I returned home recently to find an astonishing display of shredded paper scattered across my living room floor. Torn up remains of People Magazine, the prior week's New York Times travel section and several other glossy print mediums that I intended to peruse at some future point resembled a festive and colorful array of confetti. My feisty dog Charlie made his way cautiously towards his crate with his tail tucked between his legs, imploring me with his soulful brown eyes to please just this once, cut him a break. Charlie does not like to be alone. He requires constant companionship and he grows increasingly destructive when his needs for exercise, food and socialization go unsatisfied.
It hardly helps that I work from home. Charlie is accustomed to having me around for mid morning Frisbee games, afternoon Milk Bone breaks and early evening walks through the neighborhood. It is impossible for me to forget my imperfections and shortcomings as a dog mommy when the evidence of Charlie's neglect can be seen throughout our home. The chewed up crown molding, tattered television remotes, torn sofa cushions, half eaten bedroom slippers and bite marks on the windowsill provide a constant reminder that I am simply incapable of meeting all of Charlie's needs. Without a doubt, the blanket of shredded paper covering my living room floor drives the point home. I am imperfect. I am flawed. There are times when I simply cannot be all things to all dogs.
I knelt down to scoop the soggy remains of shredded paper from the carpeting and in spite of my annoyance I felt strangely relieved. I have a very bad habit of hoarding newspapers, newsletters, journals and magazines, promising myself I will eventually read them but somehow never quite finding the right moment. The truth is that I have a hard time remaining still for long enough to focus on current events and human interest stories aside from my daily ritual of briefly scanning the local news headlines over morning coffee. I feel guilty for my shortcoming and strive to do better. The hoarding is a convenient solution as it allows me to deny my chronic avoidance with the justification that I will eventually get to read these things, just not today. The amount of paper clutter is directly proportional to how distracted and overwhelmed I feel in my daily life. The more overwhelmed I feel, the harder it is to find the stillness needed to sit and focus for any length of time.
The pile of paper on my kitchen counter looks exactly the same each week. It starts with the Post and Courier and by mid week the Daniel Island News and Moultrie News have joined the pile, in addition to the various newsletters, journals and magazines that take up residence on my countertops. By the time the Sunday edition of the New York Times arrives the pile has grown to such a magnitude that I consider tossing the entire thing in the trash bin. It did not take long for me to realize that Charlie actually did me a favor. He solved the problem by clearing the unwanted clutter, offering me a guilt free excuse for moving on with my life. I stood back and admired the clear space of my coffee table and kitchen countertops and I felt liberated. Charlie cowered in his crate, smart enough to know he transgressed and intuitive enough to sense my rapidly weakening resolve. He glanced back at me with the deepest remorse and my heart melted like a chocolate candy bar in the summer sun. I took a moment to observe him closely and much to my surprise, I noticed that Charlie had grown thicker around the middle. Yes, my dog had gained a few pounds over the holiday season and perhaps I did, too. I could not remember the last time we went walking together, stopping every few feet to sniff the ground or nibble on a blade of grass. The weather was cold and I was distracted, lost inside my busy mind and consumed with endless to-do lists, mounds of paperwork and half completed projects.
It had only been a few months since we abandoned our evening walking routine with the departure of daylight savings time. The holiday season has come and gone and the New Year had descended upon us with groundbreaking speed. Faded images from the dog days of summer now clutter my memory archives like scenes from another lifetime- Charlie chasing tennis balls on the beach, the smell of steaks sizzling on the grill and humidity so thick you can cut it with a knife. The tulips bulbs I intended to plant in early autumn are now collecting dust in my garage. It feels like only yesterday when I embarked on my own autumn harvest, filling the trunk of my car with bright yellow and orange mums, plastic bags filled with potting soil, various seeds and bulbs in advance of the first winter chill. I envisioned so many roots of promise pushing through the moist ground beneath me and nestling deep into the earth, blossoming and flourishing in spring with explosions of color and fragrance. The concept of time is an elusive one; the less attention we pay it the quicker it seems to pass through our fingertips. There are times for planting and times for reflecting. Perhaps Charlie's destructiveness is my own personal wake-up call.
As I stood in my living room in the midst of my light bulb moment, I reviewed the events of the past week. The heavy rains resulted in deep mud puddles in our backyard and Charlie enjoyed digging and splashing in the muck, resulting in muddy paws, sopping wet towels, soiled pant legs and messy floors. Just the prior day I found Charlie standing at the fence in our backyard caught up in a feverish barking frenzy as the neighbor's children bounced around on a trampoline. He even took to digging in the mud alongside the fence in a crazed attempt to tunnel his way to the next yard and join in the fun. When the children returned to school Charlie developed an obsession with their backyard. He refused to play Frisbee, catch a ball or conduct his daily canine business. Instead he stood frozen in his tracks, his eyes fixated on a spot beyond the fence where he had last seen the children play.
I was annoyed with Charlie for these offenses because they took me away from my daily business and cut into my work time. It took a notable act of rebellion for Charlie to capture my attention and for this I was ultimately very grateful. "Come on big guy" I said in a moment of impulse. I grabbed Charlie's leash and headed towards the door. He dashed out his crate, tail wagging and brown eyes smiling up at me as if to say, "Thanks mom, I thought you'd never ask." I tossed the shredded papers in the trash can and we strolled down the street in the late afternoon chill, Charlie trotting happily beside me as I reclaimed my center and remembered the value of these simple and precious moments in life. We found a new path that leads to a bridge over a marsh where the stillness is palpable and we continued on together, strolling in silence through the shadowy light of dusk.
Risa Mason-Cohen is a licensed clinical psychologist in private practice in Charleston, S.C., a regular columnist with the Charleston Mercury and an aspiring author. She can be reached at risa@livedreamthrive.com or http://www.risamason.com. You can follow Risa's columns every two weeks at http://www.charlestonmercury.com
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