The Art of Living

It feels very apropos to be writing this on the 3rd day of the new year, especially considering that I haven’t written in….well, not exactly a year, but it certainly feels that way. Those of you who have been friends and/or fans with me on Facebook know that 2011 was a b**** of a year. Launching a startup that grew way, way faster than anyone — least of all, me — anticipated. Big move from a small, one-bedroom apartment to a three-bedroom house with a yard, all because we spoil our two rescue dogs way, way too much. Oh, and speaking of, I discovered a yen for rescuing more dogs and ended the year having fostered not one, not two, but at one point up to 12 dogs in said 3-bedroom home. Which suddenly seemed awfully tiny.

Now, eight of those dogs were actually newborn Lab puppies. One of the rescue organizations I volunteer with pulled a stunning black Lab named Lucy from Dallas Animal Services, the municipal shelter known for its relatively high kill rate. (Only about 35% of animals ever make it out alive, although the city recently announced that it was working towards becoming a no-kill city, date TBD.) Lucy came healthy, happy, and toting 8 tiny, two-week-old puppies in her wake. We wrapped them up and settled them into our extra bathroom, which very soon became too small for the brood, and before we knew it, we had 8 very active, very messy puppies happily playing and destroying said bathroom.

A kind heart can be such a double-edged sword.

We’re back to a more manageable total of 6 dogs — our own two dogs, plus Lucy, two of her puppies, and a 4th foster named Cinnamon — but it’s still a very busy household. The remaining 6 puppies were successfully refostered, and I catch glimpses of them on Facebook, as their foster parents post beautiful, heartbreaking pictures of them growing up and looking more and more like little dogs.

So as you can see, it’s been a bit busy here.

When I’m not fostering mama dogs and their pups, I’ve been working. And working. And working. It came as no surprise to me when I fell ill with the flu last weekend. I’m more surprised that it took this long for months and months of little sleep, a poor diet, and virtually no exercise other than picking up after and walking all these dogs, for my body to finally cry Uncle and break down on me. It’s very easy to forget that one is nearing forty — nearer and nearer as I type this, too! — and isn’t quite as invincible as one was. If ever one was.

I’ve seen New Year’s resolutions fly fast and furiously on Facebook the last couple of days. Sometimes they’ve very specific – one friend wants to eat more cruciferous vegetables, another is trying a certain diet — and sometimes they’re more general, if no less important (“be kinder”). One of the things I so love about getting older — and so very French it is — is caring less and less about achieving some weird, unattainable perfection (difficult to maintain in such a self-help-crazy culture such as ours), and learning to embrace the messy reality and fuzzy logic of life. And on that note, my only resolution is thus: Create more. Consume less.

What’s yours?

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