'It's a 'Wonderful' Life'

Everywhere I looked, there it was. It never mattered how often I washed, swept, raked, vacuumed, shampooed or dusted, or filled holes made by 'them', dirt was a part of living - inside and outside. Dirt was a constant, a gentle reminder of life. Pristine environments did not exist here, only dirt of the nicest kind.

Kitchen floors are the easiest to clean. Seeing the results of them makes my jobs in that room seem more enjoyable. Have I discovered a way to measure my worth as a labourer? Hard to tell. Cleaning can be exhilarating, a before and after way of telling me the changes that have taken place because of time, effort and thought. Washing patio glass panels is another gratifying feat of labour. With spray bottle in hand and cloth in the other, all 'forensic' evidence of puppy nose prints disappear, making the out doors seem much closer. I repeat the process tomorrow.

We now have straw in our lives, strewn everywhere, where grass once grew, an ongoing task to keep the fenced area for our dogs 'fresh' with this clean blanket of warmth, protection and cleanliness. As these layers of 'insulation' or 'carpet' begin to decompose, slowly, the ground beneath, mother nature's turf, becomes visible, a gentle reminder that more bales are needed. With April showers comes mud then May flowers. Summer is just around the corner and with it dust, perhaps, rain, then mud, again. Living in the country poses its own unique footprint.

Dogs invaded our heart and home, decades ago. Along with these precious animal moments came dirt. One morning stands out. As I parked the car, late that morning, I noticed Mother Nature's soil, a few yards away, a bewildering sight, encompassing a huge area of the lawn near the fenced area of play. The scene seemed quite bizarre. Dirt bathed this doggy grassy area as though an excavator had visited, without consent, to dig a massive hole for a new basement, depositing dirt in random fashion - everywhere! ... But we did not need a new basement, I knew. Alas, the excavator in question was our sweet 100 pound, yellow male retriever, Sam. He had dug a deep, wide circle until he found whatever it was he had been looking for. Upon closer inspection, the results of his overwhelming nuisance behaviour was made clear. He'd found nothing other than the excitement of digging until he ran out of steam and purpose. A pipe leading to the house was evidence of his mission.

Our precocious pup had laid bare a part of the main 'septic' pipe leading from our house to the tank. Had anything ruptured? Did I need a plumber? Oh my. An examination of the site revealed that all was intact, just exposed, in a most shocking way. One hour later, after returning all dirt to its rightful place, life resumed, cautiously. I checked the paws of our maladjusted pup, the canine excavator. Digging was in his genome, I knew. But this was ridiculous, to me, not to him. The evidence of his misdeed could not be hidden. He was covered from head to paw in dirt on his golden blanket of fur. The layer of soil told a clever story of a busy boy, left on his own, to pursue 'play' in his unique retriever 'style', while I ran errands. Dirt lay deeply embedded within his delicate 'instruments of play', and on his beautiful 'pink' face. His sister was clean, being only a witness to the event, while pleading the '5^th'!

Years into the future, another mess, a 'wet' one, greeted me, one morning, as I entered the den where four dogs had been sleeping. ... (Cotton towels placed on top of broadloom made cleaning a snap in this room. (Removing the dirty 'covers', checking for spots, perhaps vacuum beneath and all is well in my dirt-filled world). On this particular morning, however, the dirt trail took on new meaning as a widespread puppy 'mess' assailed my senses, as I walked downstairs. ... My Mr.Wiggles was a newly 'minted' adult, then, living vicariously outside his temporary home, from birth, - his cage - when the massive event took place.

A story of helplessness and unease had greeted me that early morning. He'd waited for help to arrive. Running towards several 'exits' had served only to spread his DNA. When I arrived, Mr. Wiggles had been sitting motionless, in the farthest corner of his cage, staring at me, in complete bewilderment. “What should I have done”, he seemed to ask. Nothing my sweet boy. Absolutely nothing. One hour later, all was well in puppy world. A second load of laundry was underway. A 'smell check' of 16 feet and paws - told an incredible story of strength and resolve.

