Puppy Love

Recently Trey and I decided that our lives just aren’t quite chaotic enough, so we got a puppy! Actually, we’re loving the extra chaos (for the most part) as we adjust to life with our little border collie, Rooster. We’ve had him for a little over two weeks now, and we’re still getting to know him and his little quirks–like the way he bolts across the room and hurls himself into my lap any time I’m on the floor. It’s super cute right now while he’s about 7 pounds, but I’m worried that if he keeps it up much longer, he’s going to end up giving me a nosebleed.

So, yeah, we have some training to do. But that’s part of the reason we picked a border collie–they’re supposed to be very intelligent and trainable with LOTS of energy. Since Perrin gives me a grumpy-tween face any time I mention the possibility of team sports to him, I figured he at least needs a dog who will get him out and about each day.

One thing I’ve learned though: our family is not so great with communication. There are mornings I’ve gotten up and fed Rooster breakfast, only to find Trey feeding him breakfast again about an hour later. Then one of the kids will wake up and see Rooster’s sad puppy eyes looking up imploringly, and they’ll think “Poor little guy must be so hungry!” So the end result is that our puppy is eating like a hobbit: breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses, lunch, dinner, supper… you get the idea. I really don’t want a 1200-pound border collie, so I’m going to have to figure out a system and get everyone on board.

And then there’s the cat. She spent the first couple of days growling and hissing at him. Poor Rooster had probably never met another living creature that didn’t love him! He kept wanting to play with her, and she just wasn’t having any of his nonsense. But the last week or so has been better. She even rubbed up against him one day! I think his whole little body was quivering with excitement.

And of course we’re working on potty training, leash training, and teaching him that we are not his personal chew toys. All part of the fun of having a new pup. But even though we have some “ruff” moments now and then (ha ha), he really is a sweet, smart, lovable little guy.

Just look at the cuteness!!

 

Sadness and Gratitude

It’s been a little over two weeks since our dog Molly passed away. I debated about whether or not to write a blog post about her passing since I tend to keep most of my blogs fairly lighthearted and fun. There’s nothing fun about a beloved pet dying. But I think there are some things about it that are good to reflect on.

The kids are doing okay. I was especially worried for Perrin in the days after Molly’s death. He didn’t feel like doing anything—not even eating or watching TV (behavior completely unheard of for him). He was probably the one who was closest to Molly. He took her for walks regularly, played with her on the floor more than anyone, gave her baths and brushed her teeth. A few weeks before Molly’s death, I let Perrin and Brielle have a sleepover with her on Perrin’s bedroom floor. I’m thankful for special memories they all have together and that she still had lots of energy right up until her last weekend. And now that a little time has passed, I’m seeing improvement in them. I’m proud and thankful for how my kids are walking courageously through their first brush with grief.

A few hours before Molly’s death, I could tell that she just wasn’t herself. I sat with her in the laundry room for a bit, stroking her head and telling her she was a good girl. I prayed for her, asking God to not allow her to suffer. The kids spent some extra time with her too, but when she died, I was the one alone with her, watching it happen. I’m thankful the kids didn’t have to see that. I’m thankful Molly didn’t have to suffer long.

We held a funeral for her that evening in the woods behind my parents’ house. The kids wrote letters to her and put them in her grave. We read from Psalm 50: “Every animal of the forest is mine, / and the cattle on a thousand hills. / I know every bird in the mountains, / and the insects in the field are mine.” We buried her and decorated her grave with flowers and a cross. I’m thankful we were able to honor her life and the 13.5 years that she was part of our family.

I’m thankful her life was long. I’m thankful she was always so kind and patient with the kids. I’m thankful she gave us lots of fun memories (I’m even able to laugh now about the time she ate all the Christmas presents a couple weeks before Christmas). I’m thankful we have lots of pictures of her. I’m thankful that God will use times like this in my kids’ lives to make them more compassionate and empathetic for those who are grieving.

There’s a lot of sadness, but there’s so much to be thankful for too. Thank you, God, for bringing Molly into our lives so many years ago. And thank you, Molly. We love you and miss you. 

Something fishy is going on here

I have good memories of going fishing with my grandpa when I was little. We would hop in his truck and drive up the steep gravel road by his house in Winslow, Arkansas, to a large pond surrounded by woods and bluffs. It was a peaceful, tranquil setting (other than the blasted mosquitoes buzzing around my face). An old abandoned cabin and an outhouse added to the rustic charm and the sense that we had gone back in time. My grandpa taught me how to bait the hook, cast, and reel in a fish patiently without breaking the line. Then, back at the house, I’d watch in fascination as he “cleaned” the fish (which was a much dirtier process than the phrase led me to believe), and we’d eat it for dinner.

