Anger

A couple weeks ago, I screwed up on Facebook.

Yep, it happens. It happens a lot actually. People say things they regret, or they get into pointless arguments, or they post drunken pictures of the party they shouldn't have been at because they'd called in sick to work that day. Facebook can be a minefield for the unwary and the careless.

I'm usually more careful, but I let my temper get away with me. When I get angry, words are my medium, my weapon, my outlet. If I'm angry with a person, I quite often write them a letter, though I rarely send those words spilled out in anger, burning through the page like acid. It helps me to get the anger out of my system, to pour it out and look at it with a saner mind, and quite often it helps me to put things into perspective.

Image by William Arthur Fine Stationary, courtesy of Flickr.

This time, in an impulsive moment, I poured my anger, grief and frustration out into a post, not meant to be seen by anyone involved, but I made a mistake. Well, I made TWO mistakes. First, I ranted publicly about an incident that made me angry and sick and sad, but that did not happen to ME. I had my facts straight, but the story wasn't necessarily mine to tell.

The second mistake was to make my post "Public". If you're unused to social media, here's a quick tutorial: you have the option of setting your posts to "friends only", "friends of friends", or "Public". There is also an option to put certain friends (like your boss, if you're prone to posting photos of your weekend exploits), on a "restricted" list. Those friends will then only see your public posts.

Image by Sean MacAtee, courtesy of Flickr

I accidentally made my harshly-worded post public, and made comments elsewhere, setting off a minor explosion. I responded, apologized, and removed the rant entirely, which is what I should have done in the first place. I did what I could to stop the drama before it went any further, but I couldn't take back what had been done. Blood spilled can't be recalled, which is why we must be cautious always, whether we wield a sword or a pen... a fact that I have been well aware of for a long time. The urge to defend, prove, and explain is still strong, but whether I was right about what I said or not doesn't matter. The fact remains that I shouldn't have handled it the way I did.

It took me some time, and some reflection, to understand the anger that propelled the entire incident. My fury was out of proportion, and it drove me to acting out in a way I normally wouldn't. I've spent years learning to control my anger, and learning to direct it into positive, constructive solutions. I learned many years ago that only bullies scream and rant and yell and assert their power over others because they can. Only bullies and cowards tear down or attack or are mean even in little ways, because it makes them feel powerful and in control.

Childish thinking leads to childish actions.

My father, by contrast, was the most gentle, easygoing person I've ever known. I rarely knew him to raise his voice, and even more rarely saw him argue or fuss. I don't think there was a mean bone in his body. He was one of the most respected people in our little community. His funeral was packed. A custodian from a little town, retired for over 15 years, and still former students, teachers, family and friends packed that church so that we would've been hard pressed to fit one more person into the assembly. My dad was a real man, something that I think we are lacking these days.

The more I thought about what happened, the more I came to realize that anger is always, always fueled by fear. My rant was fueled by fear. Fear that something like the incident I ranted about could've happened here, where I live. Fear of living in a neighborhood where I feel vulnerable as a single mom trying to raise two teens. We live in a rural area, in which kids run loose, much as I did growing up.

Image by Earthworm, courtesy of Flickr

 I've been afraid since last year, when some local scrappers took advantage of my letting them have the metal out of a bin out front, and came back to try and steal what they could find in my garage and barn.  It makes me nervous to live here now, with my ex's and father-in-law's extensive collection of metal miscellaneous junk laying around the property. To some, that looks like easy money, with the scrapyard paying well for scrap metal and hey, her husband isn't there, so it's free for the taking, right?

I'm angry that I've had to inform my ex, and my father-in-law, who I'm rather fond of, that they have to remove their stuff because I can't keep it here any longer. I'm angry that I can't take my time cleaning up the property myself, because I'm afraid someone will decide to simply help themselves. I'm angry that I should have to worry about this kind of stuff, on top of everything else that comes with being on my own.

