Doing the "Walk"

Birdie, our Border Collie Corgi mix, and I, have been on a roll lately with our daily walks.  In the past week, since retiring, I have determined that I cannot spend my retirement lounging in my recliner.  Though comforting, my mid-section is rebelling and making a move to be the predominant feature of my physique.  It is prepping me to be a department store Santa come Christmas and I won’t need a pillow to round out the costume.  With some hesitation and reluctance, some optimism, and a whole lot of prompting from the dog and wife . . . we transitioned to walking . . . lots of walking.  I figured out if I was going to walk I should go all in . . . both feet, literally.

It's not like walking hasn’t been a part of my life’s regime.  Until my wife retired a year ahead of me, it was my task to walk the dogs.  Four to five evenings–weather permitting, I walked the dogs.  Yep, that’s right–dogs, Birdie and Quinn (a tiny miniature Dachshund).  Such a combination is an adventure.  Quinn’s idea of a walk is from any room into the kitchen.  But she put up with it because she wanted to be where her sister was.  It was half walk, half drag . . . constant encouragement . . . and at times, pick up and carry.  At all times being stared down with a look of “what the hell!”  The point is that I walked the dogs.

Once my wife retired she finagled walking the dogs from me.  She convinced me to relax and rest after a hard day at work.  She’d walk the dogs, besides she needed exercise.  Who was I to argue? For over a year she became the primary dog walker.  The dogs didn’t complain . . . especially Quinn who recognized a downgrade when she saw one.  Less distance, less effort, and less time from napping.  It worked well . . . 

. . . until I retired.

Walking the dog duties have been split since I have retired.  Birdie walks with me.  Quinn protests with the wife as they attempt to walk.  Birdie gets longer and more vigorous walks with me.  Quinn, when she is not protesting, gets shorter and more pedestrian walks.  Birdie loves walks.  Quinn, at best, tolerates walks.  Remember she is a miniature Dachshund.  That means everything has to be just “right” for a walk.  There can be no wind.  No moisture of any type–no snow, no rain.  No weather.  It has to be perfect.  If forced to walk when she doesn’t want to, there are two results . . . she plops her butt down, spreads her front legs and dares to be pulled to walk.  We live on a dirt road and proof of resistance is well documented in the trial she leaves down the road.  This typically leads to the second result . . . she gets picked up and carried.  Which she enjoys and loves.  Either way the wife gets more exercise than she bargained for.  The bottom line is that the dogs get walked in some shape or form.

As I stated earlier, Birdie and I have been on a roll since starting.  We have walked all over the community and so far have not repeated a single route.  That is the nice thing about living in a small rural community in Montana . . . there are lots of places to go strolling.  Lots of variety in the landscape.  Lots of doggie and wildlife scents . . . lots of pee mail.  Birdie is on scent overload and I am combatting elderly tummy spread.  We are both happy.

At the same time, I worry.  I worry that I might kill my pup.  I stand at 5’10” in height.  Birdie stands 15 inches at her shoulders.  She is a small dog–that is her Corgi side.  My strides are much longer than hers.  Like every exercise optimist I use a Fitbit to monitor my physical activity.  It tells me how many steps I walk each day.  On our daily walks, Birdie and I are averaging 7,500 steps.  Well, that is what I average.  I imagine that Birdie averages two to three times more steps since she is so short.  In my estimation–in doggie steps, she is walking between 15,000 and 22,500 steps.  For the two of us that equates to about 3.7 miles.  We’ve been cooking it and we both sleep well at night.

Still, I worry.

Luckily her breeding makes her smart.  Probably smarter than me.  She does know her limits and is not afraid to let me know.  She either intensifies the pee mail reading, constantly stopping, and attempting to get every word of what she is sniffing.  Or she slows down to a crawl or Quinn pace/  Thus far our walks have not been a problem for her.  It’s tough to wipe the smile off her face at the end of our walks.

