We were at the vet recently.Pip’s terrified of the vet. But he was doing his best to look brave, when an older, armed sheriff arrived.

The man strode up to the vet tech, whispered something,and she replied,

“Of course. Bring him to Room 5.”

When the sheriff turned to leave, Pip jumped up and began licking his hand. The sheriff leaned down to look at him, and then knelt on the floor. Pip hopped into his lap, and buried his sweet little face in the man’s chest. For a few minutes, they shared what I can only call a sacred embrace.

When the vet tech reappeared and opened the door to Room 5, the sheriff gave Pip a squeeze and murmured, “I have to go now little buddy.”

Pip hopped off his lap. Then he sat at my feet, at attention. And when I say Pip sat at attention, I mean he sat like a tiny soldier:  shoulders back, ears erect.

He watched intently as the sheriff lifted an enormous old German Shepherd out of the back of an SUV marked K9 and carried him into Room 5. This wasn’t a pet. This was his partner.

When the vet closed the door, Pip sat up even straighter, like an honor guard. His eyes and ears were pinned on that room like laser beams. Then all of a sudden, he fell to the floor, and heaved a deep, sad sigh. Above the din of cats cursing and dogs whining, Pip knew when it was over.

Driving home, my mind swirled with questions. How did Pip know to go to the sheriff that particular moment? What led him to sit at full military attention? He’s not a trained police dog. How did he know when the shepherd was gone? What moved Pip to honor that first-responder’s loss like the sheriff would have honored a fallen colleague?

So many questions. So little time. But, maybe dogs are furry angels, sent to comfort us when we need them most.

The post Pip and the Sheriff: A Memorial Day Story appeared first on Donna Marie Todd.

Delicately smeared atop crustless slices of bread,
her pimento cheese finger-sandwiches are invited to tea parties, baptismal lunches, weddings, and funeral receptions.

There’s something magical about homemade food.
It feeds your body and soul.

I’ve got my fingers crossed that the open floor plans,
so popular in new houses and apartments, will encourage us to cook again.

The family gathered around the hearth for warmth, food, and fellowship
when our ancestors lived in caves and one-room cabins.

With the kitchen as the star of the open floor plan.
I hope we come together again, to share in the magic of homemade meatloaf or warm cookies fresh from the oven.

My culinary education came from my grandmother.
She tended a garden until the harvest came, then canned jar after jar to make it through the winter. The only fast food she ever ate came from the glass jars lined up on a shelf in her pantry.

The leftovers in Grandmom’s kitchen were the beginnings of another meal. 
She was a bride of the Great Depression, whose motto was “waste not, want not.” Cooking for others was her love language.

Maybe tonight’s the night to show yourself some love with a homecooked meal.
Better yet, make enough to share! When you hand someone a homemade Pimento cheese sandwich or a still-warm cookie they’ll know they are cared for.

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I made paper snowflakes in grade school.
I never knew what I’d see at the end. I’d fold up a piece of white paper and then cut bits and pieces out. It was like a magic trick! I never knew what my snowflake would look like til I unfolded the paper.

Everyone made a snowflake and every snowflake was different, unique!
We taped them all to a string that went across the room so they could flutter above our heads, just like the real ones in a snowstorm.

“Unique” was a word grown-ups used to describe me.
It was not a compliment. Quite the opposite. They expected the preacher’s daughter to be a spotless reflection of her parents. I was supposed to have perfectly folded ankle socks and a soft voice. I had neither.

But I didn’t trust grown-ups a whole lot,
so, I didn’t worry too much about being unique or different. After all, most of the other kids were pretty different, too.

I didn’t worry about our differences either. I thought they made life fun.
But when we hit puberty, it was dangerous to be different. You could get beat up in the bathroom for it. Suddenly, it was very important for all of us to be exactly the same.

Gone were the joys of fingerpaints,
those gloriously greasy mixtures that let our fingers slide across a wet piece of paper and make art for our parents to treasure. Gone were our 48 colors of crayons, and in came the colored pencils. Instead of art, we made mathematical graphs. We all had to learn the same answer so we could pass the test.

My algebra teacher told me that math is the same as art,
but I never believed her. I have yet to see a math graph displayed on a living room wall.

It’s a challenging time to be alive.
Maybe to survive we’ll need fresh fingerpaint, fewer standardized tests, and more nurturing of  our unique selves.

When the snowstorm came this week, I felt like a child again.
I twirled about with outstretched arms and caught snowflakes on my tongue. And every single one was unique, just like you and me.

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I did something totally outrageous this month.
I paid someone to power-wash the exterior of my house because I was tired of looking at life through dirty windows.

While the man washed the dirt off outside, I washed the windows on the inside.
When we finished, my view of the river was more beautiful than ever. As I sat down on the porch, a gorgeous sunset spread itself across the sky and I could see every color clearly.

My friendly heron did a fly by.
Through my clean windows, I could see interlacing intricacy of her blue and grey feathers. What an utterly spectacular creature she is! Watching her fly across the expanding purple-pink sunset made my power-washing and inner sweat equity worth every penny!

Which makes me wonder, isn’t a clear picture of life worth almost any price?
It certainly was when I had cataract surgery. I didn’t want to do it but the doctor threatened to pull my driver’s license, that’s how bad my vision was. “You’re looking through pillow cases at a very blurry world” he said as he scheduled the surgery.

The eye surgeon was a legend in his own mind, but he was utterly right about seeing clearly.
$3700 later I could see beautifully through the eye he worked on. But I was shocked to see some old woman’s face in the mirror as I walked in. Who was that? Oh no! She was me! When did I get that many wrinkles? And how long had those cobwebs been draped across the ceiling? How could I not see those? They were huge!

Two weeks and another $3700 later, I could read again!
I could see so well, I didn’t even need glasses anymore! Wow! I was so excited I spent an entire afternoon reading all the labels in my kitchen.

Psychotherapy was equally revealing and cleared up my inner vision.
When I saw myself through a kinder lens, why I did certain things was no longer so confusing. Therapy cleaned the blinders of my childhood and I’m so grateful for that. Best money I ever spent!   

Seeing clearly is very exciting.
It’s so revealing and empowering, I wonder why I don’t do it more.

Ooo! Can you imagine what a clear view of politics would look like?
Or religion? Or sexuality? It seems our lenses have gotten pretty dirty.

If we cleaned up our view and could see things more clearly, maybe what we don’t understand about each other would make more sense.

© Donna Marie Tood

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