Image by jbcwalsh, courtesy of Flickr

 On the flip side of the anger is the intense gratitude for the family, friends and neighbors who are good and decent people. There are those who've given me a hand up. My own family, of course. While I'm grown and they have no obligation to help me out, families take care of one another. I'm grateful for my brother, who came and put siding on and replaced windows. I'm grateful for my Mom, who has been a rock, and my other siblings who've helped when they can and who've been nothing but supportive.

I'm grateful for my neighbors who helped get my lawn tractor running again, and who have offered practical help with getting an old barn down. I'm grateful even to those neighbors who've done nothing but mind their own business and let us get on with life, without judgement or spreading gossip. There are those who call themselves friends, who are all talk and no where to be found when there's work to be done or a problem to be addressed, and then there are those who have stepped up and done more than I could've, our would've thought of asking for. I've been surprised at who's landed in each category.

Anger can be poison. It gets into your system and festers, like a splinter under the skin. Unleashed, it can only cause destruction. However, anger isn't the problem. Fear is the problem. Fear causes the lack of control that sets anger free, reckless, dangerous, and destructive. Anger needs to be controlled, directed, and focused, to be productive.

I'm working on that.

*~*~*

“Angry people are not always wise.”
~Jane Austen

“Anybody can become angry — that is easy, but to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way — that is not within everybody's power and is not easy.”
~Aristotle

Of Love and Loss and Moving On

My notes in church are often less.... lyrical, than you might think.

 Kame has once again slipped into hibernation mode. His torpor means that he disappears for days at a time, emerging only occasionally to explore the offerings of fresh raspberries and take a short dip in his bathing tub, before disappearing beneath the mulch once again. He deals with winter by avoiding it entirely, passing it half-asleep and hidden.

Not for the first time, I find myself envying my shelled friend's ability to sleep through the less pleasant months of the season. I, too, have been hibernating, in a way. I've been avoiding speaking out about many of the emotions rolling through my days as I move forward, because so many of them have to do with other people, and I have vowed that this blog will be about my own life, and not a clearinghouse of gossip about others.
It might not be possible for me to blog without mentioning what's going on in my ex's world, or in my children's, but I'm trying not to air anyone's laundry but my own.

So much has happened since I last wrote. October brought with it a shocking blow with the loss of a very old and dear friend. Laura Kim Eisele Curtis was one of the best friends I've had. She put up with my ramblings, my oddities, my failures and my quirks. She made me laugh. She made me less ashamed of my PTSD symptoms and helped me see it as a condition to be managed, rather than a weakness. She stood beside me as I walked through some of the most difficult times in my life, and she allowed me to be a part of her life as she dealt with her own losses, blows and failures. Her passing was devastating, and a loss to the world, though most will never know what they missed by not knowing her.

My beautiful friend Laura, with her dad, Don, being a goof in the background. She had a quirky sense of humor that she came by honestly.

There are many things that Laura shared with me that I will take to my grave, but I can tell you a few things about my dear friend. She was a great singer and an amazing mom. I will forever hear her voice singing "You Are My Sunshine" to her daughter over the phone at bed time on the occasions she stayed at my home. There is surely no sound more beautiful in the world. She was a good friend. I can't count the times she listened to me and let me run on. She gave me good advice. She was the one who encouraged *cough*dragged*cough* me into seeking out a college degree. She has been my friend, my support, and my confidant for well over ten years... and now she's gone. Just like that, in one dark night, she left this world and traveled beyond the veil.
And even now, she is with me.

I could hear her beside me, snickering, at her final service, as the Pastor's voice rose in song. He had a lovely voice, but Laura often attended my son's guitar lessons with me, and we had sat, barely containing school-girl giggles, through many voice-student's renditions of "New York, New York". Since her parents live near the Big City, and my favorite fictional heroes are rumored to occupy its sewer system, the song made us giggle all the more. I could feel her arms around my shoulders, even as I cried. I could hear her voice in my dreams, in the wretched days after her passing, laughing and exclaiming, "but Mary, I'm here with MacKenzie! I'm dancing... I don't hurt anymore..."

