Banishing bad thoughts
It never fails. If I'm sad, mad, feeling bad, a foray into the forest with the girls is the perfect antidote.Today was no exception.
I was fuming over an incident this morning - involving locals and what passes for health care. I drove the girls to the ski mountain. We hit the trails. I figured we'd do a mile straight up, then back - feeling as upset as I did, I really didn't expect to enjoy myself or to stay out very long. But the higher we go, the more the girls cavort, sniff, explore, the better I feel. Running "alone" with no one other than the girls and nature to talk to, I can work through all those bad and mad thoughts as I push my muscles and breath hard, in, out, in, out, in, out. Eventually, always, the endorphins kick in, coupled with the joy of watching the girls in their element, and I realize the rest doesn't matter. It just doesn't.
We run for 90 minutes, exploring yet another "new" area as we follow a track going straight up rather than the usual zig zagging trail. On the way down, though, following the zigs and zags, Meadow starts cutting the switchbacks. "Cheater!" I tease her, which of course encourages her. She times each cut so that she rejoins the trail just as either Maia or I are going by. It's her way of saying, "Nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah!" Usually, her "cheats" are predictable, but today she makes a new one, a huge cheat, making me stop and look for her. When finally I spy her, the delight at her ruse is obvious - she prances and jumps and smiles, as if she's a toddler playing hide and seek, delighting at being found. She really is the trickster, the jester, the clown. She makes me laugh and smile - I'm sure she knew I started that run in a not-so-good mood - and I'm eternally grateful for her. Deep down, I think Maia is too, although she's too dignified to admit it.
After our run, I take the girls into town with me. I go to the bank drive-through. Now, anyone with a dog who has done this knows that it doesn't take more than once or twice for the dog to learn that treats magically appear in that canister that arrives with a whoosh next to the car window. It's not a bank - it's the treat-dispensing drive-up! One time a few years ago, a teller apologized, saying she'd run out of treats. Oh, Maia was miffed! She couldn't believe she wasn't getting a treat - isn't that why we go there, after all? - and the next time at that drive-through, she didn't even get up in anticipation, as if snubbing that canister for treating her so badly before.
Today, driving up, I roll down the back window so the teller can see the girls. They stand in anticipation, their eyes and noses pointed expectantly at the canister. Usually, that's enough to procure a treat from the teller. Not today. I open to canister to find only my receipt. Maia is looking right over my shoulder in anticipation, and the look of horror on her face is, well, horrifying. Uh oh; now what? I hold up the canister for her to see the sad truth: no treat. Maia still can't believe it; she keeps looking, sniffing, as if to say, "Surely there's a mistake!" The teller, bless her, sees this and solves my dilemma (which is, should I beg for two treats, even though there's another customer waiting behind me...?) by immediately coming on the speaker and saying, "Oh my God, I'm sorry, I forgot; please send the canister back!" I do so, and all the while the teller keeps apologizing profusely, while I lament having dogs so smart that you just can't get anything by them. The canister reappears with two enormous treats inside.
The girls devour the treats and are happy. The canister god has smiled upon them once again. A little slow, yes, but things work out as they should.
Two lessons: (1) bank tellers rock; and (2) dogs are way smarter than we'll ever know.