Kate Harrington

Staying Grounded equals Coming Home

apology to readers

Two siblings told me recently I should continue blogging. When I revise, I go deep into my stories and they take over my world. These last few months I’ve been simultaneously revising two manuscripts. Now I’m down to one, but it still takes something of an earthquake to jar me out of that preoccupation. A mini-earthquake, anyway.

Valentines day tumble

I really didn’t want to get out of bed, but if I don’t take my walk early, it’s too late. Sophie demands her own walk. I get involved in writing. Later, I tell myself I’m too tired, or don’t want to leave my book, or whatever.

So while walking, I was engrossed in being tired, hungry, and wishing I was there already; I looked at some construction across the street; my toe caught and down I went—making a five-point landing: hands, knees, chin.

I rolled over and sat a moment, grateful for gloves that had protected my hands, and heavy jeans that protected my knees. And especially for the many appointments with OsteoStrong, in maintaining and improving my bone density. Later, judging from the evidence, my first contact with the road was my right ring finger—a blood blister on its tip.

I got to my feet. Go home? No tea or breakfast ready there—nor the Valentine cookie intended for my love. So I walked carefully the rest of the way.

stay grounded!

Several years ago I learned the importance of staying grounded, especially when taking a walk. That day, I saw the uplifted sidewalk ahead of me, but my thoughts were far far away. I fell and broke my little finger.

Lesson learned: maintain attention on my body, especially my feet. But just to be sure I would remember, a second lesson arrived the day my cast was to come off.

Taz had been unwell. While mopping up one accident, I stepped into another. Turning too quickly on the wet floor, I went down. No harm done—but the second fall underscored, highlighted, and impressed the importance of always being aware of the ground beneath me.

For years, after miles and miles of walking, of feeling the ground under my feet, of thinking any thoughts, even fantastical ones, so long as that awareness held, on annual doctor visits, I could answer proudly, “No recent falls.”

Let this be my renewed lesson for the next many years. Avoid wishful thinking and negative thoughts. Be mindful of my true feelings.

Staying grounded is a way of coming home.

Ghost Dog

Taz was our first experience with a Llasa Apso. He left this world three years before Sophie came to our house to stay. Very similar in appearance, both dogs displayed friendly Llasa personalities.

But beyond that, Taz was Sophie’s opposite. Where Sophie is hesitant, Taz was bold, unrestrained, and impulsive, prone to dashing into the street for whatever reason. If ignored by a visitor, Sophie will give up, but Taz always insisted on his right to be acknowledged. In fact, one time he attacked my shoe because I didn’t let him out the door to greet a person on our porch.

Taz’s favorite spot was on the back of the loveseat, where he could keep an eye on the neighborhood. If I failed to raise the blinds, he’d let me know toute de suite. We shared Taz with our neighbors, Fran and Bill, across the street. On his days over there, he occupied a similar lookout.

Besides halving the bills, sharing Taz meant any time either family traveled, he’d still be at home. And Taz knew his job was to occupy and guard two houses. He happily crossed back and forth (with escort, of course). He’d probably have been equally happy to own three or four houses! He had a big heart.

We originally split the week, half there, half here. However, when Bill had his accident with a bandsaw, Taz’s schedule changed so that he could spend days comforting Bill. He returned to us for nights and morning walks.

I liked the new arrangement a lot, free to come and go without worrying about being gone too many hours at a stretch. And also, because in the night I could trust Taz’s senses to tell me whether I was lying awake due to some imagined sound or if it was really real.

Bill and Fran moved to be closer to their kids, so the sharing arrangement was no longer possible when Sophie came to stay.

The first time Sophie entered our house, she hopped up onto Taz’s loveseat, but only as far as the armrest. She likes to be high enough but not too high. The one time I placed her on the back to look out the window, she leaped down in a panic.

Does she know something we don’t?

Is Taz’s ghost still with us?

Putting Down Roots

ComingHome

I’ve always felt a need to be rooted in a solid house on solid ground. As a too-serious kid, when our family took long summer road trips, I’d grow anxious to be back home if we were gone too long.

On those trips, the closer we got to home, the more concerned I grew because—as everyone knows—Most accidents happen close to home. So if Dad was driving into the night, I’d try to stay awake to make sure we arrived. Silly, right?

As young newlyweds, we moved to Texas for my husband’s job. Only when we arrived and had rented a little duplex could I finally relax. I had roots again.

Now let us leap over years and several more moves and a new marriage. It was when Dad was dying, and I went to be with my mother, that I discovered roots are not always a place—or maybe I mean, roots are not simply a place.

