I’m writing today from my sunroom table, my favorite summer writing spot. I’ve mentioned this favorite place before — the light breeze through the screened doors, the farmer’s fields lit up bright green by the morning sun, the robins chirping away. But this morning I had to make myself sit here. Make room on my writing table that is currently piled high with things our new puppy (Yes! Yes! We got a puppy!) either needs or we’re hiding so he can’t chew on them: sandals, leashes, chair cushions, a bungee cord, dog treats, Miracle Grow, a couple of beers, and a now half-eaten rug. The kids are still sleeping, and I’m not tiptoeing one inch because my new canine alarm clock has already been up for three hours and is now peacefully snoring by my feet. So, I guess I’m forced not to do all the things I should be doing — the dishes, making that pile of stuff to drop off at Goodwill today, taking a shower.
Because I can’t not share puppy pictures, meet Murray.
(Seriously, though. Isn’t he just the sweetest?! And I used to say I wasn’t an animal person…)
Just like I cannot not show you pictures of a puppy, I cannot not have at least one blog post that contains a list of (mildly stereotypical?) things this puppy is teaching me. He’s maddening, really — adorable and dreaming peacefully in the corner one moment and the next I’m muttering, murmuring and chasing him around the house trying to get my son’s underwear out of his mouth. (Yes, all you who grinned that sly little grin and nodded silently when I excitedly shared our puppy news — I see you now. Also, you are correct that I am literally measuring my days in minutes since the puppy has been outside and taken care of business.)
And so, if you’ll indulge us, just a couple of lessons from Murray…
It is so easy to get messed up when it comes to what really must be done in our lives. I, much of the time, live with a false sense of urgency, an unrealistic view of what is really necessary or stressful. “Just a minute, I need to finish this.” But when the dog is sniffing around the living room with his tail in the air, that email I’m writing does not matter. I am running his butt to the door.
I have a friend whose husband’s mother died when he was young, and she says he is constantly reminding her that “there is big and there is little.” And let’s face it, most of our stuff, even the dog’s pittles on the carpet, are little. We are so good at knowing this and so bad at living it. We know it when Dad’s on the operating table, when we’re waiting on the test results from the doctor, when the phone rings in the middle of the night. We forget it on Tuesday afternoon when the laundry is piled up to our ankles, we realize that bill never got paid last week, the kids are being watched by PBS, and we’re already tired for tomorrow.
When I’m wandering around the backyard with my dog on a leash, no phone in my hands, no memory of what important thing I just got pulled away from, it’s amazing the way I start to breathe again. The to-do list, the work, will always be there, but just for a few minutes, I’m right where I am, too.
The Hard Yes
A huge perk of getting a puppy Memorial Day weekend is that you convince yourself you are doing an awesome job of training your puppy because you are finally outside more than you are inside. Michigan has decided to stop being cold and gray — and instead is lovely and warm: all the neighbors are out and talking face-to-face again, and we’re back walking the sidewalks; we’re at the park, the pool, the lake. It’s wondrous.
But then, a couple nights ago, it rained for several hours. And my husband and I both looked at each other, slightly annoyed and referring to the dog as not ours, but as each other’s, because somebody had to take him out in a downpour. We stood by the front door, staring at each other, umbrella and poop bag in hand for about three minutes before we decided to chance getting up in the middle of the night. We put the pup in his crate and went to bed.
Part of a getting a puppy is having to take him out in the rain.
And isn’t that the way with most yeses? We do things in life — like getting a puppy, having a child, enrolling in classes, remodeling an old farmhouse — with the full knowledge that it will require something of us, but that doesn’t make it any easier when it does. I see this with my students in the middle of hard projects. I see it with brave friends who are taking in foster children, finding space in their homes for refugees. Good yeses are not easy yesses. There are moments — in the middle of the yes — when you doubt, you wrestle, you blame, you whine. But you keep showing up with something that often doesn’t feel as much like hope as it does duty. But in the showing up, grace seeps in.
(And yes! In this case, grace was the pup sleeping through the night!)
We didn’t grow up with pets, we’ve never had a dog, we’re already busy, and like a million people have warned me, having a puppy is a bit like having a newborn. So, why do it? Why get a dog now?
It’s all the stuff you always hear — seeing your kids and your 40-year-old husband giggling and chasing a puppy around in the backyard. Getting home and having a little guy jumping up and down, insanely glad to see you. Undeserved favor, unconditional love, full-out dedication given without question.
That little puppy has my kids playing more, has us playing more. He is a reminder of the good stuff. The stuff that requires no bells or whistles or gizmos to entertain. He’s a reminder that we all have a 10-year-old inside of us. A reminder to pay attention. To slow down.
And the good stuff makes the hard stuff worth it. Which, most of the time, is enough.