My leg wound 5 days post trauma

Although it seemed to me as though I was taking it easy on the leg, apparently the 4 mile treks in my woods were too much for my leg, and my body rebelled.

I had a fitful night, the pain gnawed at me and though I slept, it wasn’t good sleep. Apparently at some point, my sleep-addled brain surmised that my bandage was too tight, for I awoke to find it balled up on the floor. Worse yet, my freshly washed sheets were bloody. I had to wash them again.

I’m very tolerant of pain, so when I was relieved to be sidelined on the couch, that was telling. I knew I had to slow down. Now, 3 days later, my leg feels like new, and the bleeding has slowed considerably. I took a baby walk last night (try explaining ‘rest’ to a one year old herding pup) and the leg felt good last night and today. When I climbed my stairs this morning and there was no pain in my leg, I figured it was time for a baby bike ride.

The one thing that’s bothered me this spring, is that my sightings of the Herd have revealed no babies for this year. I’ve seen the girls in the low light of evening as they pass from the water hole in front of my house back into the safety of the forest. But no babies. It’s disturbing to think that for whatever reason, the elk can’t seem to thrive here. This weighed heavy on my mind as I rode into my woods.

To me, there is nothing better than to clip in to my pedals, and ride my bike in the quiet forest behind my house. The girls run about investigating and exploring–never losing track of my whereabouts–and I find I do my best thinking when I ride. Today, I thought about the world. How more than global warming or the impending rise of a population our planet soon isn’t going to be able to sustain, I think the biggest threat to the survival of our species is a lack of critical thinking skills. It seems that those capable of critical thinking aren’t in positions for it to be taken advantage of: Those in the right positions lack the skill altogether . It’s a recipe for disaster. I thought about our viewable media and the messages being sent to our young people.  The reality shows of movie stars and their mundane problems (the 4th cake for little Jebediah’s birthday has the WRONG FROSTING!!!!! –this, followed by a meltdown), stupid criminals and Hillbillies fishing with their hands in the swamps of Florida, strike me as senseless even from an entertainment standpoint. They scare me. That people like the Duggers (of “19 kids and counting” fame….are they high?) have their own reality television show, viewed each week  by millions of young girls with minds like  sponges, makes me sick. In a world where we need to be thinking of how to get by with less– and SOON– viewable media screams “MORE! ” over and over and over. It doesn’t bode well for our species as a whole.

The great thing about riding my bike in nature, is that things can bother me when I think about them, but to be in nature’s soothing embrace is like balm for the heart. Like lying in your mother’s arms, safe from the world, if only for a moment.

The girls and I rested often, and I tried not to overdo it. I surely don’t want a night like the one I had last  Tuesday again. As the girls and I topped the rise on the last hill towards home, I noticed the delicate spoor of a newborn ruminant. Perhaps this was the one and only elk calf of the year, and I couldn’t wait to see him.

Kip requires someone to play with her

comes to independent play, is sometimes she will take a toy I have thrown and run off with it–not very far–and toss it in the air a time or two or shake it viciously before bringing it back to me. Hardly what I’d call amusing one’s self. Although I have to admit, I’ll take it. I enjoy the reprieve–however brief– it brings.

Rolo finds her own fun

As I pondered Kip, Something caught my eye and I turned in my chair to see Baby Rooney, out on my acre of land, carrying a tennis ball in her mouth, tail wagging madly as she hunted for things to do. She trotted about, pouncing on insects and chasing after bird shadows, all the while keeping her ball safely in her maw. She is like a retriever with her tennis things, whether they are  traditional tennis balls or her football made from tennis ball material (her favorite because it squeaks).  Rolo is a self-starter. More often than not, she’s happy playing by herself, although she won’t hesitate to engage with me if I make the offer. I really like this about Rolo. She doesn’t need me to entertain her and I’ve fostered that since she was a baby. I really didn’t want two dogs staring at me while holding toys in their mouths.

