The Spa Treatment

I'm trying not to make too much of the fact that although there are three mothers now in my immediate family, the only creature who had a spa treatment on Mother's Day was Copper the dog, who not only is not a mother but was most likely never a father either.

Granted, it was not exactly a long languorous soak in the tub followed by a mani-pedi and massage. It was a trying hour in a van in our driveway during which he almost hyperventilated. 

The groomer finally gave up without trimming his ears and neck, but she got much further than last year's groomer, who cut short Copper's appointment, told us never to come back, and left our nervous canine with a funny patchwork trim he's been growing out all year. 

"Most of the dogs I see have already been banned from PetsMart," this year's groomer said. 

How did she know? 

The Coverup

Few activities in life bring as much simple pleasure as covering up the ones we love.

Swaddling a newborn.

Finding the beloved blankie for a toddler in footie pajamas.

Tucking in a child after the fifteenth reading (that night!) of Goodnight Moon.

Pulling a jacket over the sleepy, sullen high-schooler you're driving to school after she missed the bus.

Covering the teenager who came home late from the party and crashed on the couch.

And, when there is no one else around, tucking in this character.
 

Joy!

Six years ago we surprised Claire with a dog from the pound. He was a funny looking animal, advertised as a border collie basset hound mix — but there must be at least half a dozen (unadvertised!) breeds in his pedigree.

Claire had been begging for a dog for months and we had held off, but two days after we learned she'd have to wear a back brace for scoliosis, we adopted Copper.

Early signs were not auspicious.  He ate underwear, socks and eye medicine. He bit people. He ran away on numerous occasions, including the first time we tried to get him out of the car.

But there was always something about him, something ragged and rambunctious and loving, that gave us hope. He was — and still is — the embodiment of joy. A reminder that happiness doesn't always fall into our laps; that we have to search for it, allow ourselves to be disrupted for it, even sometimes pretend we have it when we don't.  Pretend long enough, though, and it begins to feel like we do.


Photo: Claire Capehart

The Sentinel

As Copper has (ahem) matured, his inner shepherd, the genetic tendencies of his border collie genes, have emerged. When he was a puppy, he couldn't do anything for more than a few minutes. Now, he spends hours on the slight rise in our backyard, using the humble altitude to better survey his domain.

He sits still, but he isn't idle. His eyes dart to the left and to the right. He scans the fence for sudden movements in the brush. His ears prick at any tiny rustle in the leaves. I have to imagine he is doing all this to protect his pack.

Watching him watch for us, I see a model of vigilance, of doggie loyalty — of what it means to protect and defend.

One Hour

Today, thanks to our springtime sacrifice, we receive an extra hour — the gift of time. It's still early enough in the day that I can contemplate how to spend it:

Sixty more minutes to read the Sunday paper? Two walks today instead of one? An extra-long phone call with friend or family? Cleaning the fridge? Snapping photos of autumn gold? Reading and writing? Putting the garden to bed? Making beef stew? Practicing "Sheep May Safely Graze" on the piano?

Or, how the day is starting to shape up: Letting the dog out, letting the dog in; letting the dog out, letting the dog in.

Has a certain mantraesque quality to it, no?

Good Boy

This morning our dog, Copper, was especially rambunctious. We don't know what got into him exactly, but he came inside after his morning romp and skittered all over the living room and kitchen. He chased his tail. He ran loops in our house. He looked for all the world like a canine comedian, milking us for every laugh he could.

I let him back into the yard where he ran big loops with a red ball in his mouth. More laughs. It's impossible to watch that little guy rocket across a space, his long, low body (one of our friends says he seems to be put together out of spare, mismatched dog parts) blurred by motion. He's the life force itself. The very essence of joy.

When he's done he runs up to us with a funny grin on his face, as if to say, aren't you proud of me.

And at that moment I forget about the loud barking, the accidents on the carpet, the ruined back door, the times he's run away and left us with our heart in our throats. I reach down and pat the little guy.

"Good boy," I say. "Good boy, Copper."