Boundaries Bring Freedom
Wales is a hiker's paradise, with meandering paths that often lead through sprawling sheep pastures. These wide, open spaces are Tess's absolute delight. Her little legs stretch to their full capacity as she bounds through the lush green fields, her nose twitching with excitement at each new scent.
However, I've noticed something curious about her behavior. When we walk in areas with no clear boundaries, like pastures with broken fences or open access to the road, Tess becomes my shadow. She practically glues herself to my ankles, occasionally glancing up as if to say, "Just making sure you're still there, Mum." Her anxiety is palpable as she trots along, refusing to stray more than a few feet away.
The transformation occurs when we enter well-fenced pastures. Once Tess sees those secure boundaries in place, she becomes a different dog altogether.
Fireworks Fright!
Last night, our neighbors decided to set off fireworks. It wasn't a holiday or celebration. They simply wanted to enjoy the colorful display. While their desire for entertainment was understandable, poor Tess was absolutely terrified. When I say terrified, I mean she vibrates so intensely that I genuinely fear she might shake apart into a million tiny pieces.
We were in the middle of dinner, with Tess strategically positioned nearby to catch any falling crumbs or tasty morsels. At the first loud bang, I gasped in surprise, and before I could blink, she bolted through the doggie door. By the time Jason and I slipped on our shoes and rushed outside, she had completely vanished. The only evidence of her desperate escape was a small, freshly dug hole beneath the front corner of the fence in the side yard, the spot farthest from the fireworks.
When the Thorn Remains
The garden outside our Welsh cottage is small but lovely. However, interspersed among the beauty are thorns. Nasty, prickly thorns that seem to appear from nowhere and everywhere all at once.
A few days ago, Tess came bounding into the house from her garden adventures, but instead of her usual exuberance, she limped across the floor, frantically licking her front paw. Jason scooped her up immediately, cradling her like a baby to examine the source of her distress.
"There it is," he announced, pointing to an enormous thorn embedded deeply in the pad of her paw. "This is going to hurt, girl."
As if understanding his words, Tess began to squirm and whimper, but Jason held her firmly. With one swift movement, he extracted the thorn. Tess yelped, then immediately relaxed in his arms.
Mimicking the Master
On a recent walk through town, Jason, Tess, and I encountered another dog walker along our usual route. In typical terrier fashion, Tess approached the other dog, exchanged the customary sniffs (you know, the canine equivalent of "How do you do?"), and then bounded over to the man. But before he could even reach down to pet her, she'd already turned tail and continued her journey, clearly satisfied that she'd fulfilled her social obligations for the moment.
Jason burst out laughing, nudging me with his elbow. "She gets that from you," he teased, and I couldn't help but chuckle because, well, he wasn't wrong. Like my furry friend, I too prefer to keep my social interactions brief and purposeful. Give me my quiet office with its book-lined walls or my peaceful garden over a crowded social gathering any day!
Daily Bread Vs. Special Treats
I couldn't help but laugh at my clever canine yesterday as she demonstrated both her intelligence and her rottenness. Tess adores her wobble Kong—a treat-dispensing toy that rolls and tumbles with each nudge. Usually, I fill it with her regular kibble, but yesterday, I decided to add a few special treats to make it more exciting.
What followed was nothing short of comical. Like a furry tornado, Tess batted that Kong from room to room, leaving a trail of perfectly good kibble in her wake. She had one mission: extract only the special treats. The regular food? Not worth her time, at least not initially. I watched in amazement as she meticulously picked out every single treat, ignoring the "boring" kibble scattered throughout the house.
Eventually, hunger won out over pickiness, and she returned to clean up the trail of regular food she'd previously deemed unworthy. As I watched her methodically clean up her mess, I couldn't help but see a spiritual parallel.