Her baby daughter who succumbed to SIDS was waiting for her, I know. And although she has left two other beautiful young women behind, I know the joy of that reunion will be complete when we all come together in Eternity's time. Laura knows no grief now, no pain. She has stepped out of time, and into the place where there are no more tears, no more sorrows. It is only those of us who are left behind who grieve for the parting. I could feel her presence again, more faintly, when I achieved my first college degree. I could hear her voice, quietly telling me "I'm proud of you, Friend. You did it."

Laura has moved on, and although I was not ready, could never be ready, to lose my friend, I know that this parting is a part of life. Death's pain is the echo of the separation Man took from God in the Garden, and it is eased by the knowledge that the gap has been closed by His son, that this world is healing. Death is a scar in the eternal tapestry, nothing more.

And now, it is time for me to move on, to move forward in my own life. I can not hold on to the hurts and worries and grief of the past year. I can not hold on to the man who was once my husband, or allow his choices to guide my emotions any longer. I must come to a place where I can see him building a new life of his own, and be able to smile and wish him well. I have not yet reached that place. I don't know how long it will take, but I do know that the only way for healing to begin is to remove the splinter of bitterness and anger.

A painting from my college Illustration class, with a quote that I hope, will define the new year.

Someone very wise once said that revenge is like a splinter. It festers and poisons the mind. The only way to heal is to let it go.

The river is moving on... and I must step into it once again, and find a new way.

-Mary
~*~*~

"Hope
Smiles from the threshold of the year to come,
Whispering, "It will be happier..." - Alfred Tennyson

Dignity

"Dignity" isn't a word often associated with my home. "Chaos" is more suitable most days. The above picture  is a of a portion of our latest chaos. The Thursday before Easter, we were blessed with an unplanned (but not completely unexpected- Mom looked as if she'd swallowed a cantaloupe) surprise.  Eleven squirming bundles of puppy-warmth came into the world that night. Unfortunately, not all of them were strong enough to navigate this world. Four passed within a few days.

The remaining seven are five weeks old today. Rambunctious, playful and increasingly messy, Mr. Moo, Arrow, Smudge, Star, Diamond, Sleepy and Streak come together to form the very definition of chaos. I love each of them. I love Mr. Moo's block-headed stubborn sheer boyish puppy-ness. I love Streak's habit of pouncing into the center of any brawl, even though he's considerably smaller than his brother, Smudge, who's usually in the center between Moo and Diamond. I especially love little Diamond's tenacious personality- she's not afraid to mix it up with the boys. I love Star's sweet face. I love Arrow's calm dignity as he sits beside my feet looking up as if to say 'what's up with them?'. Sleepy's elfin looks and habit of sidling up for a surreptitious nibble on my shoe make me smile. I love them all... And I will be glad when they go to the homes we've carefully chosen for each of them and my house subsides to a lesser chaos once more.

Although this litter was unplanned, and... honestly, unwanted, each of these lives have brought joy, and each of these unwanted puppies will go to a home where they will be cherished for the rest of their lives. Because, after all, isn't that how life is supposed to work? We're supposed to be chosen, in delight. We're supposed to be loved as we mature, as we learn and grow. We're supposed to reach our full potential within a relationship...

But people are not puppies. Life doesn't always work out the way we planned. Sometimes, things go awry. Sometimes, people's hearts change. Sometimes they change their minds.

"People change, and forget to tell each other." -Lilian Hellman. 

And yet, somehow, life goes on.

I am still wrapping my mind around the idea of a forever without Ken by my side. I had dreams... dreams of the days when our kids were grown, finding their own way in the world. Of course, I knew they'd wander home now and then, but I hoped we'd equip them with the skills they need to seek out gainful employment and the desire to begin building lives of their own, separate from Mom and Dad. I looked forward to a future in which we would build the little A-frame cabin in the woods we'd talked about, where I would write and he would hunt and pursue his hobbies. I dreamed of getting old together.


