Ode to Daisy

Herself writes today:

Daisy dog, I know you are getting old and that your time with us may be short. When the vet looked at your X-ray today and said, my, she has significant arthritis, I felt the End creep closer even as I stood there patting your head and telling you that there was nothing to fear. I hope we still have more time together, and I hope that we can make you happy in your waning days.

You have been part of our family for nine and a half years, and yet it seems like barely yesterday that we brought you home from the Humane Society. You were such a pathetic scrap of an animal, with that big black fur spot on your back that made you look vaguely like Snoopy. Everyone debated what to name you, but I won out. To me, you just looked like a Daisy. We nursed you to health, and you grew and grew, until what was once a four-and-a-half-pound puppy turned into a 65-pound giant mutt. You still think you are tiny, though, and try to sit in our laps. We let you.

You are such a cheerful dog. I love the way you smile at us when you see us at the door. I am endlessly entertained when you chase your tail. It warms my heart to see you sniffing all the fascinating scents when we hike in the desert, and running loose joyously in White Sands. You sleep upside down, with your gums flapping and all of your giant club-sized feet sticking up into the air.

You enjoy digging up rocks in the back yard, and I have been amazed more than once at the size of rock you are able to carry about. You are thrilled with dog toys that squeak and will fetch a ball, indoors or out, at any time. You are so very patient when we pat you, poke you, pester you, and balance things on your head. You faithfully look alertly out the door when we say, "Where's the Kitty" and never fail to glance up in the sky when we ask, "Where's the bird?" You investigate bugs.

It makes me laugh to think of the time when I came home to find the shreds of a bag of pretzels on the kitchen floor, and your water bowl empty and overturned. You drank what seemed like a whole gallon when I refilled it. There was also the time when the apples in the fruit bowl on the table kept disappearing, and I discovered that you had been quietly taking them one by one and eating them where you wouldn't be discovered. I won't even mention how many watermelon rinds you have stolen and carted off to the back yard. You do love fruit.

I should have played ball with you more often, taken you on more walks, and been more patient when you made a mess or chewed on the rocking chair. I am sorry. I am an imperfect human. I hope you forgive me.

You have given us one of the greatest of blessings: unconditional Dog-love. Thank you, my Daisy. No matter how many -- or how few -- days you have left with us, we will be grateful for each and every one.

Taming the Beast

And behold: by naming the beast that frightens away the fishes, the creature has been tamed. The fig tree was found. Hope returns.

There is a glint of sunlight on the abating waves, and I can see the shimmer of the scales of the fishes once more. I cannot catch them yet, but I know if I am patient, they will swim up beside me and welcome me again.

Finding the Fishes

Sometimes I am lost in a sea of language, unable to find just the right words to express what I would like to say. Other times I am lost in a sea of silence, unable to find any words at all.

The seas are, in fact, one and the same. The words I need are all there beneath the surface of the waves, moving like shy and purposeful fish. There are days when the words rise to the shallows, drawn upward into the sunlight, and I can collect them with ease. Other days, they swim deep in the shadows, and I cannot see them.

While the Scylla of daily life is a danger to my writings, it is the dark and formless void of the Charybdis in my ocean that I fear more. Within it is an indescribable longing. The fish scatter before its deafening roar.

I must find Odysseus' fig tree and cling until the storm surge wanes. Then I will be able to look out over the waters again, and I will be relieved to see the silvery scales of my wordy fishes once more.

Tasty

Bacon, bacon, bacon: most delectable of edibles, most piquant of palatables. Enhancer of every comestible, enchanter of everyone's taste buds. I would be a vegetarian if bacon grew on trees.

You are the candy of meats.

96 Box

There are fewer things more entrancing than a brand new box of crayons. This is the very first time I have ever had the gigantic 96-count box. I must find just the right thing to color. Oh, the possibilities!

Unclear

Trying to understand is like straining through muddy water.
Be still and allow the mud to settle.

- Lao Tzu

The Summer of Tears

One of Herself's friends has dubbed this season "the Summer of Tears." There is nothing particularly heartwrenching that has led to the waterworks of these past few weeks; rather, it is the piling up of multiple small difficulties that has led to various individuals bursting into tears at various times. In addition, with the summer heat, tempers have flared and patience is in drastically short supply. Frustration, annoyance and sorrow, even in tiny doses, seem to spontaneously erupt into flames and need to be doused with tears.

Herself is not immune. When the Blog grows silent -- as it has this past week -- it is because she requires my help to maintain (or regain) her equilibrium, and there is no leftover energy to expend upon writing for you. We apologize, and remind you that you are never far from our thoughts, even when our hearts ache too much to compose a post.

With time and a bit of self-care, the tears dry. Sparring at taekwondo surprisingly helps, because it takes Herself away from the daily concerns she has and brings her solely into the current moment. There may be bruises at the end, but they will heal, and as those visible wounds resolve themselves, so will the unwritten worries that lurk within her. All will be well.