I’ve had Rolo in my life a year now. In some ways, it seems like the blink of an eye. In others, it seems like I’ve had this amazing little puppy all of my life. And maybe I have. Maybe in exchange for loving beings with lives too short, they all sort of roll into one and possess a momentum of sorts, pushing inexorably and powerfully forward, and you get all the dogs you’ve loved but lost in the next dog you bring in to your life. The love I have for Rolo, and she for me, isn’t more or less than the love I’ve shared with my other dogs. It just is, but somewhere in my heart I feel the stirrings of familiarity, of a totality that is so much more than the sum of its parts. I like the way it feels. It’s comforting. Affirming. And it’s definitely necessary when you love dogs like we dog lovers do. It’s the only way to make sense of a senseless situation. 

Our lives are basically back to normal now since my bike accident. The wound is healing well, and I’m able to go up and down my stairs again (albeit with a gait change) and run my vacuum ( It’s probably telling that this is my definition of “normal” ). I haven’t tried to ride my bike yet because my leg still won’t bend comfortably , but it won’t be long before I try. I’m positive without a doubt now that I’ll be able to do my long-awaited Rim2Rim hike in the Grand Canyon. And that’s a good thing, because I think I’d do it anyway, ready or not.

The stick I impaled my thigh on. EEeeeeeewwwww!

It started out innocently enough. I wanted to clean up the blood that was dried in my car, garage and bedroom. My leg was working well and even bending to 45 degrees without pain, just a tight feeling. Cleaning the blood  logically led to doing laundry, so I did a few loads then began picking up the house, which looked like the frat digs in the movie ‘Animal House’. I have no idea how this happened. I mean, all I did for 2 days was feed my dogs and lay on the couch. Nevertheless, tidying was required, so tidy I did. As my momentum picked up, I decided an easy walk would be a valuable activity. I could get the girls out seeking, thus stimulating and tiring them out, and I could get an idea how my leg felt walking on relatively level ground. I was originally going to walk to the end of the road then back home, but I felt so strong and happy to be outside, I decided to continue into the forest and peek at what was going on there. My next idea was to turn around at the pipeline, but I decided that the girls where having such a grand time, I would simply loop up onto the mesa to see how my climbing muscles felt. Well, one thing led to another, and 2 miles later, I returned home, happy that my leg felt good, and I wasn’t tired in the least.

With things humming along nicely, I took advantage of some extra time and bathed the girls, then showered and prepared to run a few errands in town. I

Rooney accompanies me on my errands

needed to return the loaner crutches to Concentra, then proceed to my parent’s house for dinner.  As I entered my Mom’s house , I started to feel the strain of the day’s activities on my leg. It started as an ache then progressed to a dull throb. My Mother sat me down in my chair at the table, then gently elevated my leg, placing  a pillow underneath my heel. I guess I’ll never be a self-sufficient adult in her eyes. While picking at my dinner, I began to get grumpy. I knew I’d over done my day and was irritated both at myself and the universe for seducing me into becoming over active. I was more than willing to abdicate any and all responsibility I may have had in creating my current situation.

Once home, I fed the girls, changed into sweats, downed my antibiotics and a pain pill, then wrapped my throbbing thigh with an ice pack, collapsing onto the sofa– my new best friend. As darkness fell in The Bowl, I was utterly exhausted. I felt as though I had lived 3 lives in this single day.

Rooney lays beside my injured leg, keeping watch

It’s not at all a surprise to me that I over did it today. Moderation has never been a word in my vocabulary. But neither has”can’t”, and I like that about myself. I may do too much too soon, often to my personal detriment, but that characteristic has served me well in other, positive ways. The way I see it, life is all a balancing act– the art of keeping the spinning ball, untethered,  atop the wand of life, held on the flat of my palm.  I know I’ll spend my entire life practicing it and I’ll probably never perfect it the way my friends and parents would like me to, but that’s all right.  I will die with scars on my body and a smile on my face. Really, what more could one want?

