Life Lessons from a Labrador Retriever

There she goes.

Again.

She ran out the back door the moment I opened it and plotted her course straight towards the huge tree in the corner. The squirrels are chattering at her from high above, the animal version of a snarky retort.

I whistle in an attempt to bring her back from her wild dog fantasy, but it’s no use. Once she’s focused on a squirrel she won’t give up until it hops onto the fence and heads for the neighbor’s yard.

One small victory in the effervescent life of a Labrador retriever.

I give up and watch her run gracefully up and down the fence line as the squirrel plays the daily game of catch-me-if-you-can. Deep in her gene pool lies the stuff of great hunting dogs, according to the breeder. When she runs and leaps around the yard you can see tiny glimpses of the dog she was born to be.

But fate placed her here, in this suburban home with 2.0 kids and not a hunter to be found. Her keen retrieving instincts are directed towards the spit-stained stuffed animals that inhabit her toy basket. She sleeps on my daughter’s bed and spends countless hours curled up under my desk.

Not quite a dog’s life — more like the life of a princess, my husband claims.

When she was younger, she was injured while running up and down the fence chasing a nighttime critter — either a possum or a raccoon. Her leg swelled up and it was difficult for her to move around. After vet visits, ultrasound treatments, medications and as much “rest” as one can force on a lab she was healed and life moved on. She continued to chase the squirrels and play seemingly endless rounds of fetch with a tennis ball.

But then when she was 3 years old it happened again. She was sitting in front of me as I sat on the steps tying my shoelaces. I motioned for her to back up and she did. The cry of pain was horrible and her leg was sticking straight out to the side, in a direction back legs weren’t built to go.

And it was the other leg.

So after a trip to the emergency vet, CT scans and consultations with the surgeon it was determined that Holli has an uncommon, chronic problem with both Achilles tendons in her back legs. Because the surgery and recovery is very difficult, we decided to wait it out. We carried her home, nursed her back to health and decided to try and limit her running and activity in order to avoid surgery for as long as possible. No more endless rounds of fetch in the backyard or running around with the big dogs at the dog park. She was destined to be the canine model for a couch potato.

And yet, she runs.

She runs because she doesn’t know that she can’t. The consequences of running the fence line in hot pursuit of a squirrel mean nothing to her. She lets her inner hunting dog loose and runs with grace and agility.

I swear she’s even smiling.

She runs because she can, because she doesn’t understand my long-winded explanations about why I called her back into the house. Because to her, running feels like something she is compelled to do, something she can’t stop doing. And she isn’t afraid of the consequences.

She runs.

Why don’t we?

We all have something we wish we could do, or maybe even feel that we were born to do. And yet, how often do we throw up our arms and say, “WTH? I’m going to do it!”

Has someone told you that you can’t? Is your inner critic whispering “You’ll fail” in your ear, ever so quietly while you daydream?

This is how I feel about writing, most days.

That I am driven to do it and really need to get those words out, but that time and work and my inner critic all get in the way.

That I need to write like nobody is reading.

That I need to take one more run at that squirrel on the fence.

And not worry about the chatter.

Moving Day

I’ve been a bit under the bloggy radar this past week or so. Actually I haven’t posted anything in almost two weeks.

I decided on a whim to change my blog. Not just a new color or different font, mind you.

From Blogger to Word Press.

By myself.
Old Tweener

The cool kids tell me this is known as migrating.

They call it migrating due to the splitting migrating headache I’ve had for the past five days.

And the whole doing-it-myself thing went pretty well at first. I set up hosting, found a template I understood, customized it, and designed and made my own header and button. Things were going quite well.

Until that whole technical glitch late last week. The glitch that had my head spinning around and my eyeballs rolling back into my head.

I had to wave my little white flag and call in the reinforcements.

Or at least someone who speaks SEO/DNS/API/RSS/EIEIO (I made that one up).

So thanks to the uber-smart and easy to work with Booyah’s Momma I now look a little bit cleaner and a wee bit different, but I’m all moved in now.

She’s the best techie goddess I know, and was willing to hold my hair back when I felt the blog vomit coming on.

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She’s cool like that.

So thanks for visiting me in my new digs! I’m still tweaking things and trying like heck to figure out how to get rid of the dreaded Comment Moderation Beast. So bear with me, my loyal peeps.

Bottles of wine are always appreciated as a housewarming gift.

Let the writing continue…..