Autumn Changes
evening's return, a dental hygienist who gets it, and Tjikko's 1st birthday
A week ago, before the time change, Tjikko and I started our final walk of the day at 6:30 pm. It was just after sunset, and the light was beginning to dim but rays of sunlight still brightened the colors of trees and grass. We don’t have brilliant displays of fall color here, so the occasional treetops in shades of red and orange really pop out.
Then Standard Time was restored, transferring the light to early morning. I love that.
A few mornings ago I drove Tjikko the mile to Sligo Creek for a trail walk. I’ve mentioned these creekside excursions several times in these pages but it’s been a while—both since we’ve done a trail walk and since I’ve published anything.
It’s a perfect fall morning, cool and crisp, the sun shining through a little haziness, making the creek sparkle. Dry, brown leaves give a pleasant swishy-crunchy texture to the ground under our feet. The season of fallen acorns is mostly over, thank the seasonal gods, who move things along so that the times for thick layers of oak pollen clusters in spring, and acorn-strewn gauntlets in fall, eventually end.
I didn’t know the dangers of acorns until Tjikko got very sick after chewing several of them to bits. Then I learned that the tannins they contain are toxic to dogs.
There’s still a scattering of acorns on the ground, but I’ve made progress in getting him to obey “drop it” by using various tricks and lots of treats.
That said, I must confess my big “drop it” fail, which occurred that morning just a few hours before the creek walk. It was on the early “potty” walk around the block. While I was scooping poop, Tjikko nosed around the ground and grabbed something, most likely an acorn, I judged from the crunching sounds as he chewed.
I tried a simple “drop it” command, but had to pull the glove off my left hand in order to get a treat from my bag, wasting several seconds as he continued to chew. Tossing some treats a foot or so in front of him usually entices him sufficiently to drop the object, but not this time. He finished chewing and swallowed.
What happened next was my big fail, which wasn’t about the acorn, a small one not likely to cause serious poisoning. I picked up the treats from the curbside, saying sadly, “No. No treats.” I should have stopped there, I but didn’t. I yelled at Tjikko.
This is exactly how I used to parent my Dear Daughter, when she was a toddler and a few minutes later a teenager. Always aspiring to be the calm, unflappable mom, I was anything but that. And now, in the same situation with my sweet teenage dog, I’m still giving in to frustration, losing control even though the frustration is about control—the stability, predictability, and safety that I imagine will be mine, if only I can control this dog (or child). However, I can’t.
Later, on our way out for the final evening walk, I open the back gate and there, in the eastern sky straight ahead of me, appears the rising, near-full moon. I draw a deep breath and feel my shoulders relax.
We follow one of our customary routes, which eventually takes us along the sidewalk next to a small park. It’s nearly dark at 6:30. I glance back, and there’s a woman running with her dog, quickly approaching us.
Tjikko’s reactivity to other dogs is entirely friendly—he just wants to meet them and play with them. But the resultant lunging and barking is a problem, so a big part of walking him is managing those reactivity triggers. He’s made a lot of progress in learning to remain calm, in most situations. When a calm dog is walking toward us across the street, Tjikko will sit and watch while I feed him treats at regular intervals. But a dog running and suddenly appearing close behind? That’s not likely to go well.
We need an emergency exit, so I carefully run with him down a short hill into the field. There’s no sense in returning to the sidewalk, so I decide to go through the field, which is fairly well lighted by the moon. Tjikko keeps his nose to the ground but trots along at a good pace, and it’s only when we get near the opposite street that he stops abruptly behind me, which I know means he’s picking up something.
In the street I see that the thing is hanging out of his mouth and doesn’t appear to be alarming. I toss a few treats ahead. “Drop it,” I say, in a singsong voice. He doesn’t. I pick up the treats and put them back in my bag, saying softly, “No treats,” though I’m pretty sure those words mean nothing to him.
Moments later I glance back and see what looks like a candy wrapper on the ground behind the now empty-mouthed pup. “Did you drop that? Good boy!” I give him the treats.
At my semiannual dental checkup, my conversation with the hygienist while she’s setting things up somehow turns to Tjikko and puppies. She and her family are considering getting one but she hesitates because, she says, “It’s like having another child.” She continues on this topic: the end of freedom, the constant interruptions, the perpetual diligence, attention, and readiness to pivot to meet sudden needs, the lack of rest. I find myself enjoying this exchange with someone who understands.
Tjikko had his first birthday on October 21st. (My entry in my One Line a Day journal for November 5th last year reads: “Trump wins. The puppies are 2 weeks old.”) For his “cake” I filled a Kong with a mixture of peanut butter, pumpkin puree, and lactose-free yogurt and froze it to prolong his licking pleasure—and reduce the mess.
Small triumphs of control over messes and chaos are lovely, but ultimately this journey is not only about control. It’s not only about the serenity to accept the things I can’t control, though I try to remember to say that prayer at least once a day.
This is about living in the flow of the seasons: darkness and light, oak pollen and acorns, summer’s heat followed by anticipating winter and the problem of gloves. Last winter, I was outdoors many times per day (and night) for short durations. Now we take long walks, during which my left hand is constantly doling out treats. (Yesterday I found a pair of gloves at thrift store that might be perfect, with cut-out fingertips including the thumb.)
This is about growing in love with this adorable little dog who pushes the boundaries of my endurance, then licks my hand while I spread towels to soften and warm the slate floor of his pen. This energetic canine teenager who stretches my patience till it snaps, then forgives me and gives me puppy kisses and the characteristic Aussie tail wag, which makes his whole butt wiggle with happiness.
Ultimately, this is about entering a new and unanticipated season of my life, which I have yet to figure out.
Aww, Elizabeth, this little man is growing up...slowly yes, but on schedule for Aussie's. When he doesn't listen and you scream...well, so be it. You know doggies live in the moment and won't hold it against you. I promise. And you mentioned your daughter so I'll gently but firmly remind you that kids are not made of glass. All that's necessary is being the 'good enough mother'. No one gets it to perfection.
It's definitely days of waning autumn weather where I am with only the persistent oaks hanging onto their leaves. But so it goes.
Thank you, dear Friend, for continuing to show up despite a busy life.
xx
It's interesting how the shift in light with standard time can so profondly change our daily rhythm and perspective; do you ever find these seasonal transitions also bring a different kind of clarity or perhaps even a subtle recalibration to your thoughts, which you always articulat so thoughtfully?