The girls and I were out on a training ride. I was going to do hills on my bike over to A1 mountain, then do a couple hike sets up and down the steep eastern slope to get my climbing muscles in shape for my 24 mile Rim to Rim hike in Grand Canyon in just over 2 weeks. Training had been going well. Though I started the spring season in the worst physical shape of my life, after just 10 days of hiking and biking the mountains and forests behind The Bowl, I was feeling fit and strong. I was smiling with satisfaction as I popped a baby wheelie on small pine tree that fell over part of my bike trail 2 years ago. I’ve performed this task hundreds of times over the years. But today was different. My chain ring got caught on the tree, and my forward momentum was halted and I pitched to the right so quickly that I couldn’t unclasp my right foot from my pedal. As I fell, my right thigh impaled on a small branch broken in a morbidly dagger-like fashion. I felt the wood spindle into the soft flesh of my outer thigh. It went deep. As I got up to examine the damage, I noted the limb upon which I was harpooned was bloody to about 3 inches in depth. Ouch. So much damage for something that happened so quickly, probably in the span of a second. 

I felt blood pouring down my leg into my bike shoe. A gaping hole the size of a large egg greeted my gaze. Chunks of fat and clotted blood poured from the wound. I thought temporarily about fixing this gash up at home as I’ve always done in the past with my bike accidents, but even this was too big for me. Instantly I thought about the 24 mile Rim to Rim hike  in Grand Canyon, in 16 days. I’m an eternal optimist, but I have to admit, this wound didn’t look conducive to being healed in a bit over 2 weeks.

After videoing the wound and crime scene for posterity, I tied my bandanna around the defect and mounted my bike. At least it was all downhill to get to the house.

The wound looks way better at home than it did in the woods

In response to trauma, tissue reacts by constricting blood vessels and sending chemical mediators to the injury site in an attempt to mediate blood loss and additional tissue damage, but this effect is transitory. By the time I arrived home, my damaged blood vessels were once again pumping blood. Quickly, I gimped into the house –trailing blood–and grabbed an ace bandage to put more pressure on the bleeding wound, then got into my car and drove the 15 minutes in to town.

I’m usually a cool customer but the fact that I gave the receptionist my Sam’s Club card when I entered the Urgent Care Clinic tells me I was starting to feel concern as my shoe overflowed with blood and left puddles of red on the waiting room floor. The staff panicked a bit and I was in a treatment room with 4 people  trying to stop the bleeding within 60 seconds of arriving. My physician came in and took control in a comfortingly calm manner, and 80 minutes later, I was leaving; leg flushed, stitched and wrapped, hobbling with shaky arms on my crutches. I was going to live, and the Doc was optimistic that I’d be hiking in the Canyon in 16 days.

I was instructed to RICE for 2 days (Rest Ice Compress Elevate) which is something I don’t do well, but I was sore enough to lay willingly on my couch for the prescribed 48 hours, alternating between fitful sleep and throbbing pain. The first night was a living hell, and sleep didn’t visit, but last night I was able to sleep on my left side. My right side is my preferred sleep side but with the wound on the outermost part of my right thigh, that probably wont be happening for a while. The pain gets better with each day, and I’ve slept a lot during the day while my body takes the necessary steps toward recuperation.

Rooney laying on the couch back next to my elevated leg

I feel unlucky to have this happen at all, let alone when it did, but I also know how lucky I am that it wasn’t worse. Life can be like that, and it’s a stern reminder that it doesn’t always play out the way that we plan it. And it’s good to be able to take a chill pill when the unscripted happens, because fretting about the down time will only complicate the recovery. And recover I want to– I have a date with a very long hike in the Grand Canyon in a couple weeks. And I intend to be there. 

I haven’t had a dream with Kate in it for months, and when I awoke, my heart ached with the realization that it was a trick of my mind–a mirage– something that I so wanted it to be but wasn’t. I got to wondering, which was easier?  To have the dreams frequently and in so doing become ‘vaccinated’ to the feelings they evoked?  Or, to not have the constant, low level sadness and go months before having one of the dreams hit me out of the blue, a sucker punch that lands way below the belt?

After pondering the possibilities of each scenario, I decided that neither one was desirable. But how can one control one’s dreams? 