The dream has changed. Ken has made his escape, moving into a new home, building a new space for himself, moving away, separating. To say it has been a painful process would be to say a tsunami is an ocean wave. Our lives have been broken apart, shattered. This separation isn't the natural growth I look forward to in my kids, the breaking off of a seed that drops away from the tree to set its roots into the soil and begin its own journey toward the sun. This was an unnatural break, the loss of a limb... and the scar will take time to heal.

In those first few days, as my kids clung like little burs to my side, a much-younger reaction than I expected, but natural considering the way their security had just been snatched away, I wondered if I'd ever be happy again. I wondered if I'd ever find love again, and if I do, if I'll be able to trust in it, if I'll ever dream of the future the way I once did. I see family and friends who have lived through this building new relationships, wearing them like an artificial limb, but there is something that rings false in many of those relationships. There is friendship. There is affection. There is companionship, all the things a human being needs to thrive, but there is something... something vital and precious that is missing. The sparkle when they look at one another is not there. The longing, the deep affection, the feeling that this one, this person and no other, can fill the space in them that needs filling, is lacking somehow.

That's not to say they're unhappy, or that they shouldn't seek out what they obviously find fulfilling. I have always known I'm a different breed. I expect too much, and too little. I'm too wild and too quiet, too lazy, too determined, too frenetic, too happy, too sad. I know I set myself apart, and now I know that it's a mistake to be anything different than who I am, or to try to settle. I know that by rejecting the idea of a casual romance, I may be creating a future in which I am alone... and I am ok with that. I have learned that I would rather be alone than change who I am. One day, perhaps someone will come along who looks at me and says

"This one. This is the one I want. This is the one who can fill that space in me that needs filling, this one, and no other."

One day, perhaps, I will be chosen and I will choose. One day. But for now, I will simply try to live my life with dignity, and look forward to whatever dreams this new future brings.

~*~*~

“Think of it! We could have gone on longing for one another and pretending not to notice forever. This obsession with dignity can ruin your life if you let it.”
~Mary Ann Shaffer

“Be strong. Live honorably and with dignity. When you don't think you can, hold on.”
~James Frey

Out of Limbo

I'd like to introduce the newest member of our family. His name is "Squirt" (via my kids, and after the little turtle in the movie, Finding Nemo).

Meet Squirt.

Squirt is an Eastern Mud Turtle. He is the victim of the "Aww, it's so cute, let's take it home!" syndrome. A friend works in a local pet shop, and someone came in the store with Squirt, explaining that relatives had returned from a trip to Georgia bearing this adorable, but unfortunately unwanted, little gift. Since my pet-shop friend is already overburdened with her own pets (many are cast-offs, abandoned by careless owners), she allowed Squirt to come and join our family. Squirt is undoubtedly unhappy about this change in his circumstances, but since reversing time is not a talent I possess, we will attempt to give him the best life possible within his new reality.


The thing about life is, it never stops changing. If it stopped changing, that would mean that growth had stopped. That all was still and silent and... cold. Life that stops changing is no longer life. And here, in our little corner of the world, life is changing again. 

Tomorrow, Ken will explain to our kids about the house he's been renovating. He'll explain that this is more than a job, that the work he's put into the place has been not for pay, but for himself. He'll tell our kids that he's moving out.

I'm afraid. I'm afraid they're going to be shattered by this news. I'm afraid of the way the monumental shift in our family is going to effect them. I'm afraid I won't be enough for them, that I won't be able to comfort away this kind of hurt. I'm afraid they will suffer life-long scars. Until now, we've been able to shield the kids, to take the body-blows into ourselves and absorb the impact. The kids felt the repercussions, of course,  but were not devastated. This time, there is no way to soften the hurt.

I'm hurting too, as he is, I know. This isn't going to be easy, for any of us. This isn't what we signed on for. This isn't how it's supposed to be and it's not fair. It's not fair. I'm going to be hearing those words a lot, I think, in coming months... and they will ring with truth. This isn't fair.

