Robi and Trey are gone to the mountains, to Kokanee Glacier to explore the wonders of God’s creation. I am so glad for Robi. She really is wired for the outdoors. I say this with as much humility as I can muster, but in one way, one way only, it is a shame she married someone who is just as wired for the city.
As a result of their hiatus, the consequence is I am here stuck with the dogs…errr, livestock. As you may know, we have two Newfie puppies, one ten months and the other ten weeks (pictured). Don’t ask why. The answer is deftly hidden in the universe somewhere. Nevertheless, the person who loves the city is the primary care-giver to two soon to be abnormally large dogs who are, can I say, quite needy.
This morning I started a new book entitled, Upstream, by the incredibly poetic, Mary Oliver. She starts with her love of nature and speaks of an old oak tree as a friend “…Noah, the oak tree I have hugged and kissed every first spring for the last thirty years. And in reply, its thousands of leaves tremble! What a life is ours! Doesn’t anybody in the world anymore want to get up in the middle of the night and sing?”
When I read that, two things happened. First, I thought, “Is that a trick questions?” Does she really do that kind of thing? If so, she is more hero today, than yesterday…and I really liked her yesterday. And two, I could feel a reflexive clenching of my stomach muscles because, yes, I did get up in the middle of the night, but not to sing. It was to take “Gus the Bus” for a pee, twice. Man, what a joy! Made me wanna sing! I had been managing dogs for the last 20 hours, and it has felt more like the proverbial, “herding cats.” Honestly, they are super adorable, but that was when Robi was here, when she was the one getting up to take care of “her” dogs. Now, every time I look at them, I just get angry that they won’t just act like four-year-old dogs and just lay there looking dignified.
So, after taking them both out at 5 am, again for “another” pee (come on pup, grow some bladder strength), after I fed them their “pound of flesh,” after walking them together and then the older one for a three miler, they had finally collapsed on the floor in their respective places and slept. Peace…sweet peace.
Finally, a few minutes of “me” time. I gathered up my new book, my prayer beads, a cup of coffee and headed out to sit quietly in my garden. I had a brief constitutional distraction in which I had to go in the house for a moment, and upon return, there was a lovely baby robin sitting in my chair. I stopped not to startle it or its fidgeting mother and just watched for a few minutes. For a moment I felt like sweet Mary Oliver. She would have at least been proud of me. I was FINALLY ready to sing!!! The baby half flew, and half stumbled away, so I headed to my sanctuary of stillness. Quiet and for the half minute, away from the beasts of burden. As I began to sit down, the ironies of ironies. Instead of peace, what I discovered was a huckleberry laden pile of baby robin shit all over my chair. At first, there was exasperation. I thought, “Ok, I’ve had enough. I am selling out and getting a condo. One, where they don’t allow cow sized dogs or rude baby robins.” Then, though it wouldn’t quite be called singing, I found myself laughing from a very deep place thinking, “I’d trade my dogs and my loose bowled baby robin and all of their creatureliness in for a good of old stationary “kissable” oak tree.
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