Kate Harrington

On Leaving our Comfort Zones

Twice now the vet has ordered us not to use a collar on Sophie. Wearing a collar is safe! Collars only come off at bathtime. And that harness feels so strange.

She is currently fitted with her second—hated—harness. This morning she opted to not take a walk at all rather than put it on.

But life without walks is dull. Sophie has to put up with that harness just to have fun, so first she plays games with us—showing she’s interested—until she finally chooses to go on an exciting smelly walk rather than sniff the same old yard.

Like Sophie, I prefer security. Writing is safe when I’m immersed in worlds of my own making. I’ve even learned to be okay with sending out queries to agents, since nothing scary has ever yet resulted.

But there comes a day when nothing works the way it used to. Writers’ block is hitting your head against a brick wall rather than admit there’s something wrong in the direction your work is going. Right now I’m facing a different kind of block—that of having created a wealth of writings going nowhere.

I’m drowning in five and a half novels, all clamoring for attention. It’s time to put on a new harness. It’s time to set one of them free into the world.

I’ve decided to self-publish the first of my three science fiction novels (for middle-grade to young teenager.) With that decision, my life got a little brighter, even though it also increased in complications.

First is the learning curve to self-publishing. Then, the manuscript requires a read-through and lots of little changes, including finding that particular misspelled word I was told of, but which word?

Every novel has a shape of its own, sometimes a fast-rising triangle to the story’s climax, sometimes a deep valley with, the reader hopes, a way back to a solid foundation. So do our lives have shapes. My life has been a series of plateaus, with dips in-between. I’ve been sliding downhill for too long.

One writing workshop I attended included this particularly useful piece of wisdom:

You don’t lose creativity when you get older but you need to learn how to take risks.

It’s time to take risks again. Harnesses, whether for work or for walks, can constrict. But sometimes that’s what it takes to regain enthusiasm. If Sophie can turn that harness into a game, maybe I can too.

Doggie Body-Language

A few months back, we attended an evening class on Dog Body Language. I wish I had taken notes.

A dog goes through a whole sequence of actions warning off whoever (dog or person) has intruded in their space. Afterwards, they shake off their tension, returning to relaxed muscles clearly visible in facial and body expressions if you know what you’re looking for. I’m not at all sure I do. Plus, the video clips showing dog attitude shifts happened so quickly that if you’re not watching, you’ll miss them. Except . . .

There are exceptions—those dogs under the influence of medication or over-the-top stresses who made their signals long ago and never shook them off, remaining in an unhealthy state of high-alert.

fear of dogs

I’m afraid of loose dogs, especially unfamiliar ones.

When I was a teen, I sometimes substituted for my sister’s paper route. I wore the double-sided bag containing the flat newspapers. At one particular house with a loose barking dog. I would take off the newpaper bag and hold it in front of my legs. One time, the boy living there grabbed the dog, looking at me with disgust.

Was the dog playing? I didn’t know, then or now.

When in graduate school, I walked to class past a large wolf hound tied up in a front yard. It lay quietly and I, assuming it was friendly, told the dog hello and went on my way. Until the day, feeling sorry for its lonely state, I thought to give it a pat. I stepped toward it. It lunged, tearing my coat.

Fortunately, it arrived at the end of its rope before it got to me. That dog must have been on constant high alert, poor thing.

Ever since, when encountering loose dogs, I walk the other way, or cross to the other side of the street. No class is going to change my reactions.

dogs at play

Our main interest in attending the class was to discover what Sophie might be telling us, and what she might be telling other dogs.

We learned about rocking-horse gait, that bounding run of a dog at play. I love to see Sophie run like that. Relaxed dogs will curve their bodies, whether in a side-ways curve, or resting on elbows in open invitation to play.

Dogs feel threatened if a larger dog looms over them. When they get acquainted, it’s best to approach from the side. As they swap ends to sniff, we— attached to their leashes—are supposed to circle along with our dogs.

Sophie distrusts puppies—maybe because they haven’t learned dog manners yet.

observations

The other day, returning from Sophie’s walk, a pit-bull mix and owner approached on the other side of the street. The pit-bull stared at Sophie and pulled on his leash. Sophie barked ferociously in response.

Before we reached the end of the block, another pair came along. This large setter kept her gaze forward, paying no attention to us. Sophie barked totally differently, much friendlier. She seemed to be saying: I like you. Come over and say hello. Maybe we can play.

On Feeling Lost

I felt lost this morning. That Where do I go from here? at the end of a big project. It’s over. There’ll be more to do, but nothing to match that satisfaction of everything falling into place.

I’m not a newcomer to being physically lost. My first experience was in Kindergarten. Told to walk home with the Jones boys (twins), I was sure they were going the wrong way. They turned left. I turned right and marched about three blocks the wrong way. Mom found me in front of the Methodist Church.

A few years later, I discovered why I get lost. After picking up our toys, we kids could go enjoy the “Saturday Morning Matinee”: Roy Rogers, Hopalong Cassidy, or some other western hero. We ran downhill and turned right. Mid-block was the theater. Invariably, following the triumphant cowboy finish, I’d leave the theater and turn right—toward the familiar view—only to realize that I’d added two extra blocks to my gallop for home.

I thought of that this morning, walking Sophie. She often brings me to a halt with her sniffing. I looked back down the street at the winter-bare trees hanging over the park. To not get lost, it’s important to look back the way we came.

I’m most often looking ahead toward the next project. Maybe that’s why I still haven’t tackled sorting all those photographs.

So what’s the answer to mourning the loss of a fictional world? It’ll take some effort, but I have to return to the physical world. Get outside and prune the apricot tree, set out more seed trays to sprout, clear out some closets, clean the house. Post more blogs. Maybe even sort those photos.

Until a new goal appears on the horizon, and I forget to look back—again.

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.