18 June 2009

Teeter totter rehab center-maybe ours ain't like yours.

Radio control tower teeter, as yet unencrusted with jewels or the intended crustaceon decorative objects de arte which I believe are supposed to shells from the sea, is ensconced in it's new role as driveway teeter. I know it is supposed to be shells, because the submarines said so. I used to be unencumbered. Light. Didn't have to speak to subs. Now will be spending my days hunched over, walking around with a plastic bag for collecting sea shells and shiny sea glass and my phone for calling seal rescuers and all the while, trying to make sure I got the radio frequency right on my teeter totter so we don't miss any important calls.

You know, from the subs. Or the aliens.

In taking all the pressure off Gustavo, he sometimes does full teeters from running at full speed, sometimes just hops on the side like he's catching the cement train heading north. Slams it into a pile of soft, hops off and runs around to get another ride. The pressure is off. Sometimes I hop him on and just hop him off. Tried to take all agility pressure off in fact, and letting him just run and run and go back to what he loved about it. There's not really handling right now. Just running. A backslide for an agility super star in the making?

I prefer to think of it like this. I started to lose something precious to me. More precious than the biggest pile of rubies and diamonds and giant crab shells and broken sand dollars and old green beer bottle shards worn smooth by sand and surf. I started to lose my little dog. My fast and bright and shiny tiny dog, who valued running and playing and flying along at rocket speeds more than anything. I wasn't sure where he went, and I got all hung up on he's so far behind. How that reflected on me. Like I looked at my reflection in a chunk of glittering mother of pearl and I was thinking more about that than who my dog was. So I'm just all, screw it. Insert some parable mythology crap here about the raccoon who looks at his reflection in the pond while he's washing off his chunk of shiney tin and then the alligator comes up and bites down and snaps all his bones into bloody pieces and that's the painful end to the raccoon. That's not going to happen to me. Not that I know what's gonna happen to me, or to Gustavo's agility career. It's just that I think we can be happy radioing into the mother ship or meeting new German friends who live under the sea and finding stuff to stick on the radio tower with glue. This is just the Team Small Dog way, for better or for worse. Can't be any worse than one bloody, mangled, former raccoon, at least.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

At last. Just let go. I think I mentioned this about a month ago. It works for me. Just let go.

From your three little agility dog pals on the prairie.

Give it two weeks at least. Maybe a month. Do anything but.

It's amazing how well it cures things. Do the right thing, as you're doing and mend the relationship. Find the joy.

Hard thing to do, to let go. So against the "methods" where something must be at fault and must be fixed. And soon.

Find the dog first. Then find your way back.

Good luck.