The last of Flirt's puppies went to her new home yesterday, all fluffy and sweet and full of life and promise. All of the new owners were so excited to have these little dogs, it made it easier to hand them over, though we admit to feeling a little "blue!" I am happy to report that I
enjoyed those puppies every bit as much as I could have. From their birth, to those first blind, helpless weeks, I loved watching them grow. It was a delight to see what a good mama Flirt was, and how strong and healthy the pups were. During the last days, when they were rollicking around the house, begging to be held and smothering me with kisses, I allowed myself to deeply feel just how delightful that was. In the past I have often been guilty of not letting myself enjoy the current moment. I tend to think the way things are
right now is how things will remain forever, and I can enjoy things later. I wonder if this is because of my somewhat repressed New England upbringing? Sometimes I think I was taught to not feel happiness too keenly, because there was something wrong and decadent with too much enjoyment. As I get older I am trying to remind myself that being present in the here and now is important, and you never know what one, insignificant seeming second might reveal itself later to have been a real treasure.
Here is an example. Beth, pictured at the right above, was my coworker for 6 fun years. She died very suddenly in November and we miss her every day. Not only was she very good at her job, but she possessed a sweet, even temperament that made her a delight to be with. And she was funny. She had a way of delivering a one-liner that often left us breathless with laughter. One day last fall she had taken a day off to go to an appointment. Our grooming shop has live cameras so customers can log in and see their pet being groomed. At some point during the day Beth had "spied" on us to see what we are up to. The next day, she told us she had been peeking in. In a very serious voice she said to the shop owner,(who is tall and slim and wears a size 4!) "Liz, don't you EVER sit with your back to the camera. Your butt looked ENORMOUS! It looked HUGE!" Liz was appropriately horrified to hear this. But we had a laugh about it then,and now that Beth is gone we repeat that moment over and over. That, tiny, insignificant sentence of hers, delivered with such passion, has helped us laugh as we grieve her.
The puppies helped,too. And I am trying, every day, to enjoy all the small moments.
The last of Flirt's puppies went to her new home yesterday, all fluffy and sweet and full of life and promise. All of the new owners were so excited to have these little dogs, it made it easier to hand them over, though we admit to feeling a little "blue!" I am happy to report that I enjoyed those puppies every bit as much as I could have. From their birth, to those first blind, helpless weeks, I loved watching them grow. It was a delight to see what a good mama Flirt was, and how strong and healthy the pups were. During the last days, when they were rollicking around the house, begging to be held and smothering me with kisses, I allowed myself to deeply feel just how delightful that was. In the past I have often been guilty of not letting myself enjoy the current moment. I tend to think the way things are right now is how things will remain forever, and I can enjoy things later. I wonder if this is because of my somewhat repressed New England upbringing? Sometimes I think I was taught to not feel happiness too keenly, because there was something wrong and decadent with too much enjoyment. As I get older I am trying to remind myself that being present in the here and now is important, and you never know what one, insignificant seeming second might reveal itself later to have been a real treasure.
Here is an example. Beth, pictured at the right above, was my coworker for 6 fun years. She died very suddenly in November and we miss her every day. Not only was she very good at her job, but she possessed a sweet, even temperament that made her a delight to be with. And she was funny. She had a way of delivering a one-liner that often left us breathless with laughter. One day last fall she had taken a day off to go to an appointment. Our grooming shop has live cameras so customers can log in and see their pet being groomed. At some point during the day Beth had "spied" on us to see what we are up to. The next day, she told us she had been peeking in. In a very serious voice she said to the shop owner,(who is tall and slim and wears a size 4!) "Liz, don't you EVER sit with your back to the camera. Your butt looked ENORMOUS! It looked HUGE!" Liz was appropriately horrified to hear this. But we had a laugh about it then,and now that Beth is gone we repeat that moment over and over. That, tiny, insignificant sentence of hers, delivered with such passion, has helped us laugh as we grieve her.
The puppies helped,too. And I am trying, every day, to enjoy all the small moments.
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