Struggling through with joy... |
kind of.
Struggling through with joy... |
Nearly every evening when I cook dinner my Chihuahua Betty White lurks beneath my feet, snatching up what I inevitably drop. There are few foods she doesn’t eat. Grains, vegetables, fruits, meat, cheese, she likes it all. Carrots are sometimes a no, but that’s about it. She even dines on non-food items fairly often, spending warm summer mornings snacking on the ants as they leave their underground lair, or gnawing on cat poopsicles in the winter until one of us catches her and shouts with disgust. She always looks at us with a mix of shame and wonder that we could deny her such a delicious snack.
She often presses her hard little head against my shins or calves when we’re in the kitchen together, just to remind me she’s there. Then she gets yelled at. She gets yelled at more than I’d like. I don’t want to trip and I fear stepping on her, especially now, because she’s getting old and fragile. Her legs twist with arthritis and she can’t jump on the couch or the bed without help anymore. Some days she hardly moves at all because she’s hurting so much, but she still manages to make herself a nuisance in the kitchen. If I’m honest, her pestering presence is a constant I find comforting. I like to see her half-bald head peeking around the kitchen island, tail aloft and with a half-wag. Will some shredded apple be flying from the sky today? Will mom or dad lean down to offer me a morsel of pork chop? I like things that are constant. So much of life is unpredictable and a little out of control. When I was a classroom teacher I enjoyed going over the schedule every morning because it gave me comfort: look at all the things we’re going to learn and accomplish today, my hopeful schedule said. It often didn’t work quite the way I wanted. Fire drills happened, a lesson went awry, someone threw up on their journal and I spent a quiet 30 minutes freaking out internally about the germs. But most days it did, at least in part. Betty is one of my constants. I got her a few months before I met my husband and about a week before my dad died suddenly. She accompanied me on miles-long walks as I tried to soothe my aching heart and quiet my mind, her happy tail a beacon; she pinned herself beside me in bed at night, keeping me from feeling as if I might spin off into the darkness. She greeted visiting friends and family with indelicate joy, sometimes peeing with excitement. When things got better, when my husband moved in, she accepted the shift in her role, just as she has with the arrival of my children. She eyes my daughter Ruby patiently when she toddles over to pet her, submitting to her awkward patting, and Ruby screams with excitement when Betty offers her a forbidden lick on the chin. I love the reminder of my little dog’s bald head on my shin. I love the way it says, “Hey, I’m still here. I still love you. Now give me some chicken.” Which I will, right before I chase her out of the kitchen.
2 Comments
3/23/2018 04:28:52 pm
Dogs are the best! My daughter is desperate for one, but I'm not ready for the emotional commitment.
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Sonja Schulz
3/28/2018 06:55:45 pm
Betty White! What a great name! I love how you write about your constant companion here. Makes me miss my Tyrus. There is nothing like the unconditional love from a pet, is there?
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