Farting alone in bed—really

As a vintage human being, one of the joys of my life has become an increasing enjoyment of silliness. The writer in me stands back and observes, going, You’re doing what? and the person who is also me, says, Learn from your dog.

Kira is possibly the silliest dog I have ever met. I say this with enormous affection. Especially in our recent weather on Pender Island involving an arctic outflow of -10 with a windchill that took it down to -20, she gets energized, and on the way down the driveway for a walk, she’ll play with her leash. By this, I mean that I’ll swing the end of the leash and she’ll leap for it. Kira grabs the end in her mouth and shakes it like crazy. Instead of having a leash clipped to her collar, she prances beside me with it in her mouth. Her antics keep me laughing all the way to the gate. I play along, of course, tugging the leash and sometimes getting it away from her, then swinging it again. At the gate, I leash her until we reach whatever trail we’re walking to that day.

 Someone in my life who I won’t name, said to me recently, “You know, one consolation about being alone now is that in the middle of the night, when I’ve got to fart, I can really let ’er rip.” And she snorted with exactly the same enjoyment that I see Ms Furface displaying. Of course! Who doesn’t like to enjoy a good fart? Though wait: aren’t writers supposed to be above that? What would the brilliant poet Rilke have said? Or the acerbic Margaret Atwood?

I got what this dear person was saying. Living alone, we don’t have to be nice anymore. I find myself belching loudly and enjoying it in a way I was too well-mannered to ever do when my husband was alive. Many guys burp like that all the time. This is a first for me. I don’t have to be polite for company, there’s just the dog.

Link

I understand my own ridiculousness in a way I haven’t before: the pretensions, the hopes, the disappointments. I have compassion for that person yet things also amuse me. As John Lennon famously said, “Life is what happens when you’re making other plans.” I remember a clear mountain stream I once saw on Vancouver Island, rushing along, tipping from pool to pool edged with flat stones, only right now, the beautiful deep green I’m holding in mind is gratitude and the movement comes from laughter and appreciating that I too have a place and part to play in this strange flow called life.

Yes, I have sorrows and losses, we all do, yet here I am out on the trail, seeing the ground honeycombed to a depth of several inches with frost and crunchy-hard underfoot. From the wind the other day, here and there the beige shatter of freshly fallen alder branches, the wood old and rotten but the occasional tree trunk thick enough they would have felled the dog or me if we’d been underneath them when they crashed down. It’s still -9. Fortunately, Kira’s coat is long right now. I’ve learned to wear a balaclava, long underwear, a wind layer, and two layers of gloves. What I really need are mitts.

You have to admit that getup is pretty ridiculous!

Partway through almost any walk, Kira will turn to me. There’s a glint in her eyes. I know exactly what that means: Let’s play stick. Stick is a game that has rules only the dog knows. It involves me finding a stick first. Often I’ll break it so it’s not overly long; I have no desire to get clotheslined from behind by some seven-foot-long fir branch. That has happened. Then I’ll show her the stick and she’ll leap, her body language telling me, Yeah, this is a great stick and I want it.

Of course I give Kira the stick, that’s the point of the game. But then I’ll walk my fingers down the fur on her spine and say, “That’s a great stick. Would you like some help with that?” Eventually, I grab the stick and we play tug.  

Or, if she’s being possessive, I’ll put my hand behind me and waggle my fingers. The dog will come and put the stick right in my hand.

We are being silly. The humour is about the level a four-year-old would find funny. So why does it crack me up every time?

Silliness is a gift, a game I play with appreciation. It’s a blessing that, for me, seems to come with being a vintage human being. Does it also have to do with prayer? Prayer is such a serious word, but when you get down to it, isn’t it really the inhale and exhale of gratitude, recognizing the sparkle of good being present?  

My writing news from last week is that the cover designer of Orchid Heart Elegies, David Drummond, won a 2023 award from the Association of University Presses design competition for the book. Thanks to those of you who’ve told me how meaningful some of the poems are. And for those of you who’ve been asking how Kira is making out after her surgery, the answer is brilliant. Her neck has healed up really well and she has so much energy.

How do you add to the silliness quotient in your life? Does it equate with joy the way it seems to for me? I’d love to hear.