Trust your dog (and your wisdom)
I awaken too early this morning. When I first get up, I started to notice that my balance was off. Still, I try to take Cassie for a walk. I decided to get my cane. I think of a long trip we hope for. Either we are fools or mad men (and a woman). What are we thinking? I look up in the sky and I see the stars. Not many this morning. On a clear morning, they are glorious. Fools or mad men, it doesn’t matter. What I will see out West makes the sky here look like the ceiling of a vaulted mall: boring. This will be my chance. My chance to see stars again. To be still. To Let them envelop me in their tapestry of variance, beauty, change, and yet stability. Let me be swept off my feet in this quest while I now can.
We got to the little pocket park. My vertigo is worsening. I hoped to sit at the picnic table, but the sprinklers went off and the bench seats are wet. I tell myself: Let this experience be. Don’t push it away. I also worry, though, about falling or becoming more nauseated.
My dog lets me minister to her various wounds and maladies without complaint. I did her physical therapy after her CCL was repaired. She obviously didn’t enjoy it. But she always and patiently tolerated whatever position I asked for. She knows she can trust me.
Now, this morning, sick with increasing vertigo, I hoped to sit at the picnic table, rest, and meditate under the cover of morning darkness. But the sprinklers went off and the bench seats are wet. I tell myself: Let this experience be. Don’t push it away.
I also worry about falling or becoming more nauseated. Violating the HOA rules, I take my dog’s leash off. If she pulls hard on the leash, I might topple. Cassie, go slow. Daddy’s sick. She seems to understand. Take me home, I tell her. I’m not sure how she’s acquired direction-finding, but she has. Like a furry AI, a better AI, she intuits I’m not well. While still smelling her flora and fauna, she looks back often to see if I’m following. Take me, I say. This has come to mean, Take me home. Wherever home is that day, she knows. On trips, once she’s been to the hotel room, she assigns - and remembers - our new, intermediate home. She smells or remembers the directions back to that hotel room. She’s always very proud of herself.
She has her own boulder, Cassie Rock. At a certain point this morning, once I’m sure she won’t have to cross any more streets to get home, I tell her: Take me to Cassie Rock. Off she goes. A few minutes later I catch up to her. She’s splayed across Cassie Rock, waiting for my arrival. I hand her the two Cassie Rock treats. I still need to carry her Pooh Bags to the other side of the garage, though. Every minute I can avoid holding her leash and walking at the same time helps with my vertigo and nausea. Stay here, Baby. Daddy has to throw this out. I walk over to the other side of the garage, throw out the bag, and then head to the front door. Come on, Baby! She pirouettes off Cassie Rock, and like a happy bullet, heads to meet me at the front door. It’s time for her walk well done treat, and then breakfast.
This was a hard walk this morning. Should I even be walking? It got worse the further I went. And yet, God gives us our companions, our extended consciousnesses, in whom, together we can make sense of our struggles. Together, we know, find, see, and recognize our mutual callings, sorrows, and joys.