A Soft Spot for Ruby
Ruby got a new bed yesterday. She didn’t ask for one, but she’s found a corner in between my bed and my bookcase that she has claimed as her own. It’s cold and dark and hard, and it’s where she chooses to sleep at night. She’s been spending a portion of her days in a cozy bed by my desk, though, so I thought she might enjoy a little comfort while sleeping. Ruby has never been one for comfort, but now that she’s nine and her bones are getting a little more brittle, I wanted her to have a place to sleep comfortably—if she chose to trust it.
I’ve never been so anxious about buying a bed. I’ve spent ridiculous amounts of money on dog beds for both of the girls, but this one was the most important to me. I wanted to prove to myself that Ruby would finally choose comfort—that she has finally been loved and nurtured enough in her life that she feels ready to curl up and enjoy sweet, worry-free dreams.
When I first brought her home from the humane society, she sought out every shadowy corner in my little Ohio rental home. She would put her nose in any crack where the walls met and try to disappear into it, just like George and I found her at the humane society. She didn’t want a bed; she didn’t want to sleep with or near me. So, I put blankets into all the corners, hoping she might succumb to the gentle lull of comfort.
But she never did.
Eventually, she found solace under the sofa and the bed, hidden away in her safe, little cave. She would also find respite in the shower. No matter where she landed, she would pace all night, from room to room, relocating to ease her anxiety.
“She’s a herding dog, she’s just doing her job.”
“She’s making sure we’re all safe.”
We’d say these things to make ourselves feel better, because it was clear that this sweet girl was simply the most anxious and fearful creature we’d ever known.
When they first met, my cousin, Sherri, said about sweet Ruby, “I’ve never known a dog who was so mistreated that she’d forgotten how to be a dog.”
The moment Ruby finally began sleeping through the night in the bedroom, we considered it a baby miracle. It was the perfect time to try a bed again, a soft spot, a safe haven. Julie and I went to Home Goods to find a bed that would fit in the tiny space Ruby had claimed for herself.
I was so worried that she’d think I’d ruined her special spot, but she saw the bed and hunkered down immediately. She didn’t stay there long, but to stay there at all was a huge milestone. When it was time to go to bed, she began the evening in her new dog bed. As soon as the lights went out, I could hear her pacing, drinking water, digging at the carpet, flopping down on the cold ground.
As I listened to her moving around, my thoughts went to my kids as they often do at night. George just moved back to Colorado with his girlfriend, and I am both excited and anxious for him. I hope it’s a good move. I hope it’s the right move for him. I hope he finds work that he loves and that there is no national draft forthcoming. I worry about that every single day.
While George and Sarah were driving from Portland to Colorado, there was a mass shooting in Twin Falls, Idaho. I ran to Google Maps to calculate their route and their timing and discovered that they should be driving through Twin Falls at any moment. I frantically called and texted them both, asking for a return text to let me know they were okay. When Sarah answered her phone, I was able to breathe again. I knew that statistically, there were completely safe, but when it comes to your babies—even the grown ones—statistically safe is not safe enough. I needed to hear their voices.
Sam and Mary Claire both live in states overcome by wildfires. I’ve been watching the fire maps, calculating the distance on Google Maps to their homes, praying to Mother Nature for rain and begging forgiveness for being so careless with her beautiful planet. I worry about Mary and her financial state—she works so hard and makes so very little. I adore Sam’s girlfriend, Mia, and want their happiness to last. I want to be in their lives, but not over-involved in their lives. They are, after all, adults.
The babies I once held in my arms were only on loan to me for a little while. The children I raised were only children for a delicate, short, delicious time.
And although Gus is close by, I try hard to give him the space he needs to make his way as an adult while still supporting and loving him and taking him to dinner on a regular basis. He is unsettled in his work, looking for something new, and I just want him—and all his siblings—to find peace and contentment.
When you bring humans into the world, when you commit to caring for the health and well-being of living creatures, there is no end to the worry that comes with it. I often wonder what I could have done better as a mother, what I could have done differently, and I hope that what I did was enough—more than enough—to ensure my kids have the wherewithal they need to create happy, healthy lives for themselves and the ones they choose to love.
And these sweet, broken dogs we adopted? I hope they, too, know love and comfort and safety; that they rest easy knowing we’ll never let anyone else ever hurt them again.
I faded off to sleep last night thinking about all the living loves that once were and are still in my care, and when morning came, there was Ruby, snoozing softly in her bed in the corner.
Just like a real dog.
May we all become a soft bed, a landing spot for one another. Just like Ruby, inching closer to that which feels welcoming and safe. Allowing a time table which may not always be ours, yet is just what is needed. We can't go any faster than the slowest part of us desires to. Gentle and loving care to all two and four legged beauties. 💕🐾
Ruby is a shy Girl and Sissy smiles!