Some Leap Year Meanderings of the Mind

I think our puppies, if we give them enough love and care in that first couple of years as they mature, become the dogs we will love forever; the dogs who will be our best friends till they die.

I suspect, that if we nurture the human loves in our lives during those formative years, they too will become true partners; other halves of ourselves.

They do say that we begin to look like our dogs and spouses after we have lived together for a long time.

Of course they also say we daughters become our mothers. Not having had one of those, I can't really know, but maybe it is also because mothers and daughters spend so much time together during those formative years. My own daughters seem to be winging off in three different directions. I see some resemblances to each other and to me, but they are certainly not replicas.

Kenya on the other hand is becoming more like me every day, and where we are different from one another we tend to complement each other.

We understand each other better now. I have learned to accept her slow response to the "Come" command. She seems to have to consider things. That may be annoying when you are holding open a door in sub zero temperatures, but it is a real boon when you are out in the woods and all the other dogs attack the porcupine and she thinks before she leaps.

She has stopped being a dog who needs much control, especially on our rambles. She helps me up steep hills, doesn't knock me over, and slows down for me to take photos or navigate steep descents. She would have made a very good service dog, I think. Kenya is the right dog for an aging hermit.

Actually, I think I may be becoming my father. The last twenty-five years of his life he lived alone in his hills painting and thinking. He enjoyed living within his means. He appreciated his neighbours and had a real sense of place. He had his mountains on three sides; I have the woods and the lake. I often catch myself doing something like making my own bread or finding a way to do something without having to spend money and I think about my father.

When Dad died he left a letter in the typewriter, notes to himself under his copy of Rodin's "The Thinker", a turnip on the counter, a couch filled with teddy bears, and tiny little doodles of art he thought he might start. Not such a bad way to die ... in the middle of a life.

I also think I may have inherited his gall bladder. Mine is showing me how little it likes anything greasy these days. I will not make the mistake he made and neglect it.