“Can’t you be just a little more grateful? Don’t you remember where you were?”
I hadn’t even finished that second sentence when I flinched. Immediately I recognized my scathing remarks were more about myself than Whiskey. It felt like I just punched myself in the gut. Twice. Because I lashed out at her, and she didn’t deserve it.
Don’t get me wrong. She had been driving me nuts for hours, wanting in and out the back door, wanting me to follow her to the front door (presumably to then walk through the door), hopping from chair to sofa to sunny spot, staring at me as I pecked away on my computer.
Roxy played the staring game, too, forcing me to practice concentrating, but Whiskey takes it to another level with bouncing around.
I felt frustrated and wanted her to settle down somewhere. I mean, seriously, she came from a small kennel at the shelter to this comfortable house where she can lounge wherever she pleases (and does!), has a huge yard, and gets two walks almost every day and she still can’t get comfortable?
Therein lies the rub, of course.
I, too, have been bouncing around a lot lately, between health coaching, writing about health, writing two haiku collections, looking for copywriting jobs benefiting the environment, volunteering …
I’m frustrated with myself for not being able to focus on one project. Or even one less project.
And it gets worse. I’m frustrated with fate for not lending guidance in narrowing my focus.
Could I be less grateful for being in a position that allows me to pursue all of these things? The place I was before here? I don’t ever want to go back. *Sigh*
So, let’s see, that’s ADD plus victimization plus a convenient scapegoat. I believe that equals one donkey kick to the breadbasket.
This has been one of the toughest lessons to remember in a life shared with dogs:
Usually, things about them that annoy me are neon signs pointing to areas of myself needing attention.
And there are two ways it could go – maybe I’m just like them and need to change, like this time, or maybe I need to be more like them. Like how Rico’s poking along on walks showed me how I need to slow down and take in the beauty around me, too.
I’m not always successful at figuring out this puzzle. But I try. These, I believe, are the dogs’ gifts to me. To all of us. Wouldn’t it be a shame to refuse?
And my gift to them? Our gift to them? Our peace sets them at peace, too.
Thanks for stopping by today.