Actual happiness for no apparent reason

My mother was so visually sensitive

                              that if a painting was off kilter on the wall, she felt ill. Certain shades of taupe left her nauseated. She was an abstract painter and an art teacher and tried to convey this uneasiness to nearly everyone in her life. Was it to try to prevent so many awful visual mishaps in her world? Was it to get our sympathies? Was it to enlist our help in fixing the terribleness all around? I was her daughter. I was baffled. Irritated. And then amused.

But I understood, more and more, that this was not just someone objecting. She really did feel ill. She really got anxious. There was no filter of distraction between the seer and the seen, and no filter between the seen and the felt. The body was an instrument of the eye.

And here I sit, still her daughter, and I am completely in the throes of joy at looking at a quilt folded up on a white table in the light. She never told me there were perks to this affliction.

Pent up Slam

What happens when I let Slam outside for a moment —

He plants himself in the I am Ready for Anything Right Now Yes Yes I AM stance. Hind legs slightly apart for maximum instant impulsion into air. Head slightly tilted and ears wide, the better to catch the instant I think of something for him to do. Front legs planted, but ready to spring (note pink bandage on wounded leg. regarding pink, see post before this one. I did not ask the vet for pink, but pink I got.)

Wait: did she say plotz? Should I instantly spring and stretch into my most sphinxlike Schutzhundian plotz? Okay, here goes. Slow motion perfect plotz coming right up.

Wait. No. She didn't She is just standing there. She is saying Slam, chill out. You'll mess up the wound. Slam, easy. E - a - s - y.

So what does my black lightning in the form of a 3 year old working line shepherd on restricted duty do? Digs, with his front paws, including the wounded leg, right into the heavy snow, chucks it up behind him in one big frustrated whoosh. He was, at that moment, a canine snowblower. I was, at that moment, pissed. This wound of his, this giant ragged tear across his leg, is healing. But it has to be s t i l l .

Enter the marrow bone pacifier. The gigundousest hunk of bone I can find, administered daily, for said turbocharged hairy maniac to grind down. And then, amazingly, he is calm. As am I. And yes, I know. That one time I didn't grab the leash. That once.