It’s been a long, dreary winter. February is creeping by, one snowy day blurring into another, and, after a couple of years of change and flux and shifting relationships, I’ve been feeling careworn and burdened on top of the usual winter malaise that often hits about this time. I turned fifty last fall and my children are growing up and there are days when I still reel from the shock of finding myself a middle-aged woman with an emptying nest. If I’ve ever needed some peace and quiet and space to process the changes my life has undergone in the last several years, it’s now.
So you will think I’m a little nuts (you can join my husband) when I tell you that I’ve recently begun exercising and helping care for two German shorthaired pointers who have been living since last summer in a kennel in my brother- and sister-in-law’s yard next door. How these dogs came to live at my in-laws’ and why they’re kept in a kennel all day and night with little exercise or attention (though they’re fed daily and have a dog igloo to sleep in) is a long and complicated story. Suffice it to say that although it’s supposed to be a temporary arrangement, it’s lasted too long, and it’s been difficult for everyone involved—especially for the poor dogs. And that, despite my intention to remain detached, somehow I found myself volunteering to help.
So for the past five weeks, every morning after the kids leave for school I’ve been pulling on my thermals and sweats and my coat and gloves and scarf and my big heavy snow boots, filling my pockets with doggy treats and dog-poop bags, and trudging across my yard through the snow to my brother- and sister-in-law’s yard next door. As soon as they see me, the dogs leap over and over in their kennel, throwing themselves against the chain-link fence and barking deliriously until I let them out, bracing myself so that they don’t knock me over. Then I watch them streak through the open gate and bound across the snow to our fenced-in yard, where my own dog, Daisy, and two bowls of dog food await them.
For the next hour I play endless games of fetch, watch the three dogs chase each other around the yard and wrestle in the snow while I try to ignore the growing patches of mud where the dogs have kicked up the lawn or dug holes. I dole out treats and pick up countless piles of dog poop and try to break up the wrestling when it gets too rough (not exactly what I envisioned myself doing all those years ago when I dreamed of having all my kids in school).
Over the past month I’ve learned that Dash, who is white and liver-spotted, is the older yet more submissive of the two. He loves to toss toys in the air with his mouth and catch them as he runs, and he likes to dig holes. He pounces playfully when he wants to wrestle with Daisy, and he gives in during tug-o’-wars over a chew toy. Sambo, the black dog (and yes, I acknowledge it’s an unfortunate choice of name), is the alpha. Not quite a year old, he’s fifty pounds of quivering, pent-up energy. He jumps on me with muddy paws and noses my pockets for treats. He runs in endless circles around the yard and hurls himself at Daisy, nipping at her ears and neck, and runs away from me when I try to clip on his leash. I am hopeless as a dog trainer so the only thing I’ve managed to teach him is to stand with all four paws on the ground instead of jumping on me when he wants a treat. I guess it’s a start.
When playtime is over I put leashes on the dogs (after I finally catch Sambo) and walk them back across the yard (they look at me resignedly with their chocolate-brown eyes). I shut myself up with them in their kennel while I scoop piles of poop off of the cement floor and skim the ice from the top of their water bucket. I pet their heads and rub their ears and then I trudge back home, squaring my shoulders and ignoring their cries. I clean up the yard and throw away the poop, wipe off Daisy’s paws and mop up her muddy prints after we come inside. Then I try to make the most of what’s left of the day.
As you can imagine, some days this routine feels like one more big chore added to my already heavy load. I complain to my husband about my lack of time during the day, about my aching shoulders from playing fetch and my aching back from shoveling snow out of the dogs’ kennel. I complain about the mud. I say, “I swear I cannot get the smell of dog poop out of my nostrils.” Part of me wonders if I’m being a martyr, or a masochist, or both.
But on other days, I find the winter doldrums receding as I watch the dogs chase each other around in circles, nipping at each others’ tails, rolling around in the snow and pulling each other over the grass as they tug on the same piece of rope. I smile, utterly charmed by their funny dog ways. Striding around the yard, dogs trailing after me, I feel rugged and outdoorsy, like those English women with weathered faces who breed dogs and wear tweed and riding boots. The river is running just beyond our backyard, and my cheeks are cold in the bracing air, and the dogs are happy as they fling themselves into the moment—pure joy. And something in me loosens; the heaviness in my chest eases, and I bask in the quiet, peaceful respite.
And on those days, spring doesn’t seem that far away.
Are you tired of winter? What helps you shake off the winter doldrums? Have you ever found an unexpected relief or blessing while taking on an added burden? And, finally, how do you handle touchy situations with in-laws? (I’d really like to know this one.)
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