I’m not a fisherwoman these days, but I wanted my kids to experience a little fishing fun in their childhood. So a couple days ago I sent them into the backyard to dig up worms (we discovered our yard is abundant with them when we were leveling a spot for our above-ground pool a month ago), and we loaded up the car with fishing poles and tackle and headed to a nearby park where we had recently watched some catfish gobbling up the bread people had thrown for the ducks. (Who knew catfish liked bread?)

My plan was just to sit and watch. My days of spearing a slimy, wiggly worm onto a hook are over… or so I thought. Brielle would poke a worm with the hook and then shriek as it wriggled in her hand. She’d drop the worm then have to find it in the grass. She’d try picking it up with a stick so she didn’t have to touch it. Finally I was exasperated enough that I helped her get it on the hook. It was every bit as gross as I remembered.

Once both kids had their poles baited and cast, I settled down to watch the family of nutrias living on what we call “nutria island” in the pond. If you don’t know what a nutria is, just picture giant swimming rats with large, orange-ish front teeth. Truly, they’re not far off from the Rodents of Unusual Size in the fire swamp of The Princess Bride. But they can be entertaining to watch. They’re quite social and playful with each other, and they moo.

A mama nutria was lying on the island just trying to take a little nap while her two babies crawled all over her. I never thought I’d feel empathy for a nutria, but I couldn’t help thinking, “Oh mama, I know just how you feel!”

Around that time, Trey and Bri hooked a catfish on Bri’s pink Disney princess fishing pole. Turns out pink Disney princess fishing poles aren’t the best for reeling in a decent-sized catfish. The reel couldn’t handle the weight. Trey had to walk backwards with Bri’s pole to pull the fish onto land. Success! We had caught a fish.

Both kids wanted to touch it. Bri wanted to know if we could take it home and keep it as a pet (um, no). We took the hook out, admired our whiskery new friend, then tossed him back.

Pretty sure the fish told all his friends about his adventure on land because they simply weren’t biting after that. So we turned our attention to a new form of entertainment: seeing how far we could cast. After hooking a couple of trees, Perrin got the hang of it and was pretty good. Even Trey joined in the fun and impressed the kids with his long-distance casting. It kind of reminded me of our college days of playing racquetball—his main objective was to hit the ball as hard as he could and see how many times it would bounce off the walls. Similarly, he wasn’t too interested in actual fishing, but a visual display of his power and manliness? Heck yes!

Now for the last couple of days the kids have been practicing their casting in our backyard (sans hooks, thank goodness). And they keep asking when we can go again. Maybe I’m going to have to become a fisherwoman after all. But that girl of mine is going to have to learn to bait her own hook. 😉

The pains and gains of a 12-mile hike

I’ve been contemplating tackling the 12-mile Winthrop P. Rockefeller Boy Scout Trail for quite some time, and I finally had the opportunity last Saturday. Trey and I go hiking a lot, but we’ve never hiked a 12-mile trail before. I wasn’t sure if Trey would be up to the challenge, but he was surprisingly open to the idea (cabin fever working its magic, perhaps?) and I figured with the quarantine going on, this might be a good time to enjoy the trail in relative solitude. (That’s why no one was on the trail, right? Because of quarantine? Not because most people would consider hiking 12 miles to be on par with, say, listening to “Baby Shark” for 8 hours straight?)

We got up at 6 a.m. and hit the road loaded down with backpacks full of water, yucky food (I’ll get to that in a moment), a first-aid kit, and a portable cell phone charger (I know, I know. Sheesh… Millennials. But we had to be prepared for emergency situations like NEEDING to text our friends along the route and posting our final victory on Facebook. Turns out cell service was almost nil in the wilderness anyway.) We also brought along our brand-new hiking poles (which may have saved our lives… I’ll get to that too).

We parked our car and took the obligatory picture by the trailhead sign. Look how fresh and enthusiastic we were! See with what hope and anticipation our eyes sparkled! Oh, the foolishness and ignorance of untested youthful confidence!

