someodd dogs (Hey, me too!). My brother from another mother.

Morning traffic can’t even fluster me when I’m in the oasis known as Duke, my Jeep Wrangler, listening to a good book. It’s 100% rejuvenating.

I arrive at work, the business I have co-owned with a friend for just over 13 years now (and hey, still friends!). Our business is Pooches, a dog daycare and boarding facility. So yeah, I just left a herd of dogs only to be greeted by a few dozen more. There’s a pattern here and it includes lots of pee, poop, and cleaning. I’m good at that and good with that.

None of this is written in complaint. I love my life. I love my dogs, both the on-purpose ones and the fosters, and I love the dogs that come see me at Pooches. I love helping dogs that are not as fortunate as my own. I love Jim and I love/am grateful that Jim shares my passion for dogs and animal welfare. That’s a lot of love right there.

I really wouldn’t trade my life.  I am where I am supposed to be right now, doing what I was meant to do. But you know, if some kind publisher out there somewhere reads this and thinks, “Hey, I think I’m going to give that little blogger a break.” I’d be really good with that too. Especially if that break actually comes with an income.

The thought that I might get paid to work from home by putting words into a document that become a real book (and I’m talking the hard-backed, hold it in your hands variety)…whew…that’s win-the-lottery stuff in my mind. I’d be so down for that. Someday. I really would. Just putting it out there. Surely someone linked to publishing reads obscure blogs from time to time? I would truly love to have one more “hey, me too” to share with David Rosenthal.

And I think I will. Because after all, dreams are just my future reality waiting for me to come up with a plan.

But for now, there is my little blog. And there is my amazing business. And there are dogs looking at me expectantly because it’s walk time. And there is poop to clean up. And dog bowls to wash. And…and…and. And then there’s always drive-time when I can do a little more dreaming/planning before I return home to Jim and our furry family to do the whole process again. And that will be followed by the great play and snuggle time that only 20-someodd dogs can deliver.

Ahhhhhhhh.

 

 

 

 

It’s Possible I’m Just Plain Crazy.

As I kid I was known as “horse crazy.” My parents swear that my first word was not mama or dada, it was horse.

Then, as I grew physically, my crazy factor also grew to encompass all animals. There really wasn’t a critter that couldn’t tug at my heartstrings and make me want to give it a hug and a happy home. This infatuation earned me the broader title of “animal crazy.”

I have to say I worked diligently to deserve that title. Once, when I was about eight, I sat for hours on end babysitting a mole who had been washed out of his burrow in heavy rains. I would not abandon my vigil despite repeated assurances from my parents that the pesky…um…adorable animal was fine, and that he would soon move along to build a new home. I remained there until darkness and parental insistence required me to head reluctantly inside for the evening.

The next morning I rushed out to check on my patient and found that he had indeed made a miraculous recovery overnight because he was nowhere to be found. And trust me, I looked.

In decades-later hindsight, I believe Mr. Mole may have actually been quite dead (What? You knew that right away?). Yes, I may have sat for HOURS watching over a deceased mole. I can just imagine my parents not having the nerve to break the news to me for it most assuredly would have resulted in tears and the need for a burial. With flowers.

Much as Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy were able to slip in and out of the house undetected, the Mole Fairy was able to come whisk the body away without young eyes bearing witness. Bravo, Mom and Dad.

As I have matured (though the eight-year-old caring for a dead mole is still alive and well in my soul), my tendency toward crazy has not slacked off even one tiny bit. In fact, now that I’m adult-ish and free of parental “my-house-my-rules” constraints, my craziness has flourished with a farm full of animals and a house quite literally full of dogs. And so I wear my Crazy Dog Lady, Crazy Pig Lady, Crazy Donkey Lady, Crazy Horse Lady, and Crazy Chicken Lady sashes simultaneously and with great pride.

But…It actually doesn’t stop there.