Nary a drop of DNA 'dirt' was found on the feet of four furry creatures. They'd managed to stay clean during a stressful event of one of their own. Its meaning had not been lost on me. Be prepared and grateful for life's little reminders.Things can always get worse.

Four Men and a Puppy

His initial arrival was fraught with uncertainty, he might have believed. But once he imprinted on our hearts and minds, in the provocative ways he did, he was ours forever. Babysitting the newest jewel in a family of furries is now a family affair. His shenanigans are a testament to his desire to show the world that he has arrived.

Emerson, the beagle mix puppy, was thrust into the hands of many, soon after arriving. But these people cared. A business trip by his travelling salesman, 'dad' forced the rest of us to conform to some sort of random structure to allow for all things a puppy needs: exercise, food and a place of warmth, structure and safety. This puppy has many faces. As a tiny erupting volcano, he was unsure of his surroundings, uneasy about the things in it but sure about the care he was receiving. He slowly began to trust. His initial timidity was a concern, but unrelenting hugs, tender touches, and whispering soft voices and instruction began to take effect on this lonely little soul.

Mall Cop and Ella's dad takes 'our' Emerson on walks, with his cousins, during day time business hours, in the neighbourhood. Pets on board is a company perk. Another brother occasionally fills in, the home of rescue cat sisters, a place of last resort, whenever no one else can. This brother works from home. 'Top dog' is these brothers' dad and co-owner of the eternally rambunctious Mr. Wiggles and Sally, his sister, who through the magic of simply being present, is able to give the gift of time and security under his laptop computer desk, hoping little Emerson finds peace and serenity there. He's our IT pup.

The magic of dog treats, carrot and celery sticks, compatible foods for a raw diet, entices Emerson, luring him into the house when he occasionally runs outside, unnoticed. Grasping the seriousness of his situation causes his caregivers to chase him. He stops, looks, while listening to the words of those near, as he happily runs back into the house. Cookies await! In the evening, back at home, whenever a movie marathon begins, Emerson is nestled in the lap of his dad, who had simply scrolled down, one day, to see what the animal world had to offer. (A pet rescue was always on his mind). There were endless lists of pictures of lonely, homeless and abused animals needing families. Now there is one less creature crouching alone in the corner, frightened by his own shadow, having been mistreated or abandoned by others.

Emerson gleefully accompanies his grandpa wherever he goes. His needs require round the clock care. Being ours makes him special. In his miniature world he can handle it all, from Mall Cop, Ella, Sally to Mr. Wiggles. In his dad's world, he is number one; in mine, one of many. He is learning to follow the rules, to share, surrounded by many male humans who love animals. His species raised our three boys. Now it is our turn to return the favour. It takes a village, sometimes two. What really matters for Emerson is the love and respect that surrounds him every day. He is my beautiful ray of sunshine.

He is magically transforming himself into the majestic dog he is. He sits eagerly as his meal is prepared in the kitchen. He is learning to wait patiently, seated for the food to arrive. He knows I'm a good 'cook'. Occasionally, he 'talks back' remembering that growls or bites to his cousins or me lands him in 'cage jail' for a few minutes. He is learning fast. His lovable demeanour makes him a wonderful companion, even as he attempts to 'devour' the neck of Mr. Wiggles, outside during running play. “Where's the soccer ball”?, I ask. In haste, our retriever wiggler runs to get this large distraction, enticing Emerson to grasp one end. Failure to comply is met with words of warning and a spray bottle in hand. No more neck surgery, please. The puppy knows. A clap of my hands 'overhead' stops everything as I attempt to teach Emerson, one more thing. He is listening well.

Emerson is no longer afraid of strange things. I'm here to protect him. He knows. “She can be trusted”. She only wants the best for me, the little boy who loves life and everything in it. He carries his pillow bed, here and there. It is his version of a quilt to help him see that this new world is his now, a nice place to be, after all.