I rode my bike at 6:45 p.m. last night. The weather was balmy, the woods quiet at that hour, it’s inhabitants bedding down for the night ahead. The sun cast long, low rays of gold that filtered through the trees, and I felt a joy radiate from my chest. It was a celebration of the season of warm sun, long days, and endless travel through my woods and mountains, on bike and foot. Being outside in nature, grounding my soul to the elements from which I came. And off in the distance, 2 little dogs running ahead, enlisting the seeking behavior they evolved with to explore their world and express their own boundless joy at the season of plenty. 

View from A1 Mountain

yearling calves as we rode to the bottom of Blue Bell Hill and started our ascent. I call this mile-long uphill Blue Bell Hill because my favorite ice cream is Blue Bell. I have a nasty little ice cream habit. I can pound down 1/2 gallon of the better flavors in a few short days. So, I’m not allowed to eat the ice cream unless I do BB hill, for obvious reasons. It negates the ingestion of fat and sugar calories, things I’m not willing to give up entirely. The (elk) girls looked fat and happy, and not too alarmed to see us. There were no newborns, and none of the cows appeared pregnant. I wondered if the cows with newborns were still off by themselves, waiting for their babies to acclimate to life in The Bowl before bringing them into the fold. Or maybe there were no new babies this year. Perhaps Big Boy was shooting blanks last fall.

I was on a double mission today. I tell my friends that I’m “training” for the Rim to Rim hike I’m attempting in 3 weeks into the Grand Canyon, and I suppose in a way I am. But I’m still doing what I normally do in The Bowl come summer. I’m just doing more of it. The girls and I were starting out on a 10 mile bike and hike on this day. I started with BB hill and worked my way towards more hills on my bike, and then chose to hike on A1 mountain south of the house. The second part of my mission today: to look for and find an elk shed. I decided that if I rode my bike to A1, then set out on foot to look for antler sheds, I was sure to find one , since I would be unable to carry the 25 lb hunk of bone home on my bike. As per Murphy’s Law, this would necessitate two trips. One to get my bike home and another to bring the shed home. I was brimming with optimism.

I stashed my bike in some brush at the saddle between A1 and Brown Mountain, so named for it’s appearance after the Forest Service set a prescribed burn that got away from them. The fire incinerated this smaller mountain beside A1, previously un-named. I dubbed this smaller mountain ”Brown Mountain” in the aftermath of the blaze. It’s now easily identifiable even from town, as–you guessed it–it’s brown.

I decided if I had a snowball’s chance in hell of finding a shed, I’d find that chance on A1 Mountain. A1 is of the size and elevation to sustain several bull elk and their territories, and it’s dense cover is a honey hole for prey animals such as deer and elk. I decided to follow the myriad game trails that crisscrossed all over and around the mountain in search of sheds. In places, the trails looked like a freeway system, with trails connecting to other trails that then connected to other connections radiating out from other trails. Portions of the mountainside looked as though it had been harrowed with a plow where the animals had trampled the earth. I followed this intricate web of trails into the very bowels of the mountain.

Now A1 is not the healthiest mountain around. Parts of it are as dense as Cambodia, and fallen trees and dead, fallen branches cover much of the

try finding an antler in here

ground. In some places, branches lie on the ground so thickly that the ground cannot be seen. If you’ve never looked for an elk shed, it looks a lot like a dead tree branch laying on the ground. As I searched the mountainside, it was actually work to scan the crowded unhealthy areas to try and discern if one of the millions of bare branches on the ground were a shed or not.

Kip seeking squirrels on A1

As I walked along, the girls went nuts running all over the mountain. They were in highly seeking behavior–I suppose we all were. Each of us looking for something. We were an exceptionally happy group. Nothing makes me happier than to watch my dogs exploring nature. We were circumventing A1 while steadily climbing higher. Part of my seeking behavior was the need to see what lay around the next bend. When traversing a small mountain, the trail before you always curves– this made me want to keep moving. As I moved from dense blowdown into healthier areas of the mountain, I wondered if there existed a designated area where the bulls gathered come spring to wait– collectively–for their massive antlers to fall off, freeing them of 50 lbs of unneeded bone. I imagined the bull elk sitting around spinning yarns of the previous breeding season, belching and farting, assisting each other as their antlers loosened. I fantasized about finding a clearing littered with a dozen shed antlers, their tines shining bone-white in the sun against the forest floor. As I climbed to the very top of A1 without finding the shedding lounge, I decided I would be ecstatic just to find a single antler shed.