You see, I might (do) believe that maybe (absolutely) plants and various inanimate objects have feelings. There’s actually a name for this “disorder” that pops up in Google: Animistic Thinking. It’s defined as a mode of thought in which inanimate objects are imagined to have life and mental processes. Take the words “are imagined to” out of that sentence and BINGO. You’ve nailed it.

Let’s be honest here…I still have my teddy bear from childhood and though he is stored away on a closet shelf, I still see to it that he is always comfortable and has other stuffed animals to keep him company.

I have a hard time breaking it to my faithful old cars when I am trading them in for a newer model. I also pretty much refuse to have houseplants because I did not inherit my father’s green thumb and I’m terrified I will cause them pain and suffering.

Yup. This is my brand of crazy.

So this brings us forward to a point about a month ago when, on my drive home to the farm, I passed by what had once been a wooded parcel of land to see that it had been completely bulldozed…you know, in the name of progress. Hundreds of trees were shoved around in cluttered piles like a giant game of Pick-Up Sticks (Yes, kids used to be entertained by repeatedly picking sticks out of a pile only to re-jumble them and start over. No batteries or power cord required.).

It was heartbreaking to see these once sturdy trees, still sporting their vibrant spring leaves, uprooted, discarded, and left to die. I had to speed by as quickly as possible as I was certain I could hear them screaming. Or maybe I was the one screaming. Hard to say.

I passed by the trees daily as I drove back and forth to work. After a few days with trunks splintered and roots exposed, the leaves on the trees withered and died. It soon became a field filled with endless bonfire potential…with the exception of one determined tree.

There, in the middle of all of that soon-to-be firewood, one tree, despite its very horizontal predicament, was still in full bloom. This one tree was desperately hanging on to life. A soft green oasis in a branch-filled sea of despair.

And that darn tree was haunting me.

Every time I drove within a mile of the tree I came to know as Twiggy, I could hear her calling to me. “Nancy…save me! Naaaaaancy! Can you see me? Help me!”

And so, as any logical person trying to save a tree on the side of the highway would do, I posted a question on Facebook.

“How do I save a tree that has been bulldozed and have it transplanted to my front yard?”

Here’s the cool part, I apparently have a lot of similarly crazy friends! Because I got answers. I got offers for help. I found that other people were almost as disturbed by this tree’s bleak destiny as I was.

So this past Sunday, bolstered by the support of my kindred, tree-hugging friends, I decided to pull off the highway to visit my tree, offer it some reassuring words, and see if there truly was any way to save it.

Yes, I really did.

As I picked my way through the mud and “fallen soldiers,” I realized my tree was no little sapling. In fact, my tree fell into the category of “darn big.” (That is a technical forestry term. Trust me.) And then I saw the nail in Twiggy’s coffin–a shattered, splintered trunk.

Even if somehow I had raised the funds to hire a fancy tree relocation service, Twiggy was only hanging on by a toothpick. I walked over to pat the doomed tree and offer a few words of comfort. It was then, as I was standing there by the busy highway, talking to the dying tree (What?), that I saw them. Scattered in the mud around the base of the tree’s trunk were teensy seedlings. A quick comparison of leaves told me that these lime-colored minions were actually Twiggy’s offspring.

Hooray! I might not be able to spare the mighty tree from certain death, but I could certainly rescue a couple of her tiny babies.

Carefully I dug around the base of two of the treeletes, extracting their roots and a good little chunk of soil to protect them. Then I speed-limit-raced to get them home because “…but officer, I have to rush home, I have babies in the car that need to get into potting soil right away or they will surely die…” not only wouldn’t get me out of a speeding ticket, but just might land me in a padded cell.

I am proud to report that I did get the baby trees safely home. They are now carefully potted and residing on my front porch where I tend to them multiple times a day and move them in and out of the shade to allow them just the right amount of sunlight. Whatever that amount is. I’m totally winging it here.

