One Leg Down

I pulled up the drive to my friend’s beachfront house in my truck and killed the engine. As I opened the door and stepped out, Roo, with unrestrained excitement, leaped from the back seat and into the driver’s seat. She wriggled through my arms to help her down out of the truck, landing boisterously onto the gravel and sand.

She hopped over to my friend Jen, who was approaching from the palm-lined sandy path along the side of her house.  Roo had met Jen only once before, but my sweet one-year-old tripawd is an immediate friend to most good souls.

For years, Jen has labeled me as her “happy dancer” friend, mainly due to my jubilant dance moves guided more by joy of the moment, rather than rhythm of the beats.

Roo happily skipped on all three legs to greet Jen, bursting with all the puppy joy in her huge beating heart.  My friend’s face lit up in a smile and she said to my puppy, “You are the perfect dog for Christy – so HAPPY!”

Following behind Roo, leash and dog toys in one hand, and a bag full of ingredients for our sunset sangrias in my other, I replied,  “Yep! She’s just the same as me, getting through this life, one leg down.”

Without missing a beat, my friend lobbed it back to my court. “Yeah, and not slowing down one bit.”

(I might have been having a momentary pity party, feeling like I’m navigating current life challenges in a “one-step forward, two steps back” kind of jaunt.)

We laughed, (Roo too, I think), and all three of us traipsed inside to settle into the sunset beach vibes of Jen’s welcoming home.

Today is Roo’s “I Gotcha Day”.  One year since I got her.

Or, more accurately, since I hit her. It’s our “I Hitcha Day”.

And what a life-changing day that was, the day I hit a little dog with my truck.

And then the days became weeks, and weeks became months of care, fear, and worry, over this little four-legged, then three-legged life I’d become responsible for.

Days which were also filled with love, as the dog-to-human connection that only dog lovers would understand grew.

But it’s not only my day-to-day mood and priorities that have changed, looking after my sweet little tripawd. Others feel the joy, too.  Roo incites happiness in people.

I watch their faces change when they are greeted by her.  Their cheeks lift into a new smile, and their eyes soften and glow a little brighter. Strangers respond to her friendly greeting with high-pitched friendly greetings of their own. Her puppy heart is so full, so happy, that every bit of energy bursts through her small body, her tail wagging her lower half exuberantly pursues all things joy.

Roo . . . the happiest dog I ever could have hoped for.

That I ever could have hit.

Yes, she devours Tino’s cat food at a speed that would lead you to believe she’s been starved half her life (she hasn’t).

Yes, she’s destroyed four pairs of shoes, torn up my friend’s newly planted lawn with glee, chewed my prescription glasses, my sunglasses, my phone cords, my friend’s phone cords, my hair brush, my bras, my computer sleeve, my guitar tabs music book, my copy of A Tale of Two Cities, the paper cover to my French art book I bought in Paris, and all the toilet paper rolls ALL the time, littering the soft white squares throughout the house so decoratively, and so mischievously, you’d think my house was a college campus.

But.

This last year has also been a year of learning for both of us.

For her, the rules. (Almost).  For me, patience. (Sometimes).

For Roo, learning who is the alpha to fear in our pack. (My cat, Tino).

For me, flexibility in my routines.

For Roo, learning how fast and agile her speedy little body can move across the sand with unchained freedom every time we take my truck to the beach for a run.

She’s impressive at this.

Her three remaining legs move at a momentum that makes me feel she’s more adept at running than walking, her tongue hanging out the side of her face in a display of untethered joy most of us covet. Strangers are inspired by her speed, tearing up the sand in unadulterated bliss, chasing crabs, and rolling with her beach dog pack, becoming as sandy as she is happy.

Yes, getting through life one leg down, but not slowing down one bit.

I have a neighbor, that I admit I don’t know too well, but we are familiar enough for the occasional friendly banter if we happen to be at the same beach hangout at sunset.

He’s a little older than me, has been here in Nicaragua for far longer, and is an avid surfer.  He moves through his life on one leg.  I don’t know how he lost the other leg, but from my point of view, he seems to be just as, if not more, active than most.

Yesterday, I was headed to an event, and the route I chose meant I could cross the beach by foot instead of taking the road with my truck.

As it happened, this neighbor was also on the same part of the beach. Using his crutches, he was heading up the sand toward me, as I was heading down.

He is a tall, strong man, but crossing the sand looked difficult, even though he must maneuver himself in this way every day.  Moving his large body over uneven dunes with one leg, the base of both crutches were buried with each step. He wasn’t slow, but I could see the tough effort he was putting in, especially in the afternoon heat.

Watching the crutches sink several inches into the hot sand with each stride, I called to him, without forethought, “Woo! That is hard work.”

Nearing, he replied, “Yeah, it used to be easier.”

I’m not sure if he meant that it was easier when he was younger, or if it was easier when he had two legs . . . but I left it.

We passed each other, neither of us stopping the momentum carrying us in opposite directions.  I shouted back over my shoulder, again, without thinking, “But you know, your shoulders are so very strong!”

And he shouted back, “Yeah, that’s the only way to see it.  Like, why isn’t this path farther?” And he gestured to the long stretch of sand he still had to cross before he would walk on flat land again.

We laughed at his sarcastic optimism, continuing our own hustle, one of us heading down the beach, one of us heading up.

But his perspective was right on the money, and it lingered with me as I headed on into my evening.

So was my friend’s comment earlier this week, watching my three-legged Roo bound towards her, and all things joy and happiness in life.

Our journey through this life may feel overwhelming with challenges at times. But it’s how we choose to view this journey that makes all the difference.

One leg down, maybe.

But not slowing down one bit.

~ Christy

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