A Brief Reflection

 

This is what I know:

Sometimes it’s not the huge problems that get us down, it’s the accumulation of many successive small ones.

Also what I know:

One dog, one leash = easy peasy.

Two dogs, two leashes = a tad more challenging (especially if Dog Two is still learning how we do this, how we walk on one side of Mom, how we don’t pull out in front of her and suddenly slam on the brakes or back up into her because, while it may amuse the neighbors to see her fumble and nearly fall and dance around to regain her balance, it is not—it is never—the correct thing to do).

Two dogs, two leashes + one bag of poop = a bit of a struggle. Does the stinky bag go in my right hand, the one not holding the leashes? It’s 40 degrees, though, and I was planning on keeping at least one hand warm in my pocket (because adding gloves to this leash-training scenario—and I do have gloves—really warm, really expensive gloves—is just out of the question). Or do I try to hold two leashes and the stinky bag of poop in one hand?

Did I mention there is also wind? And that’s it 5:30a.m.? And dark? So yeah, it’s the pre-dawn hour, and we’ve had high winds for days, and the gusts are blowing Dog One’s little floppy ears up so that every few minutes one of them folds over, exposing her ear canal, and the wind chill makes it I-don’t-know-how-cold-but-way-way-too-cold and I know how my ears would feel (but I’m wearing a knit cap plus a hood), so I stop each time to flop her ear back down to protect her tiny ear canal. But we’re training, see? So that means this:

“Maya, wait. Good girl. Sit. Good girl. Maudie, sit. Wait. Good girl. No—wait. Good girl.”

When they are both seated and waiting and I have set the bag of poop down and fixed Maya’s ear and picked up the bag of poop and secured both leashes (with very cold, very stiff hands), we begin again. Moving forward.

Then Dog Two sees a bunny.

Sigh. I am grateful that I did know that this little cattle dog will chase any and all small animals running—or flying. Had I seen her in action, I would have dismissed her as untrustworthy around The Queen Feline, and I would not have adopted her. Whew. Ignorance is bliss.

Not in this moment, though. In this moment, as I try, with freezing fingers, to hold her and Dog One and the bag of poop, ignorance is… well, it’s clearly evident.

As the bunny goes into statue mode and Dog Two rears and lunges and jumps at the end of the leash like a Blue Marlin on the line, I whisper, sotto voce, “Maudie! No chase!” That’s as loud as I can correct her, of course, because I do like my neighbors and a few of them like me and it is 5:45a.m. by now.

When the bunny’s brain has finally shifted from “Freeze!” to “Flee!” and it dives under a bush, we can move forward again, Dog Two still hypervigilant, though, searching every yard for the rascally…. Well, you get the picture.

It’s about the time when I fully regain control, priding myself on being an adequate pack leader, Dog One and Dog Two trotting nicely along, the bag of poop swinging back and forth with their stride, my right hand just starting to warm up after the bunny encounter, that my nose starts to run.

If you’ve hiked or dined with me, you know this: If it’s cold, my nose runs. I am never without a pocket pack of tissues because, if the air is cold, if the AC in the restaurant is set below 72 degrees, my nose is running.

Here’s the existential dilemma in this scenario: How long would you keep walking before stopping to blow your nose? I mean, you see what this entails—both dogs stopping, sitting, the bag of poop set down again, a tissue extracted, the mission executed….

How long would you keep walking, snot beginning to flow to the edges of your nostrils? (Okay, sorry for the visual there, but can you feel how uncomfortable it is?)

I go another 30 feet, then with an exasperated sigh, it’s this again:

“Maya, wait. Sit. Good girl. Maudie… Maudie… no, sit. Sit. Wait. Good—no, sit. Wait.”

Finally, we’re moving forward again. For a half mile, down the back side of our loop, around the corner, and around the next, we are golden—the wind is at our backs, there are no bunnies, and my nose isn’t running.

Until we turn the corner for home. We are six houses from home when my nose begins to run again, and I am eyeing the distance, and considering my options, and that’s when we see—okay, I don’t, but Dog Two sees—a small animal dart across the street.

Whining and yipping, she bolts to the end of the leash, and because I didn’t see the critter, I wasn’t ready for it, and I almost—almost—drop the leash. Which in this case would have been very, very, very bad. Why? Because as soon as it all registers—the small animal running, the heavy scent in the air—I realize that the critter she wants to chase is a skunk.

Holy smokes.

In The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Aslan tells Edmund, “We can never know what would have happened.”

No, we cannot. But I have a pretty good idea in this case what would have happened had I not held onto my silly little cattle dog. But I did. I held onto her all the way back to the house and in the door, whereupon I immediately grabbed a tissue and blew my nose and exhaled loudly in enormous relief as I unleashed my hounds.

This is what I know:

Nine times out of ten, at least in my life, expecting a task or some endeavor to be routine will not be so; it will be fraught with small challenges that need to be faced and dealt with in the moment.

What I also know:

It’s all about moving forward. Unless you see a skunk in the road up ahead. In which case, it might better serve to pause and consider your options. But when the danger has passed, keep moving forward.