IF PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE, DOES THAT MEAN I AM WICKED?

A few years back, my husband and I bought a Prius.  The following year, a close friend bought one too.  One day, when I was pondering where to store emergency supplies in our car, this friend suggested I put them in the hidden area under the trunk’s floor.

Hidden area?  I didn’t know there was a hidden area.

When I asked her how she knew about this, she told me she had read the manual. What a concept.  I have never read a car’s manual, except to look up how to perform a particular function or to find out why there is suddenly an alarming-looking exclamation point on my dashboard   There are probably many features of my car (and past cars) that I know (or have known) nothing about.

Here’s the thing.  I have a teensy problem with impatience.  Sitting and reading through a car manual is beyond my patience limits.  Same with reading directions.  Sure, I can read and follow a recipe (if, and when, I feel like cooking), but carefully reading about how to put together something like a bookcase or a desk that arrives in pieces in a box – I just can’t make myself do it.  

In my defense, the directions are often badly translated from Japanese or Swedish.  And don’t get me started on the diagrams.  But even if they were written in perfect English, with diagrams aimed at a third grader, I would be unlikely to get beyond the first page before my eyes glazed over.  

 

I am not proud of my impatience.  I know it isn’t attractive.  It gets me into trouble with my husband sometimes – he being a slow-talking Midwesterner, and I being a fast-talking Jersey girl.  “Are you going to finish your sentence?” I will ask when he takes one of his 10 to 15-second pauses mid-thought.  

Not nice, I know, but I feel like my idle is set too fast, and I don’t know how to reset it.  (Is there a manual for this?)

Sometimes—to my detriment—I combine impatience with procrastination.  I can’t make myself pack for a trip ahead of time.  I wait until the last minute when I don’t have the time or patience to do it right.  In consequence, I will wind up throwing way too many of the wrong clothes into a suitcase and hoping for the best.  (I have done better with infrequent trips abroad – for these, I make myself decide which five things I will wear for two weeks.  But, car trips, fuggedaboudit – there is no limit to what can be jammed into a car.)

 

And while I am confessing, I will share that I am extremely impatient when I am sick.  My husband will simply sit and read when he is under-the-weather.  Not me.  I will chafe against my restrictions until impatience turns to panic, as I become certain that I will never feel well again.  

Why can’t I be more like him?  (If patience is my spiritual lesson for this lifetime, I may have to live another hundred years, and there is no guarantee that would be long enough.)  

There are, however, occasions for what I will call justified impatience.  These include long lines at stores that have fired most of their checkers and replaced them with self-checkout stands; waiting on hold with a company that refuses to hire enough humans to service their customers; phone trees with no humans at the end; phone helpers who have neither answers nor power; and companies whose only phone help is a recording telling you to search their web site, which, of course, does not have the answer to your question. I will not apologize for my impatience in these situations, although I do try not to take out my frustration on the aforementioned phone helpers.  

Justified impatience aside, I do get this patience thing right at times.  I have endless patience for my granddaughters, aged one and one-and-a-half.  I am charmed when they hand me things over-and-over again or want me to read the same book multiple times.  I was patient and present during my years as a hospice volunteer.  I am never bored in my garden, where my back gives out long before my patience, and I can sit for a long time once I get going on a writing project.  

That’s a start, isn’t it?  

I’ll report back in a hundred years . . .

                                               Art by Carl Chew
 

 

            

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FAREWELL TO A CANINE COMPANION

Five days ago, we released our dog, Rusty, into the mystery we call death. 

I did not expect to miss him as much as I do.

 

Let me explain.  

I am not a dog person.  I have had only two dogs in my life.  The first came into our home when my eldest was about eight.  Anne had begged for a dog for two years before I finally agreed.  Jesse, a Shetland Sheep Dog or “Sheltie,” turned out to be a wonderful dog.  He was a beautiful and intelligent creature, who herded our two daughters and generally comported himself well.

 

Of course, daughterly begging notwithstanding, he turned out to be my dog.  I walked and fed him and came to love him.  After Jesse left this life at about age 14, we lived happily, dog-free for a couple of years -- until daughter number two, then a college student, decided that we really needed another dog.  

 

We didn’t want another dog, and I can’t really explain how Mara talked us into it.  Maybe it had to do with her searching a web site with pictures of all the rescue dogs in three counties until she found a dog with difficult-to-resist, soulful eyes. 

Or maybe it was the fact that the dog was literally in prison, being cared for by incarcerated young men, who were permitted to train rescue dogs as a reward for good behavior.

So, yes, we visited the prison—passed through security gates, leaving our valuables behind. You can guess what happened next.  After watching him go through his paces, we agreed to adopt Rusty.  

This was in August, and a couple of weeks later, Mara went back to college, and after graduating a year later, moved out, leaving us with our new pet.  

 

What had we been thinking?

 

Rusty, a Blue-Heeler mix, was high-strung, energetic, and challenging from the start.  Blue heelers are also known as Australian Cattle Dogs.  He needed cows.  We could not help with this. 

 

The first week we had Rusty, he bit me.  Within a week, he had bitten a neighbor.  Had we reported the second bite, we would have had to have him euthanized then and there.  We considered this, but sent him to doggie boot camp instead.  

 

He came home a better-behaved dog, and perhaps sensing my discomfort, attached himself to my husband.  He and Bill were inseparable.  Rusty would nearly knock me over to get to Bill if I came in from the garage first.

 

And so, for over ten years, things were mostly OK, except for the fact that some of my friends were afraid to walk through our front door because of Rusty’s ferocious barking.  We would have to shut him in a room until the visitor had made it through the door and settled in a chair, after which he would greet them in a mostly civilized fashion, accepting them into the herd.  He would also put on an alarming performance when anyone left.  I guess he felt they were breaking up the herd.  

 

We never allowed Rusty to be around children, and always kept him on a leash while walking him.

 

In short, he was not a calming dog, and living with him was often stressful.  On the other hand, when he wasn’t barking or snarling, he was a loving and interesting dog.  And he was very smart.  When Mara adopted a much smaller dog, and Rusty found he couldn’t herd him, he would simply place his body over that of the smaller dog and contain him that way.  

OK, I’m coming to the part where I miss him.  

About a year ago, Rusty started showing signs of doggie dementia, and these signs got worse over time:  Pacing, getting lost in the house, barking to go out and come back in multiple times in an hour, and forgetting how to go outside to do his business, making it necessary for us to constantly have a pee pad on the floor.  

 

And then he bit me.  

 

I went to attach his leash to his collar, and he turned his head and bit me.  He didn’t break the skin, but he left a large and painful bruise.  I spoke to our vet, and she agreed that it was time to let him go.  And so, we had another vet, who makes house calls, come to our home and free Rusty from his agitation.  

 

I had never been present for such a moment before. It was incredibly moving and sad.  After Bill and the vet carried Rusty’s empty shell out to the vet’s car, I opened some windows to let his spirit fly free, and walked around in the silence, trying to take in the fact that our companion of 13 ½ years was gone.  

 

And now, I miss him.  Each day, I notice his absence in a different way.  He isn’t there, waiting for a broccoli stem to fall into his mouth when I am chopping vegetables.  He isn’t there ripping up toilet paper.  He isn’t there for us to rush back to when we go out.  He isn’t there sleeping behind our chairs when we watch TV.  He isn’t there barking at Bill to take him for a walk.  

 

He was a piece of work, and I miss him.  

 

My friend Bonnie, who, with her husband, sometimes took care of Rusty, said this about him:  He was as good a dog as he could be, for as long as he could be.  

 

I hope we were as good companions to him as we could be, for as long as we could be.