Category: Pets

There’s been somebody at our house almost every minute, every day, for the past seven months. This is quite different from one year ago.

We do leave for various reasons; we’re not completely housebound. But, we respect the advice of doctors and scientists, so we are at home much more than we are out. The places we go are specific and few. It’s rare for our house to be completely empty these days, and our hours follow generally predictable routines.

This is a summary of Mollie’s take on it:

Month 1 – YAY!

Month 2 – YAY!

Month 3 – YAY!

Month 4 – YAY!

Month 5 – Yay!

Month 6 – Yay

Month 7 – yay

She still appears to be glad we’re around all the time to keep her company. She seems to enjoy hanging out with us in the backyard, or on the couch, or on the bed, wherever we might be during the day and through the night.

However – it’s been a long time since she had to wait patiently for the sound of the key in the lock, the front door opening, after being alone. She used to wiggle with energy, bounce and bark, when we came home. She was so excited by our new presence and the affection and attention that came with it. Now, with the house so rarely empty, with somebody always available for a loving ear scratch or tummy rub, she doesn’t always notice when one of us walks in the door.

The kitchen used to be a magical place where meals were typically based on our comings and goings to and from the outside world. She knew that food followed the morning alarm clock or the evening return to home. Sometimes, we’d bring her something from a restaurant, and the crackling paper bag was her signal that she was about to enjoy an extra special treat. Now, the kitchen is still the place of food, but it’s also the place of phone calls and video meetings. The alarm clock and the restaurant meals don’t happen very often anymore. Seeing us in the kitchen no longer automatically means that it’s dinner time.

Even the backyard, that wonderful playground full of leaves and sticks, birds and squirrels, has become routine. It used to be inaccessible for most of the day. Now, it’s simply a bark away. With the weather cooling off, a bark sometimes isn’t even necessary. We often prop the back door open, allowing the breezes in and Mollie out, freely, according to her mood and interest.

It’s possible that some of the changes we’ve noticed in her behavior are due to her age. She’s four years old, not a puppy anymore. I remember what it was like as our sons grew up, the gradual shift from little boys who eagerly ran to greet us when school was over to teenagers who gave a casual wave and a Hey, ‘sup as they came through the door. Perhaps Mollie’s just moving into her teenage years.

I suspect, however, that the past seven months, our constant presence and the quiet and mostly unvaried routine of our days, play a part. The joy she displays at the word walk, at her realization that she’s getting out, she’s going somewhere, she’ll see and do new things, gives me that impression.

In many ways, Mollie’s just like us. Home is a special place. We love each other, we enjoy being together. These are the people we want around us through it all, and we appreciate what we have. We are grateful and happy.

Still, it’s fun to change things up. The world is appealing, enticing; the variety it offers, the potential adventures and interesting options call to us. We haven’t lost the desire to go, to do, to see and experience and then to share those bits and pieces of life beyond our front door.

We have a slab leak. We discovered this unfortunate reality by noticing water all over the floors across our house.

Fortunately, there are plumbers and water damage repair people who can assist us with the situation. I am grateful to have these options.

Currently, however, there are a variety of large, loud fans and de-humidifiers running 24/7 throughout my house. It’s a bit like living on an airport tarmac. Additionally, our furniture and personal belongings have been displaced, shifted into corners and hallways and countertops, wherever they will fit while the work is being done.

My cats are, understandably, freaked out by it all. One of them has taken to hiding under the bed. The others beg to go outside, then beg to come back in, staring at me through the window with big eyes as if silently asking, “It’s over now, right?” They’re afraid to go into the kitchen where their food bowls are kept. At times, they are exceptionally clingy, meowing pitifully and pawing at my ankles.

I’m doing my best to keep them calm, minimize the stress they’re feeling. But I totally get their perspective. If I could fit under the bed, I might take my cuppa with me and spend a few hours hiding there, as well.

Not long ago, I read Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking by Susan Cain. I had many a-ha! moments while reading, but one of the most significant takeaways was this: being an introvert – being quiet – isn’t a flaw that needs to be fixed, that needs to be cured.

Thanks, in part, to Susan Cain’s book, I have learned to appreciate the fact that I’m an introvert. I’ve become comfortable with my preference for quietly observing, letting others have the floor, waiting until the right moment to speak. I’ve gained an appreciation of my talent for connecting words and actions and people, noticing little things that matter, recognizing possibilities and potential. I now recognize that choosing not to speak can sometimes be more powerful than voicing my opinion, that staying silent doesn’t automatically diminish my perspective or limit my potential.

In a world that tends to notice and reward extroverts, I’ve come to value my unique gifts as an introvert. I no longer find it necessary to apologize for being quiet.

I’ve also learned to be comfortable with the ways in which I like to manage and process my feelings – which brings me to today’s cuppa.

Sometimes, talking to my dog is a better option than talking to other people. That doesn’t mean that I don’t have good people in my life to talk to, that I don’t enjoy sharing conversations with my family and friends. It’s not representative of a flaw in my human relationships. It just means that, on occasion, I prefer the accepting, understanding, you’re the most perfect person ever in the whole world everything you say and do is perfect type of love that dogs are especially good at providing.

Mollie doesn’t require details or action items. She doesn’t care if I forget the punchline of a joke. She doesn’t need to tell her side of the story. She’ll stay engaged even if what I’m saying makes no sense or is contradictory to what I said yesterday. Most importantly, she doesn’t even care whether I actually do any talking. Sometimes, Mollie is a Quiet Girl’s best friend.

Since she doesn’t drink coffee, I can’t share today’s cuppa with her. I’ll give her a special doggie treat instead. And then we will sit on the couch, in the morning stillness, and talk – or not talk – together.