As we topped the last rise to the very top of A1– a surprisingly healthy area of forest entirely covered with elk poop– I spied a white ribcage off the trail. It was massive: a bull elk killed legally during hunting season. The quarters were expertly dissected and removed, and the head sawed neatly off mid-neck. Absent was the nauseating feeling I experience when I find a poached carcass. It still made me sad to know an elk fell prey to a hunter, but there wasn’t much I could do about that. As I examined the carcass (one of my all time favorite things to do, since I was about 7 years old), a chill went down my back. I had to consider that this carcass could be Big Boy. I flashed back to the crisp day last fall on one of my bike rides when I whistled to Big Boy, and he suddenly bugled, practically on top of me. He was fully into the frenzy of the rut, or breeding season, obliviously moving toward anything that made noise. A lucky hunter wouldn’t have had to try hard to bring Big Boy running to him. He would have been no match for a high powered rifle. Hormones are the downfall of so many species, at one time or another.

As I headed back to my bike, I came to the realization that Big Boy might not return to The Bowl this summer. After all, he’d be 8 or 9 years old by now, and that’s pretty old for a bull elk. I wondered if the bull I’ve been seeing fall after fall was one animal, or several. A mature bull elk looks almost identical to others, unless there is some unique physical characteristic to separate him from other mature bulls–a torn ear or large body scar. I thought about how this revelation made me feel, and in the end, I decided that it didn’t actually matter if Big Boy was one animal or many. It was the thrill of seeing an animal that large, that majestic, that wild, so close to my home that filled me with awe and admiration.

I clipped in to my bike pedals, and the girls and I turned toward home. Antlerless but in possession of so much from the day on A1 mountain.

Upon rising this morning, I found it was no longer necessary to fantasize about summer. Green grass covered my previously winter-bare acre. Birds sang and I had all the windows in the house open by 7:45. The sun was strong and bold as it pierced  my wall of north windows, and the pellet stove remained inactive. It was official: My favorite time of year was here.

I noticed a few things on this trip. First, even after 18 days, 2500 miles and 47 hours in the car, I wasn’t in the least bit tired–physically or mentally. In fact, the more I worked, the more recharged and vital I felt. This was not normal. Usually my ass is dragging by this point in my travels and I feel weak and irritable. It was as if those around me infused me with some sort of vital energy, and I felt like I was in my 20′s again. I’ve always noticed that working on the dogs recharges me spiritually, but never physically. And it’s not like I’m in shape. In fact, I’m probably in the worst shape of my life right now. Winter was cruel in many ways– both mentally and physically– but in the case of the latter, it was especially so. A season of  wet and heavy snow  followed by warmer weather made for copious amounts of mud on the ground. The snow never stayed around long enough to get fit shoeing or XC skiing, and when it melted, biking was impossible and hiking was a chore. If we went out, the girls and I would return exhausted from the effort of schlepping through the mud, and all of us required bathing once we got back home. Not really events that made you want to go out and do it again the next day. And I didn’t. I was carrying about 10 extra pounds and felt soft and vulnerable.

Before leaving for California, I had made the necessary changes to start eating better. Could it be that I was feeling the effects of a healthier diet? Or was it more a mental shift caused by summer’s nearing that made me feel so strong and vital?

I didn’t know and truly didn’t care what had caused the changes in me. It was a wonderful place to be and I was thoroughly enjoying it. The next 3 weeks would be filled with outdoor activity for the 3 of us, especially hiking, as I had a grueling 24 mile Rim-to-Rim hike to prepare for. I was going with a few friends to hike down into, along, and then out of, the Grand Canyon. In one hike. For preparation, I had bought a few different types of trail shoes for the epic and was going to try them out on Humphries mountain, the 12,600 foot high peak behind the house. I could see there was still a ridge of snow at the summit, and hoped I could get through it to get to the top.

