Healing Power O' Dog. by Patresa Hartman

I love my dog.

Her name is Kaya, and I love her purity, her complete lack of complication. I love the smell of her feet and the soft of her ears and her wet wet nose. I love her keen observation and her unwavering enthusiasm for: walks, treats, the garden hose, the vacuum, getting up in the morning, air through the car window, policing the cats, and voicing her concerns to the collie mix that walks the block.

I love her loathing of all things grooming, that she is far more content to be smelly and knotted than peach-scented and blow-dried. I love that she will not submit to other dogs -- that they expect her to, because she is pretty and a girl, but she flatly refuses. I love that she feels no shame in her tastes and tendencies. I gave her an apple slice yesterday and she left it untouched on the kitchen floor. Hours before, I had shoo'd her away from the litter box where she likes to snack. She sees no trouble with this -- this preference for poop over apples -- and she doesn't care who knows it.

We're connected, she and I. Wherever I am, so is she. She looks at me so often with a distinct plea for "Next? What now? I'm waiting." And I feel such responsibility for her. Which is why Thursday afternoon, when I came home sideways and all out of whack, I noticed her own sideways lethargy and felt so sorry.

I am up to my neck, presently. It is inconsequential stuff and stuff, so I don't know why I bother to spin over it (such a waste of my joy); but there it is, regardless. My seams have been splitting, and literally, my class folders are spilling. Ungraded, unplanned, unorganized papers are getting caught in the zipper of my bag. I am forgetting everything. I am waking up early to collect my thoughts and then walking out the door without them. My dog is feeling it, too.

When I came home Thursday after several hours demonstrating the growing ineptitude I'm feeling, I noticed how sad she looked. How put out. How bored and dismissed. She sighed dramatically, and had she words, I believe she would have said, simply, "Park" or "Air" or "Run." I listened.

I changed my clothes and grabbed her leash from the nail on the porch. We climbed into the car, windows open, and drove thirty minutes to Jester Park where there are trees and trails and lakes and creeks. We parked near the sand by the water, and I left the leash in the car.

She ran.

She stopped occasionally to drop and roll in things that smelled bad, or to charge into the lake and lap water that looked contagious, or to pull large burrs out of her velcro hair. She paused momentarily to make sure I was still there, to change her course if I changed my course. But she always ran again.

Kaya smiles when she runs, and it makes me giggle. There is an exploding glee, a reckless, full-speed, balls-to-the-walls about her when she is given the world without limits. She finds great joy in the freedom to be who and what she is -- a dog on the loose in the wild. The beauty of our connection is that it balances us both.

Sometimes Gratitude is Hidden, But it is Always There, by Kat Magendie

Kayla limps down our road, becomes tired easily and lies upon the grass. I stroke her thick fur and talk softly to her. I tell her what a good dog she’s always been, my best girl. I say, “Don’t get any older, girl. Don’t leave me.” And I know it’s a selfish thought, but I am feeling ornery. Intellectually, I know everyone must eventually leave; and eventually, every one of us will leave someone who doesn’t want us to leave. But my heart this morning is saying, “Stop Time. Just for a little while.” I say to Kayla, “It’s tough getting old, isn’t it, girl?” Her muzzle is turning gray. Her bones stiff. As I pet my dog and look at her signs of aging, I think about how one day I will lose her, and that makes me think of losses and disappointments. How I am aging, how my husband is aging, how my parents are aging, my brothers—all of us who have this history together. There are no guarantees, however, since I lost my younger brother when he was a young man, and I chalk that up as another bad thing life can hurl our way. I let my thoughts turn darker, inward—the novels still un-published and how much I want them out there, read, enjoyed by others. I try not to feel envy for the authors who are already published, but it comes anyway and shames me with its intensity, for I am also happy for them, glad they have met their dreams and goals; yet, I think, why not me?

I tell Kayla, “I have to write a YOG post and here I am feeling negative and dark and sad and with dreams I haven’t fulfilled and I’m getting older, too, and I don’t want you to be old and I don’t want anyone I love to leave and…damn.” She pants, and looks up at me with her soft brown eyes and I have the sudden urge to cry, my eyes burning, my throat closing. I remember her as a puppy. I remember my brothers and me as children, my parents young even though we thought them old. I want more days; lots more days. Doesn’t everyone? a voice counters. Quiet, I say. Let me have this melancholy. It’s mine.

