It's not so easy to live life as a dog in winter, when the lack of four legs and ice-cutting claws slows a body down.
Still, it is sunny, over 30 degrees, most of the newish snow is still pristine, and outside calls. We head to the dog park, where neither of us needs to be on a leash unless a stray sheriff shows up, hiding on his lunch break, as sometimes happens. It's not an official dog park, which makes it all the more fun.
Idgie meets her friend Sara, a saucy little black lab-basset hound mix with a pink bow collar, and they commence to run wild whackado circles around each other. As a dog, you must greet anyone who comes in your path, and so I do, exchanging big smiles and small talk with the other parka-clad owners, so glad of the chance to play outside and pretend we are called there by duty.
We walk a couple miles on hills and slippery half-packed snow. Which is a little like walking on half-wet sand dunes. I'm feeling pretty proud of myself. A couple months out of a knee and ankle injury, it's a fair workout that tests my proprioception, which is finally returning.
But while I'm feeling happy from exercise and a dose of Vitamin D, smug about getting my hiking game back on, a breezy young couple jogs past me on the woodland trail.
On snowshoes. And they are MOVING. And talking. And not breathing hard in the least.
Dogs do not suffer shame or envy, for the most part, unless balls, attention, or food objects are involved. But people: hoooboyhowdy, do we. I shake it off and remember that once, I too was young and sprightly.
Okay. Never was I that sprightly.
I return to the moment, which is where I belong. We hop into the car, Idgie lured by some nice aged Wisconsin brick cheese, me by a bottle of prescription Advil that awaits me at home.
Content now that we're back, Idgie sleeps. But I am in the human condition and I must think about tomorrow. There are jobs to apply for tonight. I will have to cement my ever increasing butt to the seat of this chair and commune with this screen until it's done.
But first, maybe, a teensy little nap.
Woof!
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Cognitive dissonance
I don't think dogs experience cognitive dissonance. One of two conflicting ideas pushes the other out. There is no room for ambivalence. Pick one, go for one. But I'm full of it. Ambivalence, that is.
(Does it seem strange to talk about dogs and work? I don't think so. Even the fluffy breeds make play their careers. But mine is a working dog, Australian Shepherd and Heeler, and she must work. It's in her genes. Since I have failed to provide her with a herd of cattle to drive, she has settled for herding geese and ducks, patrolling the yard, hunting small game and pointing at other birds. She makes do. So do I.)
Since the job hasn't ended yet, today was a work day. We don't know exactly what the "plan" will be for shrinking the program, but it's pretty certain I'll be gone March 6. The cuts will likely follow the simple rules of seniority. Simplicity is the easiest kind of fairness, and that trumps almost everything in the making of hard decisions.
And simplicity is, of course, how a dog operates. Bad smell? Roll in it. Squirrel moving? Chase it. People to cut? Last hired, first fired.
The cognitive dissonance comes from spending two days at the main office planning and training. Getting certified in performing tasks we won't be performing, getting bugs out of new computer programs we won't be using, checking calendars for dates we won't be meeting.
Tomorrow we're back out in the field as if nothing had happened. Five days work in three days, the usual.
It's kind of nuts, really, this sitting around a table, swords over our heads, acting as if all is well. I struggle with the swords and the pretense. I'm not good at that.
But then my dogself rises. This work we're doing is what's here, now, all this busy planning/training/pretending. I step into it, I fill the moment and the work, with all of me. And it returns the favor.
Woof!
Time flies. As long as I'm working, the sick-stomach-feel stays at bay. All approach, no avoidance.
Which is why we love it, those of us who love it. Yes?
(Does it seem strange to talk about dogs and work? I don't think so. Even the fluffy breeds make play their careers. But mine is a working dog, Australian Shepherd and Heeler, and she must work. It's in her genes. Since I have failed to provide her with a herd of cattle to drive, she has settled for herding geese and ducks, patrolling the yard, hunting small game and pointing at other birds. She makes do. So do I.)
Since the job hasn't ended yet, today was a work day. We don't know exactly what the "plan" will be for shrinking the program, but it's pretty certain I'll be gone March 6. The cuts will likely follow the simple rules of seniority. Simplicity is the easiest kind of fairness, and that trumps almost everything in the making of hard decisions.
And simplicity is, of course, how a dog operates. Bad smell? Roll in it. Squirrel moving? Chase it. People to cut? Last hired, first fired.
The cognitive dissonance comes from spending two days at the main office planning and training. Getting certified in performing tasks we won't be performing, getting bugs out of new computer programs we won't be using, checking calendars for dates we won't be meeting.
Tomorrow we're back out in the field as if nothing had happened. Five days work in three days, the usual.
It's kind of nuts, really, this sitting around a table, swords over our heads, acting as if all is well. I struggle with the swords and the pretense. I'm not good at that.
But then my dogself rises. This work we're doing is what's here, now, all this busy planning/training/pretending. I step into it, I fill the moment and the work, with all of me. And it returns the favor.
Woof!
Time flies. As long as I'm working, the sick-stomach-feel stays at bay. All approach, no avoidance.
Which is why we love it, those of us who love it. Yes?
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Unease
I wake too early. Already I violate my resolve to live my life as a dog. Idgie would yawn, stretch, and go to the front door. And if I didn't follow soon enough, well. . . Woof! Woof!!! WOOF!!!!! Until I obeyed her command and her really sensible desire to go outside now.