So now I have a new title. I’m the Crazy Tree Lady. And don’t think for a second that my don’t-have-Dad’s-green-thumb phobia hasn’t surfaced to poke at me as I care for my two leafy charges. This is a weighty responsibility, but I’m going to do my best.

Dammit, these little trees WILL live. They WILL grow tall and strong. One fine day they WILL  have sturdy branches like their mommy did. And, someday, my dogs WILL pee on their trunks.

It’s the least I can do in memory of dear Twiggy.

(Yeah. I know. Crazy.)

Oh, For Freckles’ Sake.

Ok, let’s air this out right now. This post may seem a little defensive to you. I don’t intend it that way. I really don’t, but you may feel I protest too much. Frankly, I don’t care. This post has been brewing for a lifetime. So here we go.

I have freckles. Tons of them. I always have.

As a youngster, I was that little freckle-faced kid that adults proclaimed “so cute” and other kids might have teased. And when I say the freckles were everywhere, I mean everywhere.

They covered my face, my torso, my arms, and legs. I had freckles on my lips. I even found freckles between my toes.

I never really gave much thought to them. They were just part of me. They showed up when I was just a kid of five or six and they’ve been part of “my look” ever since. I have never spent time hating them because really, what’s the point in that? I have also never tried to get rid of them, even though I have had creams and voodoo “cures” shoved my way. And for the record, if you are a truly freckled person, they can fade, but they never truly go away.

In fact, while growing up bespeckled, my sweet mommy told me that freckles were angel kisses. This is the same mom who told me that thunder was just the angels bowling. So here I am today, comfy in my spots, in love with thunderstorms, and extremely fond of angels. Score one for good parenting.

As I have “matured,” however, some people have tried to suggest that my beloved freckles are not just my skin type, but rather caused by sun damage and age. You know, the dreaded age spots.

What?

Um, well, if they are caused by sun damage, then my sainted mother, whom I just so thoroughly praised just 1.1 paragraphs above, was apparently terribly negligent. I was at my most gloriously freckled as a pony-tailed elementary school kid. Did my mom set me outside to bake as some bizarre form of punishment for failing to eat my vegetables? (And for the record, I HATED vegetables as a kid, but fortunately, Skippy, the family dog, loved them and sat discreetly under the table with her head by my knee…)

Admittedly, we did not do much in the way of sunblock in those days. A smear of gooey, white zinc-oxide on the old nose and maybe some Coppertone tanning lotion on the bod–you were good to go. And sure, my freckles intensified in the summer sun and faded with winter pallor. But damage? Premature liver spots at such a tender age?

Nope. It’s blaspheme. And I have proof.

In an article in Women’s Health Magazine (7-2016) written by my new best-friend-who-doesn’t-know-me, Jessica Chia, the myth about freckles is smashed. Freckled friends, take heart! Here is the REAL story about those precious brown dots:

If you have ephelides, as they’re known medically, you’ve got Mom and Dad to thank. Freckling is a recessive trait, so both parents have to be carriers and pass the tendency on for it to show up, says Amit Sharma, M.D., a dermatologist at the Mayo Clinic, who researches dermatologic genetics. The so-called gene for freckling is actually a benign mutation of the MC1R gene, which regulates pigment.

Take that freckle-haters…age-spotist proponents! Or is it that you are just a tad jealous of my leopard-esque complexion? Because, you know, according to Ms. Chia’s article, freckles are in. (If you’re freckled and you’d like to read the whole article, it’s right here.)

Yup, freckled faces are being hidden no more. They’re on prominent display in high fashion venues, make-up artists no longer get asked to make them disappear. It’s somewhat of a freckled revolution and I’m proud to be a part of it.

I have freckles that are longtime friends. There’s right thigh freckle that was used to measure the length of my mini-skirts in the 70s. No skirt could be shorter than that one perfectly positioned mid-thigh freckle. Still there today, though my skirt hem modestly hides it these days.