The girls seemed content to be back in The Bowl. They lounged sleepily on the deck, only half-interested in keeping watch over their territory. Around noon, we headed into the woods for a ride. It was warm and the breeze felt good on my bare arms and legs. After struggling up Blue Bell Hill, I stopped at our favorite rest spot atop the mesa. It was hard to imagine that just a few short months ago, I was wearing winter gear and freezing my arse off. I was seeing abundant signs of the herd. They were using my bike paths as trails and I noted one pair of rather large tracks in the old mud. I chose to believe they were Big Boy’s, for who else would they belong to? Yes, it was good to be home.

Morning light is higher now, and sunlight streams in through my north windows, heating the house up nicely. A bag of pellets now lasts a week or more. I made it through the mild, dry winter of 2011-2012 using just over a ton, or 64 bags. A good trade: $1600 worth of propane for $300 of pellets. I’ll take it.

The girls and I drove to Sedona yesterday to hike Secret Canyon. I grew weary of jostling in the car during the 3 1/2 miles over an extremely rough jeep road, and parked the Envoy 1.5 miles into the drive. I could walk the road almost as quickly as I was driving it, and without the bone jarring swaying and bumping. After parking, we hiked 13 miles in just under 5 hours and saw some beautiful things. The girls loved running along and playing in the creek. We hiked over high mountain desert, and down into slot canyons boasting lovely narrows and flora and fauna I wasn’t expecting to see in Sedona. It seems that where water flows, the environment morphs and flourishes,  becoming verdant and lush. We hiked among towering pine trees, and stands of hearty Oak trees. The creek shores were lined with skeletal, white-barked Sycamore trees. While it was hot and dry as we crossed the arid desert portion of the trail, it turned blissfully cool as we dropped down into Secret Canyon.

As we drove through Sedona proper on our way home, I realized this would be our last trip here until winter,  which was as far from my mind as Mars on this day. Already the temperatures in Sedona were too hot to bike, and hiking ran the risk of rattlesnake encounters. Not to mention the tourists were gearing up. Even though school was still in session, we crept along main street at a crawl. Once out of town, we were stuck behind tourists in RV’s, gawking at the beauty. I understood this, and remained relatively patient for the remainder of the 23 mile drive up the narrow, twisting road that took us out of Oak Creek Canyon towards The Bowl. I knew I wouldn’t be able to maintain the state of patience for long. It was time to stay close to home and enjoy the beauty in my own backyard for the next 8 months.

I was breathing a sigh of relief since dropping my taxes off at the accountants. My to-do list was mostly crossed off, and the stress of tax time was over for now. I realize this last statement makes me seem like I’m an accountant, which I’m not. It is my procrastination and disorganization that makes tax time such an epic event for me.  In its wake, my office–upstairs in my airy loft– looked as though an earthquake and tornado had occurred, simultaneously.

I was in the shower the other night and decided to see how long it took me to wipe it down. I do this religiously each and every night post-shower, in order to avoid the minerals in my well water from coating my slate tiles with white deposits. It also serves the purpose of cleaning the shower nightly. I never have to clean it since it never gets dirty. 4 minutes. That was 2 hours per month, 24 hours per year. An entire day of my life spent wiping. It seemed absurd to me. I e mailed my friend Karen about this revelation, expecting her to deem it an extravagant waste of time, but her response surprised me. She thought it was a splendid thing, noting that it sure beat spending an entire day at year’s end scrubbing hard water minerals and soap scum off the glass. Karen is used to chipping away at things. She could see the value in the 4 minute rule. I’m more wait-and-do-it-all-at-once, instant results, even though this technique often causes bitterness as I ask myself why I couldn’t just keep up with whatever I was spending the entire day doing, whether it was oiling all of my furniture or vacuuming the kitchen cabinets out.