The mountain breeze touches my face. So much to be grateful for, yes, I know. But for the moment, the gratitude hides behind the disappointments and fears. Sometimes, melancholy has its purpose. Sometimes it makes me appreciate even more when the fog lifts. Sometimes gratitude is hidden, but it is always there.

Save me from the Touridiots by Kat Magendie

I’m not feeling very grateful right now. In fact, I’m feeling irritated and annoyed. With spring break near, it is time for visitors to our mountain. Some have already arrived, including the people above us, who have left their dog on their deck while they go touring. The dog hasn’t stopped yelping for almost two hours now; and who knows how long the tourists will be away, either oblivious, or uncaring, of what their visit has brought to our quiet little cove. I stomp about my little log house. I turn up the television (so that while I am writing this, Rachael Ray is also yapping excitedly right along with the dog). I try to tune it out, but doggie only becomes more frenzied, as no one is there to let it know it hasn’t been left for good.

“Touridiot,” I mutter. I’ve meanly named the people who visit our beautiful mountains and disrespect it, and us. The touridiots who decided to hold a screaming drunken party at two in the morning. The touridiots who threw their fast food empties along the road. The touridiots who left a bulging sack of garbage by the side of the road, too lazy to take it to the nearby garbage disposal site. The touridiots who shot firecrackers during a drought, and even onto our neighbor’s roof.

I grit my teeth. I grind out, “Tourists go home!”

I take a deep breath. I was once a tourist to Western North Carolina. A good tourist, a reverential one, a respectful one. Good tourists do exist: The phantom bagpipe player whose mournful sound filters through the mountain mists and calls to that part of me who is Scottish. The young men who played their acoustic guitars while singing with lilting voices. The family with children, who I heard laughing and playing while building a little fort by the creek; what nostalgia to remember my fort-building days. The older couple who waved to us, the happiness evident on their faces; joy and reverence. I feel calmer. Funny thing, just as I wrote those positive things, the dog has stopped—this isn’t a metaphor or analogy or “moral ending,” the dog really has stopped right at the moment I wrote: I feel calmer. I decide to be grateful while it lasts. The family will return. The dog will calm. All will be as it was, or how it will be when it isn't; either way, I live in paradise. Yes, I do. Ahhhh.

My Old Girl, by Kat Magendie

Kayla trips again this morning while on our mountain walk. I lean over, pet her thick soft fur, murmuring, “It’s okay, old girl.” She’s been tripping more lately; her arthritis. She looks up at me, and there is blood on her tongue and mouth. “What’d you do, old girl?” When she fell, her long tooth must have torn her soft mouth. She’s impatient to walk on, and hasn’t let out even a whimper. I figure she's in pain, though, and I'll give her a pill when we get home. She’s strong. She’s stubborn, willful. She’s determined. We’re a lot alike, I think. She loves her walks, and I don’t want to think of a day when she can no longer enjoy them. I take her to a runoff of cold, running water and she drinks. I think how everything ages, every living thing in the world.

Her dark muzzle is turning white, her limp more pronounced, her eager sprint turned to slow plodding walk. It’s as if she and I are growing old together, but unfortunately and sadly, she is aging faster than I am. We turn on the road and head to the place where the creek tumbles down over rocks in a roar. We never see anyone here, and if it weren’t for the development happening around us, I’d feel as if I were in a magical secret place. I look down at my old girl again, and she looks up at me, her soft brown eyes trusting and kind, but I know that, like me, she has her moods and those moods are to be respected. We understand each other. I touch her head. I wonder what she thinks of me, of the world around her.

How did our canine friends become so important to us? Important enough that when they get sick or old and then finally leave us, we grieve with a ferocity that is hard to bear. We miss them terribly. And what do they hope for in return for their gifts to us? Food, water, walks, a few pets, and kindness, which I gladly give my old girl, and our younger dog Jake (big ole boy). I’m grateful for the devotion my dogs have given me. They thank me back in their dog ways. Kayla and I limp together down the old mountain road. I don’t want to think too far ahead, to when she's not by my side. She's here now, steady, true, solid. Old Girl, my good old girl.

A Reason to Smile by Nannette Croce

Everyone benefits from a reason to smile.

