Oh, Henry

I expected to come home from the shelter on Sunday and cry for a bit. I had seen and touched my first dead animal. "Baby's first Henry", my trainer Lauren gently teased. Someone brings a dead animal to the shelter, and the front desk pages animal care staff over the intercom to let us know there is a "Henry" for us to deal with.

I was nervous, because I didn't know how I was going to react. I didn't like it. But I looked at him, and asked questions about him, and touched him, and helped throw him into the incinerator. And I didn't cry. Not then, not later.

Earlier that morning, I had to shovel the ashes out of the incinerator from the prior day's burn. I didn't expect to hear the tinkling of little bone fragments, sounding like windchimes made of tiny seashells. It was disconcerting, and interesting. It didn't make me feel as awful as I thought it would.

My first Henry was a black and white border collie. No collar, no microchip. No way to know who was missing him. We took notes of his most distinguishing features, in case the owner contacts the shelter. Will they? I'll never know.

These are the unpleasantries that we have to deal with at our county-run shelter. I guess I'm relieved to find that I have the strength and composure needed for such tasks. But I fully expected to cry, and I wonder if it's okay that I didn't.

Peace, Be Still

I have been a torrent of emotions lately. I've been doing too much and sleeping too little - working full-time at Springdale (wishing to quit), training on the weekends at the animal shelter, taking two classes at MHCC (wishing to go full-time), and trying to maintain my monthly volunteer commitment at the zoo (wishing to do much more). I'm neglecting my family, my friends, my husband, and my physical well-being, and the neglect walks hand-in-hand with its partner, guilt. I've been sick for over two weeks, and Steve for over three. Beeker has been ripping his fur out due to a skin condition, and the medicine I have to force down his throat makes him vomit. Steve's parents are both struggling with medical and aging issues, and his whole family is feeling the pressure and the strain. I could go on ... complaints and concerns and anger and angst rushing off my fingertips onto the keyboard like a bubbling, boiling, unceasing lava ...

... but I do try to keep myself in check. "Perspective," I religiously write on my mental list of things-to-do each day: "check".

But as religion can be bereft, so are my attempts at downplaying my current inner turmoil. My brain doesn't seem to communicate well with my gut or my heart, as those organs don't seem to keep checklists.

I had the day off today. Other than homework, I had no true commitments. And because I could slow down and turn off the voice of the crazy woman, there was time for a chorus to work its way gently into my usually restless mind:

"Peace, be still ... Peace, be still.
Peace, be still ... And the wind and the waves,
Peace, be still ... Peace, be still.
Peace, be still ... And the ocean obeys."

I first heard Twila Paris sing when I was living in Eugene, restless and conflicted with remaining in school. I saw her name on the marquee of a performing arts center I walked by each day, and knowing only that she was a Christian artist, I decided to go to her concert. Shortly thereafter, I made the decision to leave school. I can't say that those two events were connected ... but I find it remarkable that, all these years later, when what I want more than anything is to finally return to school, what I hear is Twila's voice is lilting gently through my conscience: "Peace, be still".

And will Ronda obey?

The Power of Poo

I have cleaned up lots of dog poo these last two weekends working at the animal shelter. I think my ability to clean it up without vomiting, gagging, or even making embarrassing faces has gone better than I expected. But the poo - oh lord, the poo - is so much worse than I expected.

Dogs at the shelter - because of health problems, poor nutrition, a change in diet, or simply due to stress - have a lot of soft stool. If it's not so liquid they can paint with it, it's just. so. sticky. Angels sing from heaven when a solid stool is formed.

This poo - the bad poo - is powerful stuff. Not just in stickiness, or in odoriferousness. This poo is so powerful it has practically cemented my resolve to only being a cat owner, where litter is life-changing. And if there was ever a doubt as to how I felt about potentially changing diapers for years, this poo could be the deciding factor.

No dogs. No kids. Except for perhaps a goat kid, who would poo neat little pellets. And maintain my lawn.

Snooze Alarm

I'm listening to my precious husband on the phone with his mom. Crawford followed him upstairs and whined a few times at the closed door - he has a difficult time sharing Steve with whomever is on the other end of any call. Beeker is curled up like a ball next to me on the couch and is snoring softly. The silence from the laundry room tells me it's time to fold my clothes.

Sunday night. The sounds of this evening are cozy and comforting.

The alarm of Monday morning will come too soon.