For Jake

Rushing around before work this morning, I realized that I needed to "put away" my five dogs -- meaning kennel four of them, and tie our old blind dog, Max, into his stall in the barn.  Shawn was gone for the day, and we try not to leave the dogs unattended, free to roam up onto the highway or chase the odd fuel truck that might drive into the yard. Just as I clipped the chain to Max's collar, Shawn's barn radio -- something he never remembers to turn off --  began playing an old country song.  In that moment, the song remembered for me another barn, another dog.  It was an old Pirates of the Mississippi piece titled "Feed Jake."  When we were first married, we both liked the song so much that we named one of our first dogs Jake; we were lucky enough to have him in our lives for seven years, and his sister, called simply Sis, lived fourteen years as my companion.  The tulips on her grave are just today beginning to bloom.

I write much about the importance of pets in my life: both the lessons they've taught me, and the consolation I receive from them.  Yet, this morning, I was so busy with my list of tasks to accomplish before work that I considered not taking time to put the dogs away.  That's how it is, with my life, at least: ideology meets practicality head-on most days, and most days, practicality wins.

So what a gift it was to hear those lyrics, to be transported back to a time when I didn't have so many tasks, when I spent hours just sitting on our front step with Jake, just enjoying the warmth of his black and white fur.  One summer, when he broke his hip falling out of a pickup truck, I nursed him for an hour twice a day, exercising his leg until he was able to walk with only a slight limp.  Would I, in my current incarnation, even be able to find two hours a day for a dog?

". . . What we are and what we ain't; what we can and what we can't --
Does it really matter?


Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I die before I wake, feed Jake;
He's been a good dog.
My best friend, right through it all --
If I die before I wake,
Feed Jake."

Hearing those words, suddenly being 23 again, living in a run-down trailer house outside of Boulder, Montana, I remembered one of the rules I promised myself I would live by this 40th year:  Take care of the living first. I accomplished a lot this morning:  some jobs, like gardening and making a salad for supper, were pleasurable.  Some, namely paying bills, were not.  Most were about what I am and what I'm not, what I can and what I can't. But of all, perhaps the most important, though minute, action I took this morning was to snap that chain onto my old dog's collar, tying him safely into the barn stall, away from vehicles that he can only see with one eye.

Take care of the living first.  I don't know who first introduced this rule to me, but it must have been either a mother or a rancher.  Take care of the living: hug your kids, water your plants, feed your dog.  So much of what we do is not about the living.  Bills, houses, cars, even the books I love so much . . . .these are inanimate objects.  Yes, they do require attention, and too much neglect of these will lead to negative effects on the living.  Yet, taking care of the basics, the most critical tasks for the people, animals and land we love, should take precedence. 

If I die tomorrow -- or tonight -- I don't care if my projects at work are incomplete.  I don't care that I didn't get the living room vacuumed, or touch up that trim in the dining room that I've been meaning to.  My spirit will care, however, that my kids are comforted and nurtured, that my flowers get water, and that somebody remembers to feed Max, and all his companions.