I See You, Fenway

The clinic where I work has a kennel and a doggie-daycare.  On Tuesdays, which is my longest day (12 hours), I bring Fenway to work with me.  He loves to go to school to "play with the other kids".  He knows when I'm getting ready for work and follows me around like a lost kitten, rubbing up against my legs and not letting me out of his sight!

There are certain other "kids" he likes to play with, and they're the Tuesday regulars.  I watch him proudly through the viewing window as I work, a few moments stolen in quiet watchfulness.  He's generally pretty well-behaved, but sometimes goes overboard with the humping and the rough play - he is a teenage boy, after all.  He comes from the school of hard knocks - a doggie version of South Boston!  Having 2 older sisters is no joke!

"Mom?  Is that you out there?"

As I watch him through the window, I see him running and playing.  I feel like a mom watching her kid on the playground.  I watch him stumble and get corrected.  I watch him run and jump with glee!  I watch him sort out his relationships with other dogs, all on his own.  Then he sees me through the window and I hear him squeal with recognition, and crane his neck to see inside.  It's then that I realize he has my heart.  No more a homeless little foundling, but a loved dog.  A dog with a home.  A dog in Arwen's Pack.

Home is where you can snooze on your back in the sunbeams

Luck of the Irish month?

As dog parents, we have the duty to keep our wards well-groomed and in working order.  This often comes with the arduous task of nail-trimming.  I know.  I know - many of you are shuddering - the mere thought of cutting dog nails is causing sweaty palms and accelerated hearts.  To celebrate the new month - March - my personal  month-long Irish heritage festivus - I decided to trim dog nails.

Yes, it's nothing but good times here at my house...

Arwen is an old pro.  Like everything else in her distinguished life, she handles nail trims like a champ.  I call her over, she lays down on her back in front of me.  I simply start trimming.  She slowly pulls her legs away from me at times, and when we're almost done, she tries to wriggle away.  For the most part, though, I just clip away and talk softly to her.  When we're done, I cheer for her with lots of praise and she runs to the kitchen for a big treat.

Notice the patient look in these eyes?

Nyxie is next.  This girl is big, smart, high-strung, and mostly compliant.  A bag of training treats wins her over as I call her to lay down in front of me.  I trim her nails as she lays on her side, taking softly to her and giving her a treat after each nail is done.  In a vain attempt to resist me and the treats, she rights herself usually after each second nail.  She's a drooling puddle of forgiving goo that while she wants so terribly to resist me, her desire to please me wins out every time.  Thank goodness for her German Shepherd-ness!

Nails?  Whatever you say, Mom.

And then there's Fenway...
Fenway is a dog that's not used to being groomed.  In his former mystery life, I'm quite sure there weren't regular baths or nail trims, ear checks or paw cleanings.  When there's no suspicion that you actually have a grooming tool, or medication, he lets you pretty much do anything to him.  But if you try to do anything to him, he treats you like a zombie bite victim.

"Will she bite me?  Is she infected?  Better to run away!"

Poor kiddo.  With a ton of patience and treats, his nails were cut and then filed.  He did pretty well, actually.  I think he finally got tired of my unrelenting persistence in holding those little paws of his.  Happy March, Fenway - maybe the rest of the month will bring you the luck of the Irish.  But then again, you need to be neutered soon...

YOU'RE GOING TO TRIM MY WHAT?!

A Look Forward

With each new year that blazes in, I inevitably look back at the past year and try to settle my personal scorecard. 

Did I make positive changes?  

Did I grow as a person?  

Was I a good parent more often than a bad parent?  

Was I a stronger person than the year before?  

Did I learn new skills and evolve professionally?  

Did I come closer to becoming the daughter my late father would be proud of?

I suppose there's no denying that in even asking these questions, I'm still striving for better.  I don't want to be envious of those that have more than me.  I don't want to feel jealous or spiteful or negative.  I don't want my pride to overshadow the good that I do.  Sometimes it's painful to look around at all those things you think you need and want.  And worse still to feel there's so much left unaccomplished and stymied in seeing that potential through.  

It's these moments that I look down and realize that only inches from my typing hands, lies the velvety soft muzzle of a sleeping puppy.  The black nose is pressing tightly to my leg, and I hear the soft inhale and exhale of each life-sustaining breath.  I remember that this is a good moment.  One that will never repeat itself.

It's in these moments that I know:

I made positive changes.

I grew both cognitively and emotionally as a person.

I was a parent that acted out of love, the root of which is goodness.

I found both physical and emotional strength deep within myself that allowed me to pick myself up.

I strove to do my best possible job, to care when others were indifferent, and prevail over injustice.

I thought often of my father and what he would want for me and from me as a woman of worth.

It's in these moments that I realize the past year is just a marker of time.  Each day signifies the start of a new year, and each year is what you make of it.