 

We got on the trail at about 8:30 and were happy and chatty. It felt good to be outside in the cool morning air, listening to the gentle breeze and the sound of the rushing creek (I say creek, but it was more like a river—very full and fast due to all the recent rain). We stopped to take several pictures along the way and used our hiking poles to steady ourselves across the many slick rocks as we clambered up and down through steep sections.  

Trey and I have some of our best conversations in the car on long road trips, and our hike was similar—lots of beautiful scenery and good conversation. We tried to keep up a decent pace, but the terrain kept us from going more than a couple miles an hour the whole day. I’m sure our detours for photo opportunities didn’t help.

A few miles into our hike, the trail suddenly ended at the river. We looked around in confusion for a few minutes, peering through the trees to find the next white blaze that would keep us on our path. Then we spotted it—across the river. We could see some rocks that had been strategically placed in a line—presumably for hikers to use as a bridge. But those rocks were firmly underwater with a fast current gushing over them. We knew if we tried to walk on the rocks, we’d be swept off our feet (and not in a romantic way).

We had two choices: turn around a hike the few miles back and call it a day, and live forever with the shame that this trail had gotten the best of us. OR we could pig-headedly forge the river and risk injury to our bodies and water damage to our phones, just for the sake of saying we did it.

“Take your shoes off,” I told Trey. “We don’t want to hike the other 9 miles with wet feet.” (I’m the pig-headed one between the two of us. Trey is probably more sensible in these kinds of situations but loves me a lot, so he follows me into pigheadedness.) So we took off our socks and shoes, rolled our pants up to our thighs, tucked our phones into what we hoped was a waterproof bag inside Trey’s backpack, and stepped into icy cold water. 

This is the part where the hiking poles saved our lives (yes, I’m being a tiny bit dramatic). But the current was quite strong, the water was up to our thighs in the deepest part, and we were struggling to maintain a foothold on the slimy underwater rocks. The poles provided some extra stability as we inched our way forward. I was trying not to think of all the creepy crawlies that could be in the water and also trying to ignore the way the slime was squishing between my toes. We were ecstatic to make it to the other side. We felt like real wilderness adventurers! Survivalists! Sign us up for a weekend with Bear Grylls! After a round of high-fives and “I can’t believe we just did that!” we were ready to continue the journey.

The day got warmer as we went along but topped out at about 70, so it was pretty perfect for a day of hiking. We stopped for lunch somewhere between miles 6 and 7. We found a smooth rock area off the trail and tried to heat MREs for lunch. I say “tried” because these MREs were apparently pretty old, and the heating element didn’t work so well. The meal I had picked, sweet and sour chicken, never progressed even to lukewarm. It also had the taste and consistency of canned dog food. I ate two bites and decided that, 12-mile hike or not, I wasn’t THAT hungry. I did have a granola bar and a few raisins, so I decided those would have to sustain me for the remainder of the hike. So here’s my pro tip: When you’re making yourself go on an all-day hike, pack yourself something a few steps above dog food. Having lousy food when you’re hungry and tired only makes the crankies worse.  (Trey ate all of his spaghetti MRE, which he assured me was better than the sweet and sour slop.)

The next few miles of the trail were really beautiful with lots of rock cliffs, a much smaller creek that the trail zig-zagged across several times, and a natural bridge. After about mile nine we got a lot quieter, though. Our chatter and laughter had turned to huffing and puffing. All of our concentration was on the trail in front of us. Our legs and feet were hurting from all the climbing up and down, and it was taking all of our effort not to stumble on the wet rocks… and in fact, we did both take mild tumbles somewhere between miles 10 and 11. We were just so tired from all the up and down climbing, and the combination of shaky muscles and slick rocks got the better of us. Thankfully neither of us was hurt at all, but we resolved to take the remainder of the trail even slower and with more deliberation.

Both Trey and I could feel blisters beginning to form on our pinky toes (on the right foot for both of us… aren’t we just so in sync?) The last stretch of the trail had us fantasizing out loud about how good it would feel to get to the car and take off our muddy shoes (we had the foresight to pack flip flops for the drive home) and how delicious real food would taste.

When we finally emerged from the trail, we were ecstatic. We had done it! We’d been on the trail for about 7 hours. We were smelly, dirty, wet, sore, and hungry. But we felt like we had really accomplished something worth bragging about.

I know, I know. A 12-mile hike is not that big of a deal. But it was definitely a challenge for us, and the endorphins were pumping and making us feel pretty darn proud. I’m going to give Trey a little bit of time for the details of this trip to begin to grow fuzzy… and then I might suggest to him that we do it again. 😊