I'm masking my own pain for now. Out with Jessica yesterday, alone with my daughter, the secret we have not yet revealed to them hung between us, unspoken. She sensed its presence. I could tell by the way she waited for me to speak. She knows the disaster's coming. She just doesn't know yet that it's coming for her and her brother as well as for her dad and I.

I'm avoiding talking about my own feelings, I know. I'm focusing on my kids because they need me. There is no time for me to cry for my own loss... I have two kids whose lives are about to be irretrievably altered.They need me to keep it together, to support them while they grieve. As a mother, their pain hurts me more deeply than my own.

This morning, I read a blog by the parents of a little girl, Avery. She has an incurable genetic disease that will take her from this world too soon, and her parents are doing their best to fulfill Avery's bucket list, to see that she experiences the fullness of life in the short time she has on earth. They were faced with a parent's worst nightmare, and instead of letting it devour them, they have climbed atop the dragon's back with their daughter, and are allowing it to carry them as it flies. I hope I can learn from Avery's parents. They have found hope in a hopeless situation.

Two years ago, I followed a path. I made a choice. It has led us through some difficult places, some dark ones, but there has also been joy. There was, for a time, a sense of reconciliation... but all that time, his path was leading him further from us, into places we cannot follow. This has been a time of transition, of changes, of growing up. We have come to another crossroads, but this time it is my husband, not I, who must choose. For better or worse, he has chosen the road I turned away from, and this is one path I cannot walk with him.

I can only walk on, and look toward whatever the future may bring. 

*~*~*

My prayer for us, for my kids, for myself, and for my husband, whatever these changes bring:

"The LORD will guide you continually,

And satisfy your soul in drought,

And strengthen your bones:

You shall be like a watered garden,

And like a spring of water,

Whose waters do not fail."

Isaiah 58:11

Giving thanks in the rain

Kame and I have a new friend. Her name is CreamsiclePumpkinPiePancakes. Pumpkin for short.

Kame isn't sure what to make of this orange-and-white tornado who has invaded his space. She climbs on his enclosure, watching as he eats, reaches through the panels to swat at him, and generally makes a nuisance of herself. The poor turtle can't even enjoy his bathing pool. She watches too cannily as he climbs up to the end, slides down his plastic ramp into the water, and climbs up to bask on the rocks. Although Pumpkin weighs little more than Kame himself, she makes him nervous and uncomfortable. He and I are a lot alike. Neither of us are fond of change.

Changes, however, are a part of life.

"Without change, there would be no butterflies."

It's the day before Thanksgiving as I write this. Ken got up this morning, fixed me breakfast, and went off to work... We spent a quiet morning together, talking about the plans for the holiday, like normal people do. We were civil and affectionate, carefully acting like everything wasn't falling apart. Like we're not quietly dismantling everything we've spent sixteen years building. Like we're not planning to divorce. Someone looking at our quiet little scene would've thought we were just another happily married couple... And once upon a time, we were.

I used to love holidays... These quiet mornings when I felt closest to my husband. When we spent time planning for spending time with the family, looking forward to relaxing and laughing together, good food and good times...
Those things are not going to go away when things change for us, but there is a sense of profound loss all the same. The holidays will still be a time of love and laughter and smiles. I believe that on my good days. But with the change looming large in front of us, moving quietly through the undercurrents of our family like a fault opening up under a neighborhood, preparing to collapse and swallow it whole... Change does not look to me like a positive thing.

I know it will be. I know, when little resentments rise up, and are quieted by knowing this state of flux is temporary, when I look toward a future in which we can be friends, and we can each live our lives without expectations, without suspicion and resentment and hurt, I know that the changes are necessary and good for our family. I know our kids will understand, one day. I know that this will get better, that it will be better.

It's raining out today. It's cold and wet and threatening to turn into sleet, sticking to the road and making everything treacherous. Soon there will be snow falling, thick and heavy and cold. I know these things must come, as they do in their season. I know also that Spring will come, in its time. With the rain falling cold and slick outside, the sun is only behind the clouds, and it will return to warm us again.