Then there was lip freckle that family and friends were constantly trying to wipe away as if it were a stubborn little spot of chocolate. I squirmed in protest as many an adult licked a finger (ew!) and tried to scrub lip freckle into oblivion.

Cut. It. Out.

Of course now my freckles on my face have faded. I am diligent about using sunblock and though freckles are NOT sun damage, they do require sunlight to emerge. Think of it as tanning in tiny baby steps…though they never really do connect to give you that fantastic golden tan your friends achieve each summer.

But my arms and legs? Still a challenging game of connect the dots (and yeah, as a freckled kid, you are subjected to that particular torture by your older siblings at some point). And if you look really closely you’ll still see the spots that decorate every bit of my face.

Here’s a fun freckle fact: You won’t see a freckled baby…freckles emerge later much like a Dalmatian puppy is born all white and the black or liver-colored spots emerge over the course of the first few weeks of life. Well come on, you KNEW I had to work dogs into this post somehow, right? And I do have an Appaloosa horse…so there’s a definite theme going on in my world.

So here’s the sum-it-up-and-tie-it-in-a-speckled-bow truth: I turned into an adorable freckle-face when I was about five, I’ll still have my freckles when I’m 85, and I love me just the way I am. Talk about the perfect way to keep a youthful appearance. You’re cute when you’re five, you’re cute again when you’re 85. Works for me!

So let’s cast the freckles-are-sun-damage stigma aside and celebrate my little spotted self and all of my ephelide-covered brothers and sisters. You freckle-challenged people out there just might have to turn to teeny little tattoos spattered all across your cheeks and the bridge of your nose if you want to keep up with the fashion trend. But please don’t hate those of us who are naturally freckled or try to make us feel bad about them.

The angels are watching…

How We Do It.

“I don’t know how you do it,” a friend exclaimed as she watched me send one of my adorable little foster puppies off to a new home. “This is exactly why I don’t foster dogs. I could never let any of them leave. Seriously, how do you do it?”

I get this comment a lot. And I mean A LOT. Jim and I have fostered many, many dogs. We have placed many, many dogs. And we have loved each and every one of them.

It’s what we do. But how do we do it?

Well, interestingly enough, the very person who posed this question to me was a mom about to send her child off to college for his freshman year. She raised this child. She loved him dearly. She gave him everything she had to give. And now she was about to let him go.

This week Facebook has been filled with similar stories. Parents dropping kids off for that first day of kindergarten. Nervous parents seeing their youngsters smile and wave as they hop on a bus for their first solo ride to school. Moms forcing eye-rolling kids to pose in front of the very same tree they’ve posed in front of at the start of every school year for…can it be eight years now? Nine? Ten?

I’ve heard tale after tale of parents nervously adding as many home touches to a cookie-cutter dormitory room as their eager-to-spread-their-wings college students will tolerate before saying goodbyes.  Then, of course, while driving away with suppressed tears springing free, they think of a hundred more things they should have said.

So how do I do it?

I think it boils down to this, you love, you nurture, you teach, you shelter. And then, there comes a day when love means knowing it’s time to let go. It’s time to trust that you did your job and that there is a perfect home out there for that puppy…that there is an amazing life ahead for that child.

Do I dare compare a human child to a foster dog? Well…I do because it’s what I’ve got. And really, loving and letting go tugs at your heart, regardless of how many legs your kid has.

But I do have to give the nod to you parents to actual human children. Seriously, you take your child, whether born from your body or born in your heart, and you set him or her free to explore this thing called life. Maybe it’s just for the school day, or maybe it’s for an entire semester or longer. That takes some serious faith and amazing strength.

So how do I do it? How do Jim and I take dog after dog into our home, treat them and care for them as if they are our own, and then let them go to another home,  to a new life?

I think I can answer that question best with a question of my own.

How do YOU do it?

Because really, you moms and dads out there, bravo. Well done. I think you really know the answer to your own question far better than I do.