The weeks away from home after Dad’s death dragged. I kept telling myself everything was fine. I was in my childhood home. Mom needed me. The date was set for Dad’s memorial service. After that I could go home.

Wayne called to tell me when his flight would arrive. Some tightness inside that I hadn’t even recognized loosened into tears and gratitude. Wayne was coming!

He was my roots. He was my home.

Sophie’s House–training

IMG_0964 (1)

I’m Sophie.

At first, I felt lost at Wayne and Kate’s house. The food they gave me smelled just like that glass-room-place. I stuck up my nose and refused to eat—until they made it taste like chicken.

Their yard didn’t smell right, either. I couldn’t find any place to leave a message so I held it. In the house, I chose a room they never used. When they couldn’t see me, I left a message. Then I hurried away.

She scrubbed away my message. I know she wasn’t happy with me, but Wayne always told me, “You’re a good doggie.”

We went on walks, I smelled other dog messages. Sometimes I left my own reply, and sometimes I held it because I didn’t know the dogs in this place. When nothing outside smelled right, I left new messages on the same rug as before.

I tried so hard to be good. I was afraid they’d take me back to that glass-room place. Being nervous meant I couldn’t pay attention to what they told me. I kept on making mistakes. Kate says we are alike. She makes mistakes when she tries too hard, too.

In the mornings, Wayne gave me a treat for going outside to the back yard. When I left a message, he gave me another treat. He always said, “Good girl.”

The backyard smells all right now. I go out often, but unless I need to leave a message right away, I wait for Wayne. I like the treats, and giving me treats makes him happy.

Kate says we are alike. She lets Wayne bring her chocolate for birthdays and Christmases and Valentines because it make him happy. And she likes the chocolate.

Sophie Comes Home

Sophie

I’m Sophie. I have lived with Wayne and Kate for four years. She says the two of us females are a lot alike. I don’t think so, except we both belong with Wayne.

I knew Wayne was special the first time I saw him.

My first person—the one who taught me to sit and heel—went away and left me with a neighbor. He took me to this big place smelling of dogs and cats, where they poked in my mouth and ears and under my tail. They gave me a bath and cut my hair.

Then they shut me in a glass room with yucky food and some water. The next morning, Wayne walked by. I scrabbled at the door to get his attention. He stopped to visit. Then he went away.

I was all alone again. I waited and waited. All day and all night.

In the morning Wayne came back. This time he brought Kate. She cuddled me and blinked back tears. He cuddled me. They went away. But they came back and gave me a ride to their house.

She says she knew Wayne was special, too, the first time she saw him. I had to wait for days, but she waited for years. Maybe Dog-Days equal People Years.

Coming Home to Myself

When we adopted Sophie, a Llasa Apso mix, she was confused and uncertain whether she belonged with us or would end up homeless again. She needed time to adjust.

Me, too. Where do I belong, really? In an early version of Sleeping Beauty, the heroine gives birth to twins in her sleep. For me, it was easier to fall into the roles of wife and mother—and later career—than to break free into my own personhood.

I have never outgrown my love of fairytales. It’s the transformations, not the magic, that intrigue me. In many, like Maid Maleen, locked in a tower for seven years, heroines receive the gift of time to grow into themselves.

Life can be a fairy tale. Just ask Sophie! She’ll tell you how her prince came along.

Doggie day-care

Animal Humane is the place where I found Wayne. Wayne goes there to work sometimes. Some days he takes me along. I get to meet other dogs who go to work with their people, and I know he’ll take me home again when he’s through.

But at Animal Humane, they told Wayne about doggie day-care. One morning Wayne and Kate took me there. It had a big room with dogs coming in and going out, with a person to pet you. At supper time, Wayne came and got me. It was an OK place, but it wasn’t home.

Then one day they packed up my food and my bed and left me at that doggie day-care place. Every night, I had to sleep in a cage. I hate cages!

I waited and waited and waited, for days and days.

Finally Wayne and Kate came back. They took me and my bed and the leftover food home, but when they fed me that leftover food, it tasted like that bad place. I wouldn’t eat it.

They don’t learn very fast. They left me at doggie day-care again, for a lot more days! And when they came back for me, I showed them again that I didn’t like that place.

I guess they paid attention that time, because next they left me with Jane ‘n’ Steve. I love visiting Jane ‘n’ Steve. Jane takes me on walks. Steve likes me to watch TV with him. Sometimes they invite another dog, Luckie, for a play date.

Even there, I miss home, but I don’t complain about the food anymore. I’d rather be with good friends than at that other place.