Dog Walker

Another morning walk with my dogs today . . . one of the gifts of a day off, since I don't have to leave the ranch right after putting my kids on the school bus. Just before I went out, while I was eating my cereal, I flipped through a popular women's magazine. In an article about maintaining a fitness routine, the author suggested finding a walking partner -- a friend to keep you motivated through the long months of winter.

I've always walked with dogs. Today, there are five who share my life; in other times, other places, only two or three. But always a dog. This morning, as I watched the five of them tumble over each other, wrestling out the kinks and stiffness from spending winter nights outside, I found myself glad to have canine, rather than human, walking companions.

For one thing, I don't have to talk to my dogs unless I want to. No need to carry on a conversation -- just the occasional "Max, come here," or "Sam, get behind," that is an integral part of training and disciplining ranch dogs. After all, these dogs also help work the cattle, so letting them misbehave during their walks with me would only lead to problems when they have real work to do . I can talk more if I want -- and I do. With my old dog, Sis, I carried on entire monologues while we hiked up mountains or through prairie pastures; she would cock her head quizzically, decide that I couldn't possibly be talking to her, and carry on her merry way. I have worked out more lesson plans, writing ideas, difficult conversations, and grocery lists that way. . .

Another reason I walk with dogs is that they are tougher exercise partners than a human could ever be. Dogs simply love to walk -- or trot, or bound, or run -- and they don't like short distances. I walk farther, faster and more often because of my dogs. I have yet to look into Maggie's eyes and be able to say, "No, not today girl," without feeling guilt. I mean, how do you tell a dog it's too cold to walk when they are outside all day long? And I know that if I don't walk with my dogs, they will hang around the ranch yard most of the day, bored and getting into mischief. I figure I'm doing my part for world peace -- or at least ranch peace -- by taking them out to run.

But once we are out there, the real rewards are for me. Dogs are pure joy, particularly when they are free to explore and play. It's hard to be worried about the budget or the deadline when walking with dogs. Dogs notice little things, things we humans are just too busy to see. This morning, they all spent several minutes sniffing around two holes in a snowbank. Had I just walked past that bank alone, I wouldn't have even noticed the holes, or I might have thought that a calf simply broke through the hard crust to the softer snow underneath. But, watching my dogs get so interested, I looked closer -- long claw marks by the holes told a different story. A badger, probably, digging for shelter from the wind, or looking for food. A human companion wouldn't have seen those faint tracks, white scratches on white snow; but dogs spend their days sniffing out the little details: they notice things.

My kids don't really like to walk, and even my husband thinks I'm a bit crazy to prefer walking to riding a horse. Since most of my neighbors live at least a few miles away, walking dates are tricky to coordinate. And I'm inherently an introvert, so I'm not likely to call one of them up anyway. Given all these facts, I'll probably find myself walking alone -- with dogs -- for many more years.

Lucky me.

The Back 40

Today I celebrate my 40th birthday, and like so many other women, I find myself reflecting on this new chapter of my life. Actually, some years ago I listened to a CD book by Dr. Christiane Northup, called Mother-Daughter Wisdom; in it, she theorized that women's lives are actually more divisible into seven-year stages. That idea makes sense to me, particularly as I revicw my own life: I've moved from babyhood to girlhood, girlhood to adolescence, adolescence to wormanhood, in roughly seven-year stages. Even the last seven-year marker -- the year I turned 35 -- was monumental, in that it marked both the end of my teaching career (I moved away), and the end of my childbearing (I had my tubes tied). So, perhaps I should wait to start a reflective blog such as this until the next seven year stage, when I turn 42. Life being what it is, though, today seems like a good time to start.

"The Back 40", then, refers to the next 40 years or so of my life. I certainly hope I have a Back 50, or even a Back 60 . . . but the truth is, I think my life will be different after 40, and I want to commemorate that. In my first 40 years, I spent so much of my energy building my life -- growing up, leaving home, figuring out who I was . . . then marrying, having children, starting businesses and careers . . . and figuring out who I am all over again. For the next 40, I'm hoping to enjoy what I've started more, to grow what I've planted. I don't need to "reinvent" myself, as some women are wont to do at 40, so much as to quiet myself to see who and what I already am.

"The Back 40" is also a tongue-in-cheek reference to my home, a ranch in northeastern Wyoming. Here, life is lived differently than in the city, or even in the town 40 miles away. I hope to explore that a little through this blog, and to reflect on the lessons this place has to teach me. I've spent my entire day here, having returned from a Denver weekend yesterday, so that the city girl in me could be satisfied. This ranch is a good place to spend a birthday . . . . this morning, I walked across dry, brittle grasses, through leafless cottonwood trees . . . .winter is coming, and the land is in the final stages of its annual death. It's good for me, turning 40, to reflect on the mortality of all life, a mortality we confront each day here. While the rest of the world is decorating in festive reds and greens, tying bows on packages and searching the Internet for Cyber Monday deals, I've left my orange and gold autumn decorations up. I want to look at the beauty of fullness, of the last glow of a life well lived.

In a while, I will have to leave the ranch, to travel to the vet clinic and pick up my old dog, Max. He was kicked in the head by a young gelding yesterday, and my oldest daughters had to take him to the vet. He'll probably lose sight in his eye. It saddens and humbles me, knowing that he was fine one moment, then seriously injured the next. But this, above all, is the lesson I need today: that, despite all the planning and building, despite preparations, goals, and to-do lists, life just happens. I'm not in control. Here in the Back 40, I have to learn to take life as it comes.