Mornings are a time for quiet contemplation, organizing thoughts that may or may not become actions, a few ounces of courage from a cup of strong black coffee, and Harry.
He is coming into middle age now, seven years that is. He wears his black and white with gray undertones quite spryly, tail curled in an upward attitude most of the time.
When he was younger, Harry never used to lay across my lap very often. He was too busy studying the traffic on North Street as viewed out of the bow window. Now, unless a car pulls into the front driveway, traffic is ignored from his perch on my lap.
At a hefty 16.8 pounds, Harry doesn’t fit on my lap. Instead, he drapes himself across my thighs, head pointed southwest, front paws softly caressing the curve of my legs as if embracing me. This is new behavior for this perky pup – our mornings of quiet are like a spell over us both.
While I muse on some fragment of memory or decide the lede of a story waiting to be written, Harry dozes like a warm blanket across me, peacefully content with the occasional twitching paw as he dream-runs in his twilight sleep.
When I was unable to move about with ease, Harry would study me from the comfort of his doggy bed on the floor. Wheelchair, walker, crutches, and canes did not intimate him, but he determined I needed space to heal. If I cried, he’d gently come to my side, look up at me and offer an expression that seemed to say: “Wait – things will get better.” Dogs know how to wait.
In September, Harry sustained an injury any baby boomer would cringe at – a crushed meniscus. Rest was prescribed at first. Harry for his part decided jogging around on three legs worked just fine. My husband and I held our breath and hoped for the best.
Surgical intervention was eventually planned. The first few post-op days were a rough time. But we, mere humans that we are, understood the process of healing, rest, nutrition, water, pain medication, and more rest. Then came the very slow return to “normal” activities. Harry accepted it all with as much grace as possible including the wearing of a “cone.”
It was during this recovery period that I took to picking him up gingerly and placing him on my lap, cuddling him while whispering, “Everything is going to be alright.” There, in my special chair by the window, Harry would snooze while I read. We were waiting together for healing, each on our own journey but together on the same road. Harry has had a near-complete recovery and freedom of movement. My recovery, though less dramatic, has also come a long way.
Our mornings have become an important part of our relationship. The warmth of his body soothes; his presence penetrates my soul. Harry needs only the basics: a safe home, plenty of food and water, and the assurance his pack is nearby. Upon reflection, that’s really all I need, too.
Humans, with our advanced cognition contemplating if “awareness” is organic or inspired by some omnipotent spirit, miss the point of being alive. It is to shelter one another from the reality that this is all fleeting, and in the meantime being kind and generous with our time. That is the gift, the reason.
Harry isn’t thinking. Harry is doing. He is there waiting to make himself available to my need of his time, my need for assurance that while my synapses are still firing, he is standing by ready to run ahead of me, finding the joy or laying across my lap in complete acceptance that for this moment all is well. And since this moment is all there is, it is perfect. Just ask Harry. His knowing eyes will tell you so.
This Mattapoisett Life
By Marilou Newell