I know that the changes coming will be difficult. I know there will be tears raining, hurt feelings and cold... I know the kids won't understand, at least not at first. I know there will be pain, and I dread it. If I could live forever in this limbo, this disconnect between what is real and what they believe, and keep them happily cocooned forever, I would. I would sacrifice my own soul, bleed out a drop at a time, anything, to spare them the pain that change will bring...

But I know that butterflies left in a cocoon wither and die. I know that they must break free, they must spread their wings, they must fly. Even the struggle is a necessary part of the butterfly's emerging. If the cocoon is cut open, and they are freed too soon, the insect will perish. The fight to escape the cocoon forces the fluids in the creature's body into its wings, expanding and growing them, stretching them out to dry in the sun... until it is ready to relinquish the cocoon, and fly.

Knowing all this... I will do all I can to make this transition easier for them. I will forgive and heal and allow myself to maintain the love I had for the man who is their father. I will fight back against bitterness and anger. I will not justify wrongs, but neither will I carry the weight of grudges. For their sake, I will do what I can to be kind, to be strong, to be faithful to my God and my family, even when I feel like throwing myself down and having a colossal tantrum at the unfairness of it all. I will choose to give thanks, even now, in the rain, and I will remember the words of a very wise Sensei:

"Change is good."

~Hamato Splinter

~*~*~

Counting Down: 10 Things I Learned from Shirley, Part II

If you missed the first part of this post, Part I can be found here.

I love the pet-loving community. A few weeks ago, I mentioned on Facebook that Kame's nails were getting too long, and I might have to resort to a vet visit to have them trimmed.

A fellow animal lover commented that her friend's daughter had worked with turtles and might be able to assist me... A few e-mails, phone calls and private messages later, a young lady came to my door with her mom and her bag of turtle-trimming equipment.

Kame was not impressed with his first manicure. He fussed and squirmed and protested this imposition on his dignity, but his nails are now a bit shorter and I'm certain he's more comfortable. (and no, in spite of several suggestions, we did NOT add color to the poor boy's nails) He's somewhat over the trauma this morning. He finally dug his way out from his mulch-covered hiding spot and even ate a bit of breakfast. (Lexi, you were right, he does like strawberries!)

Kame is an old soul. He rarely gets flustered or truly upset by much of anything that happens. He takes life as it comes, one slow step at a time, keeping alert for change, but facing it unafraid. I often think humans could learn a lot from turtles, from their tenacity, determination and calm, deliberate approach to life.

In a blog a few weeks ago, I mentioned a dear lady, Shirley Brinkerhoff, who I was blessed to meet at the Montrose Christian Writer's Conference. While Kame is an old soul... Shirley was eternally young. I rarely saw her without her favorite accessory: a smile. She seemed to be lit up from the inside with an unquenchable joy. In the few, too-short years I knew her, I learned so much... but for now, I will list the remaining five of the "top ten". Perhaps in future blogs I may share more, because the only way to keep a candle's flame burning is to pass it on.

Now, without further ado, here is Part II of what I learned from knowing Shirley:

5) God has not brought tragedy into your life for the benefit of others.
I remember the conversation so clearly, as if she is right here with me... Discussing personal tragedy, Shirley looked at me, for once unsmiling, and explained, He is in the business of using broken things, however, he does not break them for His use. "God does not allow tragedy so he can use your story."

Writers make use of every experience. We are always telling and shaping stories... but God is in the business of shaping lives. Thanks for the perspective, Shirley. It changed my paradigm, and my life.

4) Seek out the good in others. Shirley was a master at seeing people in their best light, at looking for Jesus in the sea of faces, and finding Him in each one.

3) Respect others' stories. Don't try to interpret what God is saying to and through them... He can speak for Himself.
This talent goes along with listening. Shirley's example and wisdom came as often in silence as it did with words.

