Three Things:
1. I hate February.
2. Kismet brings the best dogs to me.
3. I’ve been on a search for mindfulness.
Last Monday, I talked myself into heading to the gym after taking Bubs to school. As is usual, our Pekingese, Mr. Pugglesworth III, rode along for Bubs’ delivery to said school.
Because it was Monday. Pugsy knows that every Monday, after I leave the gym, I drive through the McDonald’s line for a medium hot mocha for me — because “medium” is a size at McDonald’s, bless them — and a yogurt parfait for him.
Last Monday, the road to the gym was doubled time-wise, as construction vehicles had set upon the planet and removed huge chunks of my route, forcing traffic to crawl in a lane we usually at least toddled. It’s never been a quick route, no doubt, but to double the time, on a morning I didn’t wish to travel that route in the first place, increased my resentment of my mission to Get Fit, Get Strong, Fight Aging.
But after the arduous journey, I parked the vehicle, strode into the gym, scanned my ID so I would get credit for having made the epic quest, used the restroom, and accomplished one plank before thinking, “I want to be with my dog,” and leaving the establishment.
To be clear: forty minutes on the road, ten minutes at the gym, including the walking time into and out of the building from the space where I parked.
Free, I drove my pup jubilantly toward the McDonald’s where I ordered the appropriate food stuffs and Pugsy was appropriately coo-ed upon before leaving the drive-through and heading home to drink coffee and eat yogurt. (I eat the berries; they’re virtually frozen and delicious.)
The next day, I returned home after work to find my Mr. Pugglesworth dying beneath a tree after crawling over an acre, away from the dog fight of his life, to burrow under the evergreen’s limbs and wait for darkness.
Long, long story shorter, my Pugs is alive.
He walks, he tries too hard, he weakens quickly and exhausts even faster; he is still compelled to bring mulch into the house, he hates to be left alone, he barks on occasion, and he lists to the right when he walks.
Number 4: my son suffers from anxiety issues, and Number 5, he had an enormously important task for school this week, one that would affect his grade, and Number 6, this was the worst week for something tragic to happen.
Number 7: I prayed a lot this week, for miracles, for guidance, for patience, for Bubs and Pugs equally.
It was a solid week of waves of affirmations and positive thoughts treading water with reality and prayers to not be beached.
But at last — remember Number 1? — yesterday my son, after all that we’d endured, all the prayers, all the sobbing and gasping and tortured days, my son said on a sunny, seventy-five degree Sunday, “Hey, Mom?”
“Yes, my baby.”
“It’s March 1st.”
1. We survived February.
2. This dog is our perfect companion.
3. Screw mindfulness. I had enough awareness of every moment this last week that I need to coast a while.