I’m not sure if Birdie and I will continue at our torrid pace.  The competitor in me says that we are just beginning.  That we are setting the baseline for walks . . . that the sky is the limit.  There is much of our area we have not explored . . . adventures not taken.  We have many walks ahead of us.  It is important.  Each afternoon, Birdie comes and sits at my feet and stares . . . watching for that moment, that moment that I move towards the door and utter those two words, “Let’s go!” It makes her day.  Together we are happy and filled with joy.  At this rate I won’t be playing Santa at Christmas.

 

Basking

Okay . . . I admit it.  For years I have envied my dogs’ ability to discover the gift of a moment.  To be present in an opportunity.  I have envied, but more importantly admired their ability and willingness to carpe diem—“seize the moment”.

This epiphany came unexpectedly as I was sitting in my recliner.  Quinn, our mini-Dachshund, was cuddled in my lap snoozing away . . . enjoying the warmth of my lap and the sun shining through the picture window.  She was basking in the warmth of it all.  Basking . . . to lie exposed to warmth and light for relaxation and pleasure.  She looked so comfortable, so peaceful, so oblivious to the outside world . . . some sort of blissful nirvana.  She looked asleep.  In that moment of recognition, I realized that I was jealous.  Jealous of my canine’s ability to bask.

 

Of course, the envy was ridiculous on my part.  Ever since retiring it has been difficult to let loose a lifetime habit based on a schedule of labor.  A month into retirement I find it difficult to relax, let loose, and just be in the moment.  I no longer have a schedule dictating my waking moments.  I no longer must be anywhere.  I am no longer responsible for people or projects.  I am not obligated.  I realize that but it is hard to let go of hard-wired habits.  Freedom was there.  I can do whatever I want within the boundaries set by my spouse.  So, pretty much, I was free.  Free to even bask if I want.

 

The epiphany didn’t end with a realization of my envy . . . no, it ended with an ironic awareness that lying back in my recliner, sun coming through the window warmly, caressing my body . . . I was basking!  In fact, I have been basking for a week or two now.  Lying back, pup in lap, relishing the sun’s warmth.  For a couple of weeks now the sun’s light has been shining through and perfectly striking my chair bathing it in soothing warmth.  And I have been basking.

 

Basking . . . it is wonderful!  Lying there in the sunshine, soaking in the warmth, and relaxed.  I’d roll over on my back, but I’m already there.  I’d pull my shirt up to expose my belly, but there would be those who oppose . . . in particular, my wife . . . that’s going too far.  It would be nice though if someone would rub my belly like I rub my dogs’.  Ain’t going to happen.  So, I bask. What I have noticed from observing my dogs is that a good bask results in a state of sleep.

 

Sleeping . . . the ultimate state of basking.  It is true.  The art of basking provides moments of blissful sleep when done right.  I saw it with my dogs and experienced it for myself.  Can’t complain about it because it is wonderful to catch a few Zs in the warmth of sunshine.  The pups know it and I now know it.

 

Unfortunately, the bliss of basking is short-lived—at least for me.  Apparently in a recliner I am both a restless and noisy napper.  I guess I’m not as relaxed as I think I am.  My legs twitch and wiggle.  I snore.  I always have whenever I am sleeping on my back.  It really doesn’t bother me.  Quinn, our mini-Dachshund, on the other hand, finds this annoying.  She lifts her head, stares at me with a look that says, “What the hell!”  Kind of messes up her basking.  Mine, too.  Now I am self-conscious.  Embarrassed.  For me, the basking is done . . . pups come first.

 

But I’ll take it.  Though short in duration it is worth the self-conscious embarrassment brought on by a ten-pound wiener dog.  Basking is wonderful and I should have been practicing it my whole life.  Everyone should bask.  Everyone should lay, exposed to the warmth and light of the sun.  It is relaxing.  It is pleasurable.  Comforting.  Peaceful.  Calming.  A wonderful respite from the craziness of the world we live in.

 

In the future, as we transition through the seasons, do not be alarmed if I move my basking around from the recliner in the living room to the rocker on the deck to the laying in the backyard grass . . . tummy exposed. Waiting.  Waiting for someone to come and rub my tummy.  Nirvana at its best.  It works for my pups . . . so why not me?      

 

O Winter, Where Art Thou?

