It snoweth

What I find most discouraging about these days is that I have lots of time to do anything I want, but I really don’t want to leave the apartment. I should be doing sprint workouts, logging distance miles, working on my goal of doing a freakish number of push-ups all at once, reading a book a day . . .

Or at the very least, taking the world’s best German Shepherd for a well-deserved long walk. I feel guiltiest about shortchanging her. So tonight I rallied and we went further. She is clearly more comfortable in the cold weather.

It is snowing steadily; everything is covered by a nice layer of snow, which covers the grime, dirty and grey inherent to this time of year. As we walk down the street, I admire the houses we pass, admiring what I see through their front windows. Lit windows always look inviting on cold winter nights, before the holidays have really set in and lost their allure. There is still the possibility of happy holidays.

And, of course, newly single as I am, I walk past these houses and feel a sense of wonder: how do people find each other in this world? I know some of these people only have a shiny, happy exterior. What’s the divorce rate? Over 50%? So let’s says half these houses have unhappy residents, couples who brace themselves before walking in the door each evening for another several hours of barely tolerating each other. Couples who endure for the kids, or their financial situation, or out of fear of loneliness.

But lots of houses shelter happiness, couples who still genuinely want to come home to one another, people who want to hang out with their kids, families eating dinner together.

I spent many years proving that I am very capable of total independence. I’ve proved that. I don’t need something specific from a partner, like financial assistance or entertainment. I just miss that human interaction. Specifically, I miss my ex’s sense of humor; he was kind of dry generally, and I found it hysterical. I miss his general presence. When I came home the other night, I missed knowing that someone cared whether I made it home or not.  Of course, the dog cares deeply, but without opposable thumbs, she is powerless to alert anyone else to my absence.

∞ 

When I was growing up, we had a mutt named Lucy. She was some kind of malamute mix, and a great dog. She had a more reserved personality, you know, not effusive and adoring, like a golden retriever.

For some reason, most likely based on a combination of sale price and coupons, my parents brought home a bag of dog food called Tender Chops. The kibble was shaped like little, moist t-bone steaks. It was aesthetically very pleasing, red and white. And Lucy loved it. She begged for it, harassed my father for it, and this was easily the most effusive behavior she demonstrated her whole life.

Lucy passed on the summer before I left for college, almost 20 years ago, and almost immediately we renamed her Saint Lucy (probably because the dog they selected three days later was a rather decidedly bad dog). As a family, we still laugh about Lucy and the Tender Chops.

Several months ago, the former BF brought over some dog treats; they were these dried chicken strips, and it is no surprise that Ruby is very fond of them, to the extent that I think we’re having a Tender Chops moment. It’s a little harder to tell because German Shepherds are generally more talkative, but now that we spend so much time together, she wants something unsatisfied by attention, toys, ear scratches, trips outdoors.

Oh, I also have to keep the bags of these things on top of the fridge; she helps herself if left on the counter top or the table. (She’s large.)

Here she is again. I need to go engage in our evening ritual of exhausting all other possibilities before I relent and fork over the chicken strips.