No Skunks Tonight...

There were no skunks tonight. I haven’t seen the little bugger since he ambled over and crawled under the backside of my house. We simply can’t be careless with his typical ambivalence about hibernating. The traumatic bath, the stinky wet towels, and days of lingering foul stench are worth the extra vigilance.

So, I load up with layers…winter coat, hood up, and warm gloves to go scout for the skunk. Flashlight in hand, I first check for Rocky, my so-named flying squirrel that will some nights peer down at me from tree branches above. We barely know each other, yet he seems to trust that I might soon fill his feeder with a few night snack seeds. The beam then slowly searches corners of the yard for a white stripe and waddling steps. 

The coast is clear and the door opens. Young Ginger greets her freedom with back hair rising and bounding leaps. Next, the sheriff…Rusty…trots down three steps to resume my surveillance of all that might be. He struts, he pees, he struts. He pees again. For no apparent reason, he offers up a few authoritative barks. Ginger turns in alarm and runs to join him in his efforts to assure our safety. I have no idea what he’s barking at. Neither does she. It doesn’t matter to her. It’s all good and exciting. And it doesn’t matter to me either. I realize that it has been months since he’s been himself enough to bark at…nothing. Oh, he knows. What matters to me is that he cares. 

Mornings are easier now. After a “shot of hot”…coffee that was dripping as I still slept…the layers are worn and the door slowly opens. We must first warn the squirrels of our interruption to their frantic bird seed feast. As the plump, gray winter squirrels scurry up their trees, we hear a few chickadees announce their arrival. These brave little birds trust that I won’t hurt them, that Rusty merely wants to watch them, and that Ginger is off shaking a small limb. They follow a routine in sync with ours. They are happy. The squirrels are watching.

Coffee sustains me. I’ve often joked that I am but a quivering mass of flesh without coffee. And cream is on my short list of “I’ll die sooner before I give it up” pleasures. But this essential part of my morning rituals is so much better with just a piece of a cinnamon bun, chocolate croissant, or Frosty’s glazed twist. My dogs understand that they must wait for breakfast. Coffee, baked goodies, internet sports stories, and a thawing of body and brain come first. Their wait proves well worth it. Kibble, soft food, maybe sweet potato, and sometimes scrambled egg is their reward. Rusty dives in. Ginger plays our game of “sit…wait…take it” following direct eye contact. Upon her rescue and adoption, she was slow with eye contact. Much better now.

That space between our morning and evening regimens is also much the same each day. Whether at my office or at home, they sleep much of the time. Rusty will seek my attention, moaning, showing me where he wants to be scratched or rubbed. I’ll say, “that’s all for now”…and he resumes sleeping. Ginger just does as he does unless music is playing. It is then that she almost involuntarily warbles and howls. Cute. Annoying. Both. Eric Clapton? Keb Mo? Automatic. Recently she’s taken to James Taylor. 

While people will ask when I am going to retire, I am in no hurry. I realize that, four days of the week, I have five very meaningful conversations with five different people…or couples. My style is very different than many other therapists. I share my own stories as they might apply, literally or metaphorically. My writing has been shaped from their stories and life lessons as learned from hardship and recovery. A new client recently told me that his medical doctor recommended me as “one of the best.” This makes me proud. This is all I can really hope for.

Otherwise, I have small talk with a few nice dog friends, banter with the (very) occasional friendly person at Hannaford’s grocery store, or share that dance of language only understood by my dogs and me. This is not to diminish this dance. I used to say that my dear Nora had the vocabulary of a five year-old human child. This comes from repetition of the dance and a true concern for what each of us had to say.

I have long believed that music has been the fabric of my life. There is good food and wine, of course. And my dogs…my children…are family as much as fabric. What is true is that we have layers of fabric of different colors and patterns. Diplomas and achievements are only baubles and glitter atop those layers. History is, well…history. Love and attachments might only insulate us from the elements as much as seasonal fashions. The future, as dim as it might seem right now, is uncertain and only worthy of wishes and fantasies. 

Christmas? An ugly ornate sweater…playful, fanciful, and briefly worn. It is Jesus and a time to treasure the values and lessons we were taught by him and raised to hold to our individual and collective blossoms. The world seems to be forgetting these values and lessons in favor of a diluted politically correct wasteland. Those of us around long enough to remember will not forget them, yet sometimes hang our heads in sadness for an increasingly shallow alternative.

In the meantime, it’s every cup of coffee, every croissant, every bark and howl, every intimate conversation, every touch and glance, every raking of dead leaves and, yes, shoveling of heavy snow, every melody and lyric that matter. As time flies and memories fade, this is what we have. Right now. No…wait. Right NOW.