2) Cut three. This... was a running joke in our little writer's group. She once asked us to cut three words from each sentence of our manuscript pages, telling us that good editing means accepting that "sometimes good stuff ends up on the cutting room floor". In life, I've learned to "cut three" from my schedule. Trimming the less-significant tasks leaves so much more room for what's truly important.

1) And the number one thing I learned from Shirley... Fly with a good flock. A Duck alone is a sitting... target, for predators. Life is a group sport. Participate.

~*~*~

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.

-Longfellow

Remembering Amanda

Amanda
1998-2009

Kame, while he is the pet I most often feature in this blog, is not my only four-legged friend, or even my first.

Several dogs have graced my life over the years... beginning with Prince, the family mixed breed I grew up with, followed by "Scruffy", a beagle who wandered onto our property when I was perhaps three or four years old, and her offspring, Daisy and later Daisy's only surviving pup, Toby.

Toby was my first real dog, in the sense that I was mostly responsible for what little care he needed. Being a "farm dog", he lived happily outdoors, retreating to the garage when he needed shelter. He was, for most of my teen years, my best friend.

Toby lost his sight early on, and lived blind for the last few years of his life. It never slowed him down for a moment. He'd race along after our bikes as we tore around the small dirt track that constituted a driveway, only realizing his handicap when he'd run into the back of a parked car.

It didn't take him long to recognize my parent's usual parking spots, so the collisions didn't happen often, but when they did, he'd shake it off and keep right on running, as if the sun and wind on his fur and the sounds of our laughter were enough to keep him cheerful forever.

Toby passed away when I was 18 and away at college. I didn't have another dog until Ken and I were married. We had one dismal failure in a mixed-lab pup, Jack. At two he turned aggressive despite our best efforts, and at our vet's advice, we were forced to have him put down. I decided then that I didn't want another dog, that my husband's Lab, Brandy, was enough dog for both of us.

For the next two years, I had my hands full with a toddler and housework and life. I worked for a year at the Press. Life was chaotic and crazy and full... and yet something... some indefinable essence was missing.

What happened next was my friend Amy's fault. She brought me the newspaper, pointed out the ad. "For sale: Australian Shepherd pups. Home raised."
I hemmed and hawed. I didn't want another dog. I had a two-year-old and I was pregnant with our second child.

"Let's go look," she said. "It'll be a nice drive." she said.

Finally, reluctantly, I went.

We went on a spring afternoon. We admired the dogs, and finally the breeder led us out to the barn, where the little female, the last of her litter, was cloistered. Aussies have a way of getting attached to one person, she explained. Once they bond, it's very difficult for them to move to a new family. She didn't want the pup to bond with her own family, and so she was living in the barn.

She brought out a squirming black and white bundle of fur. I eased to the ground, finding it easier to sit down than try to bend with my bulky baby belly. Jessi stood next to me, pointing.

"Doggy, Mommy! Doggy!"

Amanda flew at us, leaping into my lap and licking every bit of face she could reach, before giving a giggling, delighted Jessi the same treatment.

What took my breath away wasn't just her manic energy and the speed at which her stump of a tail wiggled... but her uncanny resemblance to my first best friend. She looked exactly like a long-haired version of Toby. I would visit twice more, bringing Ken to meet the newest member of our family, before bringing her home, but it was inevitable. She was my girl. Whether or not the timing seemed good to me, she was destined to join our family, and she came to us not a moment too soon.

It wasn't two months after Amanda's entrance into our household, that she cemented herself irretrievably into my heart. Jessica was a very active toddler. It'd been a warm fall, and in desperation I took Jessi outside to run off some of her energy. Run she did... straight to the pasture that housed our six month old steer, Mac. (Short for Big Mac. My husband's idea of a joke). Mac was more pet than potential beefsteak. At six months he weighed around 400 pounds, and believed himself to be an over-sized puppy. With Ken he was docile, but he seemed to take great pleasure in butting me playfully with his rock-hard head, sending me staggering. To him, Jessica was nothing more than a new playmate... and she was through the fence before I could catch her.