Where Sunflowers Grow

The patch of broken, brown earth stood out in sharp contrast to the surrounding blanket of green dotted with splashes of colorful wildflowers. This was the first time I had ventured out to visit this spot in the pasture since the day it happened more than two months ago.

I looked at the packets in my hand, eight in all. There were two each of four varieties of sunflower: Mammoth, Moonshine, Autumn Beauty, and American Giant. The promise of the massive flowers seemed a fitting tribute to my big boy. Soon, I hoped to see a small forest of sunflowers covering the bare spot in the earth that marked the place where Paul, my big draft horse, was buried.

It was a gorgeous spring day. The perfect day for a walk in the pasture. Life was erupting all around me. The trees were covered with tender, brilliant green leaves unfurling to greet the changing season. The birds darted about, busily tending their nests. Insects flitted lazily about from blossom to blossom, finding nourishment as the warmth of the morning sun fueled their meandering mission.

Yet I stood oblivious to the spring parade. I was fixated on that one patch of cracked, clumpy earth that represented the beautiful ghost still testing my heart.

I’m no stranger to loss. We live with lots of animals…all lives more temporary than our own. We’ve said our share of goodbyes and we always find a way to celebrate the beings that have shared their time here with us. Each has taught a lesson, each has been a blessing.

But, Big Paul. I just wasn’t coming to terms with his loss. The stately Belgian horse who won my heart from one photo on a Facebook page. Our story was supposed to roll gently toward a very distant sunset. It was not supposed to be a short story, over in just a couple of chapters.

So my morning visit to Paul’s piece of earth was to find resolution. It was my private ceremony. I was going to welcome closure.

Standing clutching the seed packets in my right hand, I heard a quiet shuffling behind me. I turned to see GoGo, our old appaloosa mare, with her nose to the ground as she followed my trail through the pasture as surely as a faithful tracking dog.

GoGo is a special girl. She is 30 years old. She has lost her vision. But she doesn’t hide in the barn, she doesn’t beg for special care. In fact, she won’t tolerate being kept in a stall or safely confined to a paddock. She is, despite the toll advancing years have exacted, strong-willed and determined to keep pace with the rest of our horses. Where one sense has failed her, others have grown stronger. She is a survivor.

I stroked the sweet mare’s neck as she sniffed the seed packets, perhaps checking to see if I might be holding a carrot or a horse cookie. I was immediately thankful GoGo decided to join my private memorial service. The mare who had graced our farm for such a long time, joining me as I paid respect to the horse who touched my life so profoundly in such a short amount of time. Perfect.

I opened the packets, one by one, and sprinkled the contents across the bare earth, watching as the small seeds bounced and tumbled into the cracks and crevices. Soon they would find purchase, sprout, and spring back up toward the sky, strong, tall, and golden. Just like Big Paul was.

Job done, GoGo and I retraced our steps and headed back to where the rest of our little herd watched in seemingly silent homage. Did they know I needed some space? My very spoiled animals are not known for restraint, especially when they see a human that normally has pockets filled with cookies. But somehow, today, they showed quiet respect.

As I moved closer to the barn, the truce was broken and my herd surrounded me, snorting and sniffing. I looked into a half dozen pairs of soft, hopeful eyes as impatient noses pushed at my hands and nudged my pockets.

In that moment, it hit me. Just as surely as the sunflower seeds would sprout roots in the fertile soil and grow to fill the cracks and gaps in the broken earth, these silly horses and donkeys, in the here and now, would help fill the cracks and gaps in the fertile ground of my heart.

I would always remember, and I would always be grateful for what was, but I could also let go. It was time to stop replaying the pain of loss and instead focus on the good times I had with Big Paul. And it was also time to simply allow myself to appreciate what was standing right in front of me.

Just like that, a spring day became a gift. The sunflowers to come became a promise. A ghost became a beautiful memory. A heart was allowed to begin healing.

Oh…and yeah…a little herd of horses, donkeys, and one fine mule got to eat cookies. Lots and lots of cookies.