Ask us why we love our dogs

So one day last week I asked my daughter Jessica if she would walk partway to meet me as I walked home from work, and if she would bring my dog, Indy, with her. This would give wild man Indy a nice walk, and spare tired me from having to walk him after walking to and from work that day.
When I stepped outside it was about 20 degrees colder than I expected. That, and looking forward to meeting up with Jess and Indy, added speed to my stride.
I saw them from a distance, Jess in a pink sweater, pink-cheeked, long hair floating on the wind. Indy was a fluffy gray cloud on springy legs, tugging at the leash, eager as always to take in the whole world simultaneously.
Crossing to their side of the street, I waved at Jess until she spotted me. As I reached the curb across the street from them I called "Indy!" He was busy watching the car coming up the street, which stopped at the corner, blocking our view of one another.
As I waited for the car to pull out I thought about how I'd been hoping that Indy would be excited to see me coming up the street. Now I thought, he's so wired about being out for a walk he'll barely notice me.
But as the car pulled away and I gave it one more try, calling "Indy!" I saw his head snap up and his attention focus on me as I crossed the street. As I approached I could hear him whining as he danced on his hind legs, trying to get to me.
Jess and I "aww"ed as Indy leaped up to nuzzle my face. I felt like a war hero returning to cheering crowds and a ticker tape parade. I felt like exactly what I was: the center of Indy's life, the center of his heart.
I'm always going to remember that moment when I hear anyone wonder aloud why some people love their dogs with such ardent devotion.
Not since my children were small have I been greeted with such unrestrained enthusiasm. Dogs not only let us love them as much as we want to, they thrive on it. The more time, patience, affection and care we offer them, the more we receive of their love, devotion and undiluted displays of joy at the very sight of us.
I hate taking Indy outside to pee when it's bitterly cold or pouring rain. He has a shrieking bark that could shatter glass, he's a pain in the ass to walk and he's so jealous of my cat Sadie that he comes running every time he hears me talking to her.
He also runs to the window to catch a last glimpse of me whenever I leave the house, glues himself to my side whenever I'm home, and presses his head into the crook of my neck whenever he sees me crying.
And my every homecoming is a joyous ticker tape parade.

Tick

So I've been trying out this new thing where I work to meet all of my obligations, do what I say I'll do when I say I'll do it, and do things even when I don't wa-a-a-nt to.

I think it's called... wait, wait, give me a minute. I think it's called maturity.

Don't worry, I haven't gone completely on the rails. I still love cartoons, blowing bubbles, and jokes heavy on the crass. But turning 50 has sharpened my hearing. I can hear the clock of mortality ticking so much more clearly than before, and it is chanting, do it now, do it now, do it NOW.

Example: Last week was the week the city did its annual spring brush and branch pickup. For me, this effort amounts to thinking about picking up the fallen branches in my back yard, reasoning that I still have plenty of time to take care of it, then being amazed that the pickup day has come and gone and my yard is still filled with branchery.

Not this year.

When I came home from work one night last week I saw several of my neighbors diligently clipping hedges, gathering branches, and piling it all in tidy curbside mounds. Oh, I thought. The city must be doing the pickup tomorrow. Oh, well. My yard doesn't look so bad. Too late now.

I was greeted at the door by my Indy dog. It didn't take a dog whisperer to read the expression on his face: "Walk tonight? Walk tonight, Mom? Pleeeeaaase, walk tonight!"

"I'll take you in a little while, Indy,"  I said. 

Shortly thereafter my son and my brother-in-law arrived to help me go pick up a used bed frame I'd bought for my older daughter, who's moved back home for awhile.

"Mom, I need a new cell phone," my son announced. "Mine's dying."

When I hesitated, Dan added, "I'll pay you back when I get paid." 

We picked up the bed (my sole physical contribution was to open and close doors) and got it back to my house. I thanked Dan and my brother-in-law, said goodbye to each, ignored the sinkful of dirty dishes and flopped on the sofa to watch TV. When Indy danced over to me I rubbed his fluffy gray head and said, "Sorry, bud, Mom's too tired to go tonight."

Then I heard it: tick, tick, tick. Now. Now. Now.

I jumped up and headed for the kitchen. 

As I washed the dishes I thought about the economics of parenting. My daughter needed a bed. I bought one without thinking twice. My son needed a phone. I dragged my feet about it.

