We need silence now more than ever before. Surrounded as we are by the persistent and loud beating of the drums of politics and commerce, as well as the beeps and tones from the electronic devices which live in our kitchens, game rooms, pockets, purses, and briefcases, we need a break, and this is the perfect time of year to permit yourself to do just that.
Just before I sat down to write this, I went out to shovel the snow off the front steps. It was cold, probably about 12 degrees Fahrenheit; the sun was bright, and no wind...a perfect winter day. (The calendar may suggest late autumn, but it's winter, no doubt about it.
The shovel scraped under the snow on each step, and once in a while, I would have to punch the blade into the packed stuff to break it up so that I could clear it away.
From time to time, I would pause to look around to check on Islay, the beloved Scotty. She seemed to be enjoying the silence as she moved around studying the yard.
After a week involving the loss of heat and hot water in the house when the boiler committed hari-kiri - I found my bit of shoveling in the silence quite restorative.
These few minutes were an excellent reminder that for my own good, I need to time to be outside in the quiet and refreshing (cold better outside than in, I've learned yet again), especially when Islay and go out for the last time before bed and frequently view the array of stars in the black sky, our own silent night, in anticipation of the season of joy to come.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Islay, Beloved Dog
Today I celebrate Islay the beloved Scottish terrier's birthday and calling it her sixth. Because she came from the Humane Society, we're not sure of the details, so I decided to make them up.
When she arrived in my life, I hadn't had a dog in the house for several years - the last one died just as a hip started its decline, and I felt it would be unfair to have a dog I couldn't exercise properly. After the hip replacement adventure, I began to think about another dog. About that time I got a call about a scotty at the humane society and made the delicious mistake of following up promptly (somewhat unlike me), and Islay arrived in my life.
And nothing has been the same since. After a rambunctious, even wild start, she began to calm, to develop confidence, and - as one would expect from a terrier - manage me from morning 'til night.
This began with a studied shake of her head which caused her id tags and dog license to jingle brightly, and shortly that signal became the sign that it was
time to get up
time to go out
time for breakfast
time to go out again
time for a walk
time for a snack
time to go out
time to go out again
time for another walk,
time for dinner
time to go out
time to go out again
time for a bed time snack.
If the head shake doesn't do the trick, then she leaps up and puts her paws on a knee, and she will do this recurrently until there is an appropriate response. And once I start moving toward the front door, for example, she pushes her cold wet nose into the backs of my ankles. With bare feet in the morning, that strategem still comes as a surprise.
On our walks together, Islay sets the pace, and it is I who tries to catch up. Fortunately we frequent nearby trails used by other dogs and their owners, so Islay has to stop regularly to receive and respond to p-mail. Turns out there is quite a lot of that, but I try not to notice.
When Islay is joyful, generally just before the food bowl is put down for her, she leaps into the air and manages to get several feet of air underneath her, a sort of canine geländesprung, with no intervening obstacle. She amazes me every time she does it.
There was a point when I wasn't too thrilled about the level of skill Islay had achieved in managing me, but I've "moved on," as we say nowadays, and I rather enjoy it. She gets more done, and I have a happy dog.
Some dogs are companions, and that's well and good. Terriers don't put up with that kind of limitation, and they are relentless in being part of the family. Islay sits on the furniture (the better to see what's going on outside), she checks out the neighbor's big dog to make sure that he's OK, and if she comes in wet from the rain, she rolls on her back, stretches out, and does everything but advertise in full color that a towel plus a drying session had damn well better be close at hand. And yes, the dinner plates end up on the floor for Islay to clean up.
She comes to my office in order to greet visitors, observe the local fauna, and water the local flora at every opportunity, and when K and I drive up to the North Shore of Lake Superior, Islay comes with us, sitting on K's knees, her head resting on the top of the glove compartment, or she chooses to sit on the console, sometimes facing forward, sometimes facing backwards.
Islay is the most recent scot in a long line of them stretching back over four decades. I enjoyed them all for their enthusiasm, energy, and sense of humor.
But she is different, and each day I am grateful for her presence in my life, for the laughter she creates, the crankiness she jollies me out of, and the love she shows continuously.
And I hope she feels the same way about me.
When she arrived in my life, I hadn't had a dog in the house for several years - the last one died just as a hip started its decline, and I felt it would be unfair to have a dog I couldn't exercise properly. After the hip replacement adventure, I began to think about another dog. About that time I got a call about a scotty at the humane society and made the delicious mistake of following up promptly (somewhat unlike me), and Islay arrived in my life.
And nothing has been the same since. After a rambunctious, even wild start, she began to calm, to develop confidence, and - as one would expect from a terrier - manage me from morning 'til night.
This began with a studied shake of her head which caused her id tags and dog license to jingle brightly, and shortly that signal became the sign that it was
time to get up
time to go out
time for breakfast
time to go out again
time for a walk
time for a snack
time to go out
time to go out again
time for another walk,
time for dinner
time to go out
time to go out again
time for a bed time snack.
If the head shake doesn't do the trick, then she leaps up and puts her paws on a knee, and she will do this recurrently until there is an appropriate response. And once I start moving toward the front door, for example, she pushes her cold wet nose into the backs of my ankles. With bare feet in the morning, that strategem still comes as a surprise.
On our walks together, Islay sets the pace, and it is I who tries to catch up. Fortunately we frequent nearby trails used by other dogs and their owners, so Islay has to stop regularly to receive and respond to p-mail. Turns out there is quite a lot of that, but I try not to notice.
When Islay is joyful, generally just before the food bowl is put down for her, she leaps into the air and manages to get several feet of air underneath her, a sort of canine geländesprung, with no intervening obstacle. She amazes me every time she does it.
There was a point when I wasn't too thrilled about the level of skill Islay had achieved in managing me, but I've "moved on," as we say nowadays, and I rather enjoy it. She gets more done, and I have a happy dog.
Some dogs are companions, and that's well and good. Terriers don't put up with that kind of limitation, and they are relentless in being part of the family. Islay sits on the furniture (the better to see what's going on outside), she checks out the neighbor's big dog to make sure that he's OK, and if she comes in wet from the rain, she rolls on her back, stretches out, and does everything but advertise in full color that a towel plus a drying session had damn well better be close at hand. And yes, the dinner plates end up on the floor for Islay to clean up.
She comes to my office in order to greet visitors, observe the local fauna, and water the local flora at every opportunity, and when K and I drive up to the North Shore of Lake Superior, Islay comes with us, sitting on K's knees, her head resting on the top of the glove compartment, or she chooses to sit on the console, sometimes facing forward, sometimes facing backwards.
Islay is the most recent scot in a long line of them stretching back over four decades. I enjoyed them all for their enthusiasm, energy, and sense of humor.
But she is different, and each day I am grateful for her presence in my life, for the laughter she creates, the crankiness she jollies me out of, and the love she shows continuously.
And I hope she feels the same way about me.
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