Then I got to thinking, what if I used the 4 minute rule each day to do something–perform a chore or start a task? If I were able to wipe my shower down–happily– each and every night, why couldn’t I oil furniture, vacuum cabinets and organize my loft the same way? 4 minutes weren’t terribly long in the big picture. Hell, I could probably hold my breath for that long if I positively had to. The hardest part of this plan would be doing it consistently until it became a habit, like the shower. Most days, I take 5 minutes to make and de-hair my bed, and put dog toys and TV remotes away. What was 4 more? I already knew that many times when I set my timer for 15 minutes in order to jump-start a project, I often ended up working long past that time, getting massive amounts of work completed efficiently. But herein lies the rub. If I spend too much time doing something, it becomes a chore and I’m not likely to keep doing it. Balance will be the key here (as in all things, no?)– I had to pick an amount of time brief enough to be doable, but long enough to actually get something accomplished. After all, I was going to spend one entire day of my life each year doing this– I wanted it to be worth that. I thought it was worth a try. Things like “clean out file cabinets” might actually be completed this way, 4 minutes at a time. I was contemplating the possibilities and pitfalls,  realizing I had to try it. I was sitting at a desk whose top could not be seen under the piles of clothing, paper and other detritus littering it’s top.

I glanced out my windows at the dogs sleeping on the deck. As my resolve was solidified, I reached for my timer….

Kate wore the red polar fleece on our backpacking adventures when she was cold, which was often. At night when the temperature fell, I’d put the fleece on her, and Kate would curl up as close to the fire as she could get without being incinerated, sucking up the warmth it cast. The fleece was dotted with tiny holes, fallout from errant sparks that melted the fibers when logs settled and sparked. Holding Kate’s fleece and having those memories come flooding back knocked a hole in the shaky defenses around my heart. All I could do was bury my face in the sweater and sob inconsolably. The same thing happened with my taxes. Entering the credit card charges associated with the end of Kate’s life felt like a plug was suddenly pulled on the bottom of my heart and my joy and resolve drained away and left me naked, cold and shivering.

This combination of occurrences leaves my heart aching for Kate. I want so desperately to gather that Black Dog in my arms, bury my face in her fur and just drink her in (she would, of course, hate this). I think it’s the fact that these episodes, when they occur, are now so unexpected for me. I start to think I’m over the grief and sadness of Kate’s passing, fooled into a false sense of security and control by the mirrors my heart’s put up to make it feel stronger than it actually is. Mirrors that reflect an energetic puppy back to me, one who  needs my constant care and attention. I’m a consummate control freak, and when things hit me out of the blue like this, I’m left reeling, my heart scampering to rebalance. It feels like slipping on ice without warning–arms windmilling involuntarily–as you struggle to keep your feet beneath you, struggle not to fall. Falling hurts physically, and instinctively the body fights to avoid it. Memories hurt emotionally, but I’ve no instincts–no refelxes– for helping my heart avoid the fall. It simply doesn’t know what to do to stay balanced. When you fall emotionally, it seems that it hurts so much more when your heart hits the ground. Like it’s so much further to fall.

I think the infrequency of these heart-falls and the mere fact that I’m not expecting them is much of what causes my sadness. That and the sudden, aching desire to see Kate again when I’m reminded of her in these little ways– to feel the velvet-soft fur of her enormous ears, or feel her dreaming beside me at night, her legs twitching as she chases squirrels and rabbits through a dreamscape of her choosing. As she aged, Kate would often wag her tail in her dreams. I often wondered what she was experiencing now,  in the autumn of her life, that caused her joy. Kate was not a tail-wagger, and it touched my heart to see her do so in her sleep. I wanted to believe she was seeing me in those dreams–that finally she had warmed to the idea of being held and touched, and it was something she loved. I think that’s why I’m so in love with the way Rolo constantly wags her tail, and sometimes I let myself believe that Rolo is Kate reborn into a supple new body and doing things differently this time around. Demonstrating her love of life through the uninhibited use of her tail.

The heart is a complex and enigmatic thing. No law or principle can be applied to it, and like snowflakes, there are no two that are alike anywhere in the universe. Maybe it’s the sparkle of new snow I now see that reminds me of this, and adds to my sadness. Maybe it’s that spring was so cruelly put on hold, my home now closed up tight like a terrapin avoiding the curious intrusion of an outsider.

