Right now I seem to be doing most of my tasks via remote control. We will have two or three new academic staff members in my department this academic year, and at the moment my tasks for them consist of initiating processes that other people will complete, communicating via email and social media, and making connections that will be useful in about a month of so. Personally I’m texting, forwarding links, sharing pictures, and electronically brainstorming to help with some future family events. I’m also scheduling potential meetups a week in advance and using map apps to check for road construction two and three states away.
All of this virtual work has become so commonplace that I’m almost shocked when my dog lies down and stretches himself across my foot, or when Youngest approaches with the clear intention of hugging me and rubbing my back. Suddenly it’s all so…close.
A couple of weeks ago I was outside to give the dog his Last Walk of the Day when I noticed how unexpectedly cloudy the night sky was. The temperatures had been consistently topping out in the 80s and 90s and the “lows” were usually in the 60s, so I was surprised to see only the moon and one reddish star with clarity. Everything else was covered up. Then I chuckled at the fact that “all I could see” besides the moon was, in fact, the planet Mars, which was more than 200 million miles away at the time.
Last summer, when things that influenced us from far away were so far out of our control, many of us focused on what was close at hand — mostly what was inside the house. Now that we’re more able to be out and about again, though, I think we’ve become more comfortable with keeping things at arm’s length. It’s easier now to ask for space, to let someone else go first, to wait a bit before moving forward. A bit of hesitation is…safe. There’s no need to rush.
I just bumped my foot into my dog’s side and was reminded, when he startled, that he is a rescue dog. I adopted him from a home that not only gave him up but had, apparently, either traumatized him or exposed him to traumatic events until his reactive behavior became too much to handle. I can never be completely sure of what happened in his first home; I see his reactions to certain events and I can guess.
Doggo can relax now, and profoundly so. But it took him almost a year to be able to let his guard down in my house. He’s going on nine years old and he knows his new name, but he still won’t came when he’s called. He’s not disobedient; he’s wary, looking out cautiously for what might be waiting for him. He’s not fond of surprises or sudden noises, and fireworks and stray gunshots turn my bold terrier into a quivering mass. He’s also beginning to show his age, and not hear or see things as clearly as he used to. More events are going to look like surprises, and he’s probably going to become more defensive as he gets older.
So there’s no need to rush him, either. We’re all learning to go easy, despite our troubles and traumas. We’ll get there when we get there, and we’ll all feel better if we’re accompanied by happy dogs — whether they’re lying at our feet or romping through the fields barely within sight.
Chocolate Sheep 