What Dogs Have Taught Me

I should really title this, for the sake of full disclosure, "What Dogs Are Teaching Me," as I am a stubborn, stubborn, learner.

During Zippo's medical emergency, and Avy having to retire her position at the foot of the bed, I felt overwhelmed with powerlessness. All of this happened, and I couldn't control it. We should have raised/trained Avy differently, we should have known the moves would have been too stressful for them... should have, would have, couldn't have known.

The unexpected often paralyzes me momentarily. I think that is one of the most distinct flaws I have from being an only child (I wasn't at all spoiled with stuff, but my schedule was my own, and I didn't have to share my time or plans or be flexible due to any other ragamuffins running around). Last fall was full of the unexpected. But I made lists, got back on track, and made it work. (See? I don't really think I'm learning how to be more flexible, I think I'm teaching my surroundings to succomb to my every whim.)

In literature, if the story is set in town, that is often symbolic of structure and following the rules. Conversely, if a story is set in the country, it signifies freedom and a lack of societal confines.

I prefer the country immensely. I feel at home. So why do I hate the freedom it allows?

On the way home today, I stopped up the road to talk to a neighbor. Her cows had broken out and were in the field across the road, and she had come home to her chickens pecking across the road as well. These are the things you must deal with. Fences don't always work, and structure doesn't always hold.

When I got home, I was greeted in the driveway by Mason.

Mason is a great horse of a dog, and he's happy and he loves being loved. However, he hates being confined in the barn (we are going to build them a fenced-in area come spring--winter isn't a great time to adopt a dog, but we do what we have to do), and jumps out of any available orifice (windows included). When this happens, I imagine the worst--he's never going to come back, he's going to bother the neighbors, everything is going to be a disaster.

One of these days, I will take loose animals in stride. One of these days.

But not yet. I slowly got out of my car, and put my schoolbag on the roof so I could grab his collar and take him back to the barn. He proceeded to climb into the car, lie down in the passenger seat, lie down in the back seat, climb into the hatch, and refused to get out. When he finally got out, he flopped on the ground for a belly rub and refused to get up. He's OK--I should be OK. I finally got him up and walked him over to his home (as we walked, I noticed a demolished trash bag, so he'd really had some fun today). He hopped in, Avy scolded him, and they've been fine since.

Later, when I got the mail, the wonderful older man who lives up the road stopped on his way by. He said when he saw Mason was out earlier, he brought his Lab up so they could play and "meet" each other. And they were fine. Everything was fine.

I have spent weeks devising my perfect poultry order: five Ameraucana hens, five Barred Rock hens, one brown Leghorn rooster, a turkey for Thanksgiving, and two Khaki Campbell ducks. Perfect... just perfect. A student told me that when the hatchery includes "extra" chicks to compensate for any death in transit, they're often cockarels, and often an undesirable breed. For a moment, my breath stopped. What about my plans? What about my perfect plans?

Someday, I dream of being as relaxed as my neighbor with the escaped livestock. She leaned in my car window, we talked about wayward dogs and ordering chicks, and she was fine. Even though her animals had broken free of their confines, and weren't exactly as she'd planned, she was fine.

And I will be, too.