I'd brought Amanda out on a retractable leash. Seeing Jessica running up to a cow that stood twice her height at the shoulder, I had only one thought- retrieve my child before she was badly injured by the lumbering, careless steer. I dropped the leash, and ran... waddled.

Amanda, on the other hand, had nothing to slow her down. She flew into the pasture and ran at a shocked Mac, lunging and barking and placing herself directly between the steer and my giggling red-haired toddler. I had time to get into the pasture and pick Jessi up while Amanda held her ground, snarling as if she would eat Mac on a bun if he so much as stepped closer to us.

Mac stood, staring at this dog as if she'd lost her mind. He snorted and gave a little lurch toward her. She dodged and nipped at his nose, a clumsy puppy determined to do a working dog's job. Mac decided he'd had enough. He spun around and kicked up his heels, catching Amanda in the side of the head as he ran off.
I was nearly hysterical by that point. This brave little pup had just saved my daughter... and earned herself nothing but a cracked skull, I was sure. I was so afraid I'd lost her... but she got up, shook herself, and came over to be picked up and comforted. I took my two babies back into the house, weeping... an emotional wreck, but so grateful everyone was safe.

The trouble with pets, and dogs in particular, is they never live long enough. In February of 2009, I took Amanda to the vet. She hadn't been acting her usual chipper self for a while. I'd been trying to tell myself age was catching up with her, that all dogs slow down eventually. After 11 years with us, she'd certainly earned a relaxing retirement, but when she stopped eating, I knew there was something far more serious wrong than the onset of old age.

Lymphoma, the vet said, reciting numbers like a death knoll. A canine oncologist could preform further tests, offer treatment options, give us perhaps a few more months, a year at most. Or...
I nodded. It would be best, I knew. Amanda was already nearing the end of her life expectancy. She was nervous with strangers and I couldn't bear the thought of putting her through more tests, more needles and poking and prodding when she seemed so... tired.
I'll take her home, I said. One last night with her family. To say goodbye.

The vet gave me some medication to help her feel better. Anti-nausea medication so she could eat. Something to ward off pain. I put my old girl on the seat of the car, and drove home to break the news to my family.

The next day, she lay around, looking tired and weak. It was clear she was going, and I knew the time had come, though I'd hoped to have more time with her, I couldn't allow her to go on this way. I called the vet to make an appointment for the very next day. I made her as comfortable as I could, and stayed up with her quite late that night, knowing it was our last.

As it turned out, one more night was all we would have. The next morning, she was laying, as peaceful as if she were asleep, in her old spot in front of the stove. Amanda, my brave, amazing girl, was gone.

In the two years since she left us, it is a rare day that's gone by without Amanda entering my thoughts. The first tearing grief has long since passed, but there are still moments when I feel the phantom of remembered warm weight against my leg, and reach down without thinking to scratch ears that aren't there. For eleven years she was my walking partner, my writing foot-warmer, my steady companion in an often unsteady world. Her fur absorbed my tears, comforted my hurts, slid soft and silky through my fingers. She was crazy and hyper and spastic, and I loved her.

George Bird Evans wrote in his The Trouble with Bird Dogs:

"I think we are drawn to dogs because they are the uninhibited creatures we might be if we weren't certain we knew better. They fight for honor at the first challenge, make love with no moral restraint, and they do not for all their marvelous instincts appear to know about death."

Amanda, in her brief time with me, taught me about courage, about loyalty and love and life. She woke up every morning as cheerful as if the previous day had never been, and as if she had a thousand more mornings, all as beautiful as the last.
She died the way she'd lived, with quiet dignity, and I am blessed to have known her.

Rejoicing in the day the Lord has made,
-Mary

*~*~*
Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed Beauty without Vanity, Strength without Insolence, Courage without Ferocity, and all the Virtues of Man, without his Vices. This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the Memory of Boatswain, a Dog.

~George Gordon, Lord Byron, "Inscription on the Monument of a Newfoundland Dog"