He came around the corner of the shed, tail held high and walking with a casual elegance. He was a mackerel tabby, with dark stripes and he was enormous, even for a tomcat. The small brown dog saw him at once and froze, head cocked to one side in curiosity, one paw raised. He was easily three times her size and the standoff lasted several seconds until he resumed his nonchalant way across the yard. At the fence, he paused to look over his shoulder at her and then slowly slid under. She hadn't moved but as he disappeared she turned to look at me with a bewildered expression which seemed to say "Was I supposed to chase that?" She's a brave little dog, but she's not stupid. I called her to me and scooped her up. "Smart move, kiddo," I told her, "He'd have cleaned your clock."
She is a smart little dog and she knows not to take on more than she can do. She knows this instinctively while I have had to learn it through trial and error, suffering the consequences of my own behavior as I go. I have finally gotten the hang of picking my battles and I have the scars to prove it. And the most significant lesson has been that when you let go, things have a way of working out. The other thing the small dog has helped teach me is to get over it and move on. The instant the tomcat was gone, she forgot him and moved on to other interesting things. She never dwells on her failures or her successes, never lets hurt feelings last, never nurses a grudge.
Someone recently sent me this anonymous bit of wisdom, "Sorry looks back, worry looks around, faith looks up."
I've pretty much managed to let go of sorry and worry but I'm finding faith takes a lifetime of practice.
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