Separation Whining and a Moment of Bliss

We have been blessed with dogs that do not suffer from separation anxiety, and little Remy shows no signs of developing it. He doesn't particularly relish being left in his crate when we step out of the house for a short time. He whines a bit at first (we listen from outside), but he quickly settles down to a nap. From day one, on the trip home from California, Remy has known that his crate is his safe place -- whether in the car, in the living room or in the bedroom. And when he's in it, he knows we will come back. I think this gives him comfort. It certainly did for Baxter and for Kirby starting from puppyhood.

Today's separation whining is mine. All mine. The dogs don't know I'm leaving for a couple of days.  My husband, Jamie, will be home to take care of them, so I'm not worried about that aspect.  He does the lion's share of the dog feeding, walking and puppy watching while I'm working upstairs in my home office during the day anyway (even though it has forced Jamie to adapt our kitchen into a makeshift art studio). I think they might miss me a little, dogs and husband, but I'm not really worried about that either. I will miss them all. And I rather look forward to the enthusiastic greetings I know I will receive when I get home.

No, this whining and vague hint of anxiety is about two things: 1) feeling guilty about leaving poor Jamie with 24/7 puppy duty for the whole weekend and 2) realizing that I've never been away from Remy for more than a few short hours at a time.

As I sit here on the sofa this morning, knowing I have a ton of things to do: packing, shopping, prepping food (this is a women's choir retreat and food is second only to music), I realize how very content I am to be here right now, in the early morning, sitting on the sofa writing on my laptop with little Remy curled up by my side chewing on a toy. He has positioned himself so that his back touches my elbow, like an extension of me. He feels me typing and I feel him chewing. This is bliss.

For me, sharing a quiet moment with a dog is often richer than sharing a quiet moment alone. There is a calmness that emanates from a dog -- even a puppy at times -- that is far more still and settled than my own, overly-busy mind. The dog brings a warmth, a solidity, a connection to the Earth that I, as a human, can too easily lose track of.  Right now, in this quiet, morning moment, Remy and I expect nothing of each other other than just being here.

And that is what I will miss the most this weekend.

Sense of Time

Kirby: Forget work, it's time for play.

One thing our dogs seem to be particularly good at is knowing what time it is. Baxter and Kirby have little internal bio-clocks that tell them precisely when it is time to get up in the morning, to go for a walk, to take an afternoon nap, to paw at my chair to stop me from working for the day, to eat dinner and to go to bed. And they are spot-on. Daily. I could teach these guys to punch a time clock.

This seems quite remarkable to me, for even though I possess the capability of reading a clock, I still manage to lose track of large periods of time, particularly when I'm focused on projects.

For a person whose work requires me to keep track of my time in 15-minute increments all day long (and I am meticulous about it, mind you), I'm a remarkably time-impaired person by nature. Perhaps it is the rigor of keeping track of my work time that makes me so prone to losing track of my personal time. Or perhaps, out of some need to impose a sense of time on myself, I have gravitated toward work that forces me to account for exactly what I'm doing and how long I spend doing it. I may never know.

One thing I do know is that the time I spend on creative pursuits is time I don't mind losing track of. When I'm in the right frame of mind, I can lose hours on my writing. And when I emerge out the other side, I feel rejuvenated. That escape from time is like a vacation. If I didn't have that capacity to lose track of time, I'm sure the entire creative experience wouldn't happen, or at least it wouldn't happen as well, because I'd be too locked into the here and now.

I guess I really need to be there and then sometimes.