THANKSGIVING MIRACLE

Patience isn't my strong suit. The harder I attempt to be more patient, the more impatient I become. At age 71, I doubt I will change, even though I wouldn't say I like having such a troublesome character flaw.

Thanksgiving started at 5:30 AM with my grand dog, Enzo, whining and jumping on and off the bed. After a few minutes, he was loudly crying, and I repeatedly admonished him to be quiet. The whining continued in the bathroom as I hurriedly got dressed. After taking both dogs out, Enzo rushed to the refrigerator door, madly scratching and whining about being fed. I quickly fed him. It took 5 seconds for a six-pound dog to gobble his food and want more, but his breakfast at least calmed him for a few minutes.

Paddy and I took a long walk while Enzo stayed home. Paddy likes to sniff every blade of grass he encounters, and Enzo likes to pee multiple times on each rock and weed he meets. Wrestling both dogs for two or three miles isn't my idea of fun. What little patience I have expires at some point. Once we returned from the walk, I took a shower and got everything ready to take to our friend Harrell's house for Thanksgiving. I took the dogs outside a second time.

A dark brown area rug covers a large area under my dining table. When I placed the leashes on a dining room chair after taking them outside, I was puzzled by my foot feeling sticky and a little wet. I should have known that I was leaving evidence of something most unpleasant as I walked into the kitchen. Much to my abject dismay, I had tracked Enzo's poop through the house. I was furious as I cleaned the mess. I still felt something sticky on the bottom of my feet. I had already washed my foot once, but poop had worked its way between my toes. I took another shower, and we got on the road to Harrell's place. Even though Enzo was nestled on my lap during the ride, I felt ill-will toward him.

Harrell lives on acreage in a rural area about an hour from me. His newly built contemporary house is full of floor-length, uncovered windows. A creek runs next to the house. It's a bird-watching paradise with an unmanicured lawn that allows an intimate experience with Texas native grasses and where sumac trees dot the countryside with their glorious fall colors and plentiful oak and cedar trees. Harrell’s multiple acres are gated and fenced with trails winding through it, both man-made and created by dogs, deer, a miniature bull, and a donkey. Three large dogs live on the property and share the gentle nature of their master.

When we parked close to the house, Ruby, Harrell's Catahoula, greeted us. She's one of the sweetest large dogs I've ever known. Enzo had none of it and started growling, barking, twisting, and turning as if he couldn't wait to attack Ruby. Ruby weighs 120 pounds. I continued having unpleasant thoughts about Enzo and complained to Harrell about Enzo’s behavior that morning. Harrell took Enzo from my arms and suggested we hold him until he got used to the three dogs. It wasn't long before Enzo happily walked amongst the three dogs and became One with the pack.

After our Thanksgiving feast, we took a walk on the trail. Harrell held Enzo because he would have been lost in grass over two feet tall. Paddy had the time of his life leaping through the grass unleashed, wading into the creek, wandering through the property, and getting covered with mud. Thankfully, he returned to us when we called. We enjoyed sitting on a rock, discussing music and art, and absorbing the sounds of birds flying overhead before settling in the trees. Enzo seemed to enjoy being in our laps out in nature. Not a whimper could be heard. Once back in the house, I put a pie into the oven. Enzo is scared of ranges and always hides under a bed when someone cooks. When the pie was finished baking, I opened the oven door, and smoke came gushing out. Suddenly, multiple smoke alarms went off. Harrell opened all the doors to vent the house, and his dogs ran outside to escape the noise. Paddy stayed next to me even though the sound of a smoke alarm was excruciating to dogs. Finally, the smoke alarms stopped, and Harrell and I became engrossed in antique books containing Picasso and Cezanne prints. Enzo wasn't with us; I figured he was still under a bed. After we enjoyed our pieces of cherry pie with ice cream, Harrell asked about Enzo. I told him he was probably under the bed. He wasn't. We headed outside, separated, and searched for him. While looking everywhere, I imagined Enzo lost and a coyote attacking him as I called his name. I felt guilty about my anger toward him that morning. I didn't know how to tell my daughter if something happened to him. All I wanted was to hold Enzo again. Just as tears began falling, Harrell appeared on top of the hill, cradling something white. It was Enzo, and he was alive! It was apparent that Enzo had run a quarter-mile down the road and under the property's gate. Harrell found Enzo walking along the highway. I felt overwhelming relief and gratefulness that Enzo was safe and alive. Since our Thanksgiving Day is near-tragedy, I'm more patient with Enzo. I love the little creature despite his annoying behaviors. There were two Thanksgiving miracles that day. One of them was that Enzo was found alive and unscathed, and the other was that I found patience, at least for a day or two.

(the picture is of two happily exhausted dogs on Thanksgiving night)