Winter is nature's way of saying, "Up yours." 

(Robert Byrne)

We've not seen much winter around here lately--not even a good hint!  That is coming close to blasphemy here in Montana where winter seems to like to make itself "king" for almost six months of the year.  Basically since October we have had two storms with significant and measurable snow and lots of little one or two inch dustings of snow--but nothing that even comes close to a so-called normal winter here in Montana.  At this point, in the little rural town where I live, we are probably a good 20 to 30 inches below our normal snow fall for this time of year.  Typically at this time of the year it would have been at least two months since I last saw the grass in the backyard, this year is out in plain sight for everyone to see.  At least with the snow the yard looks like everyone else's yard.  Winter just has not showed up . . . at least not here . . . and at least not yet. 

 Winter usually blows into Montana in mid-November with a few preludes in the weeks leading up to that time, but not this year.  We had one storm that created quite a stir, but it was a false alarm.  It created a little anxiety, a little fear, and people began bracing themselves for a long, long winter.  But hey, Montanans are used to winter.  Winter is the six to nine long months Montanans endure to enjoy the two months of summer.  With the first storm the snow shovels sold out, the snow blowers became hot commodities, and all the sidewalk salt disappeared--then nothing.  The snow melted and basically never came back.  There was great joy for those who hate winter, sadness for those who love winter, and then confusion for the rest of us who sit somewhere in between.  O winter, where art thou!

 We have not had snow . . . and, no, I do not miss the snow when I have to shovel it or drive through it.  I do not miss creeping along the roadways at a snail's pace, feeling my tires slide, and watching ambitious ignoramuses sliding off into the borrow ditches.  The number one excuse they give the highway patrol: "I thought my four-wheel drive could handle the ice at 70mph!"  Oh, if were so easy!  Nope, I do not miss the snow when it comes to shoveling or driving . . . but this tardy winter is beginning to make me nervous.  It is beginning to make lots of Montanans nervous.  What will the spring bring?

 I guess we will soon know--Groundhog's Day is just around the corner--February 2nd.  On that day Punxsutawney Phil will either see his shadow and bring more winter, or he won't and spring will be right around the corner.  The fear, at least here in Montana, is that it won't matter what ol' Phil sees --people are expecting the worse.  The fear is that Mother Nature is going to come in with vengeance and make up for lost time and snow--it will be nasty.  And, they might be right . . . at least based on experience.  

Last year a lot of snow fell in April and into May.  The Beartooth Pass did not open up until two weeks after Memorial Day--its traditional opening day.  The local ski resort picked up nearly 70 inches of snow after its last run on Easter weekend.  The hiking trails to get to the higher elevations were nearly impassable with snow until late June.  Experience tells us Montanan's that we better brace ourselves as the worse is yet to come.

It makes one anxious--especially me.  I am a weather worrier.  I check the local forecast every hour on the hour at the National Weather Service.  My only wish is that the weather forecasters would do a better job than they normally do--I have had egg on my face many times over the winter months when I braced for a blizzard and ended up with nothing more than a gentle dusting.  

I guess some will blame it on global warming--they probably are correct.  Others might blame it on an election year and all the "hot" air coming from the east.  Some might say that it is just the fact that winter flew the coop and went south for the winter with the rest of the snow birds.  Others just figure it is the lull before the storm and that Mother Nature is going to smack us good once we let down our guard.  I don't really know, but I do know that my snow shovel is getting rusty, the yard is drying up from lack of moisture, and there ain't no snow to be seen anywhere except up in the mountains!

 The only one who is relishing the fact that it hasn't snow is Dora the Dachshund--she hasn't had a belly dragging in the snow for over a month!  She loves the fact that she actually has ground clearance and it is nearly the start of February.  I love the fact that I don't have to go out to the backyard and shovel her paths to get around.  Yeah, we Montanans are getting use to the winter being tardy, but we also know that it is lulling us to sleep and we had better watch out.  Winter is out there and it is coming . . . we just don't know when!  That makes us nervous . . . real nervous.  O winter, where are thou?

It is coming.  Soon we will all be . . .