When my daughter reached the age where she sensed my moods, I always made an effort to at least appear in good spirits when she awoke each morning. It wasn’t always easy. My husband and I were dealing with many stresses back then, some unavoidable, some self-imposed. There were mornings I woke feeling down and mornings I woke feeling angry and, like any Mom with a young child, mornings I felt just plain tired. But she always awoke with a smile, looking forward to the gift of a new day, so I forced a smile as well, and it stuck.

Too soon, my daughter reached that age where she saw my morning smile as a barb placed deliberately under her skin. Her moods were still infectious, only the other way around. Happily, we also had a dog. A very sensitive dog from a broken home that reacted to the slightest discord with fear of another banishment. As my teenager rolled her eyes and emitted groans, I ran on to the pooch in high pitched tones, rallying her spirits and, in turn, my own.

On the now rare occasions when my husband and I have words or see fit to punish each other with stone-faced silence, the dog will come up and shove her nose in the face of one, then the other of us. Looking directly into our eyes, her look says, come on, guys, you know you really love each other. How can we not smile? How can we stay angry?

Smiles are funny that way. Once there, they tend to stick around.

This Moment. This Now. By Kathryn Magendie

The mountain is warm for January—a light sweater is all I need. Last week, I bundled up in long underwear and down vest, the temperature high only got to eleven degrees. Record cold then record heat, within two weeks. No matter. This is the earth and the earth turns. The earth changes. The earth breathes. As I walk our dogs, I’m not listening to the creek singing, to the birds calling out, or the way the bare branches rub together—I swear it sounds like a whale’s call. Instead, I’m thinking about all I have to do. I walk quickly, ticking off in my head: edit, write, go, be, do, find, email, call…

Kayla and Jake trot beside me, at turns sniffing the ground and then raising their snouts to the air. Kayla is getting old, her limping walk makes me sad, but her brown and tan fur remains thick and beautiful. Jake is panther-like, the muscles rippling beneath his shiny black coat. Kayla stops to sniff the grass and I tug her leash a bit. She doesn’t move, but keeps sniffing. Impatiently, I tug again, and say, “Come on, Kayla!”

And it is at that moment I catch up with myself. I see myself as from above. What’s happened to the woman who walked this mountain every morning and listened, enjoyed, experienced? Where have I gone? My dogs look at me, see that I’m not going to tug them away from new smells, and both begin excitedly sniffing in the grass—a coon? Bobcat? Deer? Bear? A visiting dog? It could be anything at all! I close my eyes, take in a deep breath. Listen. The creek rushes, filled from last night’s rain. A dove coos. To my left, old brown leaves rustle. To my right, branches touch, saw rub saw. I sway in the wind as it pushes against me, enters my ear and whispers: “I am here. You are here. This is all that is now.”

I open my eyes and spot Roger walking towards us. My husband smiles, raises a hand that says, "I’m coming. Sorry I’m late!” I smile back. I am filled—I am full. The moment catches in my chest and I inhale all the air I can to keep the moment held there. This moment. This now. This is what matters.

Thanks for the Memories by Barbara Quinn

It’s cold outside. The windows are rattling and I’m sitting here nice and warm with my slippers tucked beneath my desk. I’m not much of a fan of the cold, but I do love the crisp, clean smell of a brisk winter day. The bone-chilling air reminds me of winters when I was a kid. Back then, I’d throw my ice skates over my shoulder and hike to a frozen, hidden pond where I would meet up with other kids who loved to skate. My dog accompanied me on these jaunts. Some of us would build a fire for warming our hands and feet in between hitting the ice again and again. Those who stayed late trudged home quickly, because once the sun set the cold became much more intense.

One frosty day, soon after I arrived, my dog ventured to a place where the pond’s ice was too thin. He fell through, yelping and howling. A couple of us struggled to get him out, fearful of falling in ourselves. When we freed him, I tried warming him by the fire. His shivering and shaking, and the white crystals on his fur, told me I had to do something more. He was so cold he couldn’t walk. I was ten years old, and he was thirty pounds. I picked him up and carried him. I thought my arms would break.

The walk home was longer than ever. I finally made it and wrapped him in blankets. Please don’t die, please don’t die, kept running through my head. I wiped the tears from my eyes and patted him dry. I still remember the feeling of relief and gratitude that flooded me when he shook off the blankets, jumped up and licked my face. Wet dog never smelled so good. Frisky is long gone, but he’s very much a part of my memories, memories I am thankful to have. And I’m grateful that at a young age I learned not only to struggle for something I love, but that sometimes things do turn out all right.