I look over my shoulder to see what Rooney is doing. Curled up on her puppy bed (Kate’s bed), her head rests on one of my bedroom slippers she has carried upstairs with her this morning. She senses my stare, and lifts her head slowly, yawning in sleepy response to my gaze. Her face softens with a dog smile and her tail starts thumping. She absolutely adores me. I am the sun and the moon to her, her safe place to fall. I am her hero and that’s all I need to be for right now.

I was so frustrated, I took my anger out on myself first. Why did I procrastinate until everything had to happen yesterday? (Even though I started my taxes a full 10 days before my appointment with my accountant, hardly procrastination). The fact that my frustration built over 3 days to the point at which I was crying and cussing out people on the phone whom I didn’t even know, is not something I’m proud of. I felt like I was someone else, and I was horrified at how she was handling the situation. I truly believe that if I were dealing with stress and frustration on a daily basis, as I used to, I wouldn’t have lost my shit today. But that’s a double-edged sword–I can’t imagine becoming used to– or at the very least un-flummoxed by— what happened today. I think what upset me most about this experience, was the fact that I was unable to shake the set-back. I fumed because I had fumed. I couldn’t let it go–the fact that I’d wasted so much time on something that netted me zero–and that distressed me more than everything else combined.

I stomped around and kicked things, slammed doors and threw things. The girls were graciously submissive and understandably confused in their insecurity over my odd behavior, which made me feel even worse, and didn’t help to improve my mood. When I get like this, the only thing that helps me is throwing myself into hard physical labor. So, for the antidote to my stress, I decided to do something useful or at least mindless and exhausting. I spent 2 hours and shoveled 600 square feet of exceptionally wet, heavy snow off the north deck. This did 2 things: it created a useable living space for the girls and me, and it channeled my frustration, which was the first step in diffusing it. I don’t normally enjoy doing things that don’t have to be done–in 4 or 5 days, the sun would have cleared the deck quite nicely without my having to lift a finger, let alone a shovel, but the way I saw it, I didn’t have 4 or 5 days to feel the way I did. I needed relief NOW.

I wish I could have taken the high road and gone for a lovely snow shoe with the girls. Just shake the episode off. I know they would have enjoyed the exercise, and it would have been a healthy solution for me, but I wasn’t in the mental, physical or emotional condition to attempt a snow shoe through heavy, wet snow and mud. It would have risked making my mood darker, somewhere I wasn’t willing to go. Even one shade darker may have meant lives lost or property destroyed, most likely by fire. I was at least coherent (and smart) enough not to go down that road.

enjoying the newly shoveled deck

I’m OK now. Once I had my deck cleared, and my frustrations out, I sat out on my new living space and enjoyed the day, sipping beer and mindlessly reading a magazine while chucking tennis balls into the snow for the girls to find. This activity tired them out nicely. By 4 p.m. they were both asleep in the garage, and this helped assuage my guilt over not being a dutiful dog Mom today. In the end, the day turned out well. It was a gorgeous spring day, sunny and still, and I reveled in the sounds of songbirds celebrating it’s emergence from the long, dark maw of winter. The air was riotous with their ebullient songs. It was in the 60′s today, and windless– a real bonus. One I felt was deserved after the 26 inches of snow we all had to endure over the weekend. The sun is at that pre-summer angle in the sky now, high and strong. Bold, confident light that knows who it is and is no longer hiding demurely behind the skirt of winter.

I finished pulling the day out of my ass by playing my piano for almost 2 hours. Good, quality practicing time where I took my time and ironed out some wrinkles and made myself be patient, opting for understanding at the expense of the finished tempo (complete with mistakes). Doing this served to rebalance my wrongs from earlier in the day. I enjoyed this attention to detail, this end from a day that started out so poorly that salvaging it seemed impossible. A victory earned by the home team. In the end, I realized that the only thing I had control over today was my reaction to not having control. Within that realization, I like to think I learned a little about myself along the way.