Instead, I lie in bed and pick at the scab of worry. Just two months to find another job. Oh yeah. Last time it took me 18 months. Just two months until I have to enter the purgatory of unemployment. Visits to the Office of Workforce Development, where former machinists serve as job counselors and flip back and forth between competence and mental illness. Just two months until the not quite enough monthly check becomes $300 a week.
The sounds of Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me suddenly arise from the radio. Normally, Roy Blount Junior's voice is exactly what I want to hear first thing in the morning. Sorry, Mrs. Junior, but it's true. I think your husband is hot. But now the scabs are bleeding and I have to worry about the damn sheets and the stock market and being too fat and. . .
"Mom," I hear, as the door cracks open. "Can I use George's car to go to work?" It's Liz, my daughter.
"Sure," I say. "But how'd you get here?" She's in college across town and doesn't stay here often. I must have been asleep when she arrived.
And instantly I relax. Muscles soften. Happiness starts moving through me, starting. . . where? The head? The heart? The liver? Who knows? Who cares? Some doggie place in us that says my pack is here and all is well, all manner of things will be well. Go outside now!
Woof!
Someone on the radio makes a joke about 2012. That's right: the world is coming to an end this year! Between my unemployment and what little's left of my savings, I can last that long. Yippee!
Stretch. Up. Outside!
Oh wait. Better put some clothes on first.
Instead, I lie in bed and pick at the scab of worry. Just two months to find another job. Oh yeah. Last time it took me 18 months. Just two months until I have to enter the purgatory of unemployment. Visits to the Office of Workforce Development, where former machinists serve as job counselors and flip back and forth between competence and mental illness. Just two months until the not quite enough monthly check becomes $300 a week.
The sounds of Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me suddenly arise from the radio. Normally, Roy Blount Junior's voice is exactly what I want to hear first thing in the morning. Sorry, Mrs. Junior, but it's true. I think your husband is hot. But now the scabs are bleeding and I have to worry about the damn sheets and the stock market and being too fat and. . .
"Mom," I hear, as the door cracks open. "Can I use George's car to go to work?" It's Liz, my daughter.
"Sure," I say. "But how'd you get here?" She's in college across town and doesn't stay here often. I must have been asleep when she arrived.
And instantly I relax. Muscles soften. Happiness starts moving through me, starting. . . where? The head? The heart? The liver? Who knows? Who cares? Some doggie place in us that says my pack is here and all is well, all manner of things will be well. Go outside now!
Woof!
Someone on the radio makes a joke about 2012. That's right: the world is coming to an end this year! Between my unemployment and what little's left of my savings, I can last that long. Yippee!
Stretch. Up. Outside!
Oh wait. Better put some clothes on first.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Here we go again
The clues were there but I didn't see them.
Oh, it seemed a little strange when the boss read to us instead of just talking. How well we'd done, how we'd exceeded goals and expectations, how we were one of the only groups that had gotten higher enrollments this year. Yadda yadda yadda.
And then, "But we met with the accountants and the grant funds look like they'll run out in March." Six to nine months sooner than expected. And the new grants we hoped for hadn't come through.
I love this job and I'm good at it. The work is important, valuable. Still, the cheese moved -- but not for some good or noble reason. It moved capriciously.
This will be my third job hunt in six years. I'm tired and sad for all of us who are going through this, who are watching our kids and neighbors and parents going through this.
Last time my job vanished I said I'd document the process of looking for a new one. I didn't. And I still haven't seen accounts that felt very truthful in talking about this experience so many of us share. So that's what I intend to do -- explore the job hunt world without favor, without prejudice.
This time I'll be guided by the rules my cattle dog Idgie follows, not the ones I've followed in the past. They are, near as I can see for now:
Outside! Now!
Pay attention with your whole being.
Don't walk when you can run, don't run when you can leap.
Love your pack.
Play. Work. Eat. Sleep.
When they won't pay attention to you, bark.
I'll skip the butt sniffing and the unreasonable dislike of Great Danes. But right now, she makes more sense than the people-experts do.
Most of the time.
Woof!
Oh, it seemed a little strange when the boss read to us instead of just talking. How well we'd done, how we'd exceeded goals and expectations, how we were one of the only groups that had gotten higher enrollments this year. Yadda yadda yadda.
And then, "But we met with the accountants and the grant funds look like they'll run out in March." Six to nine months sooner than expected. And the new grants we hoped for hadn't come through.
I love this job and I'm good at it. The work is important, valuable. Still, the cheese moved -- but not for some good or noble reason. It moved capriciously.
This will be my third job hunt in six years. I'm tired and sad for all of us who are going through this, who are watching our kids and neighbors and parents going through this.
Last time my job vanished I said I'd document the process of looking for a new one. I didn't. And I still haven't seen accounts that felt very truthful in talking about this experience so many of us share. So that's what I intend to do -- explore the job hunt world without favor, without prejudice.
This time I'll be guided by the rules my cattle dog Idgie follows, not the ones I've followed in the past. They are, near as I can see for now:
Outside! Now!
Pay attention with your whole being.
Don't walk when you can run, don't run when you can leap.
Love your pack.
Play. Work. Eat. Sleep.
When they won't pay attention to you, bark.
I'll skip the butt sniffing and the unreasonable dislike of Great Danes. But right now, she makes more sense than the people-experts do.
Most of the time.
Woof!
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