Standing at the Trailhead of Winter

The end of the semester is here. I can breathe a sigh of relief that for a few weeks I don't have to read and grade papers generated by AI and papers that show the student really doesn't care about improving their own writing skills and critical thinking skills. I don't have to respond to students who fail to submit work by the due date then email the assignment, asking that I read it even though they didn't meet the due date. It's so quiet now. The noise is gone. I get to focus on a few projects I've been kicking around. I get to focus on Sunny. The snowshoes are by the back door, just waiting for the few inches of snow that is forecast for tonight and tomorrow. I get to look forward to the kids coming to visit over the holidays.  Sunny is growing into a beautiful young dog. He has captured my heart. I've never had a dog that cuddles the way he does. I've never had a dog who leans so completely into my chest that I can feel his heartbeat. Every evening ...

Since Sunny was off for a week due to his muscle strain, I didn't put down any trails for him. I was ordered that he rest, with no exercise beyond a short walk on leash, and when he's in the harness, working a trail, he digs in, eager to do his job. If a week or more goes by without a trail, I figure it's a good idea to back up and do a simple trail. This is kind of like a reboot. That's what we did on Friday. Just a simple, straight trail with one turn. Only I didn't take into consideration that I had trampled all over the area earlier in the day when I mowed the lawn.  I walked Sunny around the block and brought him to the beginning of the trail, which he picked up with no problem. He followed the trail nicely until we reached the area where I had mowed. Then he seemed confused, which is totally understandable. My scent was all over the place. He then found the fresh trail I had put down and got back on track. When he reached the turn, he didn't hesitate at al...

Dear JK, For some time now, really since saying goodbye to Ado, you've seemed a bit off, as if you're mooring line  untethered and you're just drifting about. He was your wharf and you didn't understand this until the vet sat next to you and said in so many words there was no fixing what was wrong with him. That day will stay with you for a long time. As will the day you sat on the floor beside Ado, whispering to him, petting him, watching the light dim then go out entirely. Those moments have played out over and over the last two months. One day they will fade.  And you will find peace. There will come a day the tears won't fall. Instead, you'll smile, thinking of all the wonderful that happened because of that little furry puppy who came into your life and marked out a spot in your heart that was all for him. Just for him.  For now, it's okay to mourn. It's okay to not want to do things. It's okay to miss your beautiful boy.

 

 

For the past two years, I've laughingly and lovingly said we have a toddler in the house. A four-legged, furry, 100 pound toddler. His mischievous nature, the way he fairly ran to the stairs every morning as I descended from upstairs, his wrapping his lanky body around my legs as if saying, "Hey, notice me. Pet me" brought to mind a child utterly happy with the world. When the young woman we refer to as "Ado's Girlfriend" visits, he would jump on her as if he wants her to hold him like she did when he was just a ten-pound puppy. He would lavish her with sloppy dog kisses and be sure her clothes were covered with his hair. Since last Monday, since returning home without Max, my toddler has been nowhere in sight. It was like overnight Ado shed his childish ways and became an adult. No longer does he run to the stairs as I come down for breakfast. Instead, he and I meet in the middle of the dining room, him treading softly, slowly from the living room where...

Last week, Wednesday, I made the appointment I've been putting off. Max. His legs were giving out on him as he walked across the floor or down the steps. His chin quivered at times, indicating pain. But he always looked at us as if he was the happiest dog on earth. It was easy to rationalize he was okay, that he still had a few weeks, a few months, maybe a few years left. The day he dragged his hind quarters across the floor as he went to get a drink of water made me see how unfair we were being with him. Yesterday, we said goodbye. In a warm, cozy room. Our hands stroking his black coat. Our voices telling him how much he meant to us. When we returned home, Ado circled us, sniffing, looking at us as if to ask, "Where's Max?" He went out into the yard. Searching. He came back inside, found the collar and leash, and nosed at it. Where I went, Ado went. As I worked at the computer, he lay at my feet. Then, he stood, went into the room where Max used to sle...