I was bombarded with memories of times when my two daughters' needs were met and my son got short shrift. Dan was a quiet kid, never asking for much and always appreciative of what he did get. And while my girls were never demanding and also always appreciative, they were more verbal. And because they were girls, I understood their needs more easily. Or so I told myself. 

The reality was, Dan was the back seat kid. Not because I loved him any less, but because it was easy to not see what he needed - especially if you were preoccupied, and not seeing made life easier.

Tick. Tick. Tick. I finished the dishes, ran to the store, bought a box of microwave popcorn and a bottle of Coke, two of Dan's favorites, and left them at his doorstep. I called him and told him my revelation. I told him I'd buy him that new phone. I apologized for all the times he felt "less than." He didn't say much, but he was, as always, appreciative. 

Then I gathered armful after armful of dead, dried branches from my back yard and hauled them to the curb.

By then it was almost dark. I ducked back into the house, rounded up Indy, and we bounced through the neighborhood in the twilight.

The words mortality clock have a ring of doomsday to them, don't they? But that isn't how I think of this demanding internal timepiece. For me it's a hand at my back pushing me to accomplish what I can while I still can. I don't plan on dying tomorrow, but I can't guarantee I won't, either. All I have is today, this moment, right now. That's always true of everyone, but for a lifelong procrastinating look-the-other-wayer, turning 50 has made it more than true: it's made it real. And how grateful I am for that tick, tick, tick.

Ow

You know those annoying people who feel the need to go into exhaustive detail about every minor injury they sustain? They talk about how they got hurt, where they were when they got hurt and, worst of all, they offer to show you every cut and bruise?
I'm one of those people.
I was walking Indy earlier this week and I fell down. That's the abbreviated version. The longer explanation starts two days prior, when I didn't walk him, and the day after that, when I didn't walk him again. Two days on the human calendar; 6,594 days in dog time.
By the time we finally did go for a walk, Indy was on fire. He ignored my commands to walk, he yanked me hither and yon, desperate to make up for those sniff-and-pee deprived days.
Then he spotted a big, mellow galoot of a dog being walked on the other side of the street and felt the urge to hurl shrieking oaths at him. Embarassed, I pulled Indy close and hustled him away. In mid-hustle I tripped over Indy's feet and crashed to the pavement, landing on all fours.
The good news is, I did not unleash my formidable temper on my hapless pooch. I got up slowly, feeling as teary and sore as a 6-year-old after a playground spill, and gave Indy a stern talking to.
He stared up at me with those round, earnest brown eyes and a big doggy grin, waiting patiently for Mom to stop yammering so we could resume our tour of power poles and fire hydrants.
The bad news is, damn I hurt! My knees were scraped and bruised and I ached in peculiar spots: two fingers on one hand, the palm of my other hand, one side of my neck and one spot on my lower back.
And yes, yes I did tell everyone I encountered, from my daughter when I got home to every hapless coworker I saw the next day. No, I didn't show anyone my poor, banged up knees - but only because I hadn't shaved my legs.
What is this compulsion some of us have to dwell on what hurts? Misery dwelling was the theme of my drinking career, topped with a generous helping of self-pity.
Why, oh why were my parents so dysfunctional and weird? If only I'd had better parents I wouldn't be such a mess. Nothing for it but to get good and wasted.
There's a saying in recovery: Poor me, poor me, pour me a drink.
Recovery gave me the freedom to stop playing the victim, to accept responsibility for my lot in life and to choose what I wanted. This didn't happen with the touch of the recovery fairy's wand. It took years of working my program, getting honest and accepting my share of the blame for whatever went awry in my life.
Being a victim is comfortable. The only action required is whining and lifting that bottle. But being the victim leaves you at the mercy of outside forces, and those forces aren't necessarily benevolent.
To sum it up with another recovery truism, I got sick and tired of being sick and tired.
Being responsible is hard work. When I screw up I have to own up to it and live with the consequences. How much easier it would be sometimes to point the finger and whine, "Well what about what you did?"
But I don't want to be a victim anymore. I want to hold my life in my own two hands, and I want to be a woman others can lean on for support, the way I've leaned on my comrades in sobriety. I'll take my lumps and learn from them rather than drink over them.
But the next time I fall down you'll probably hear all about it. As I like to say, I'm a work in progress - and a bruised one at that.