Half Slumber in High Winter

The dead of winter has taken hold in Anchorage.  The temperature has remained in the negatives digits for several weeks, and the landscape looks frozen and immobile.  The Bohemian Waxwings descended on our Mountain Ash trees a week ago, gorged themselves on the sour berries, then disappeared.  I have not seen them since, and have no idea to where they have fled to ride out the intemperate climate.

I get depressed during high winter.  Not depressed in "goodbye cruel world" sense where no amount of well wishes or good fortune can lift my sobbing spirits, but rather in the "everything is frozen, why must I keep moving forward" sense.  All I want is to curl up in my sheets protected from the cold to hibernate as do the bears, squirrels and other sensible animals living in the wilds of the far north.  Yes, my body wants to do as the wild things do and go into prolonged sleep until the angle of the sun portends warmer climes, and longer days. 

Though my body may wish to hibernate in the manner of my furry brethren, my mind is less eager to follow suit.  I try, but despite my best efforts to give in to the impulse of evolution and my body's internal, seasonal clock, I remain awake at night restless, feeling caged and discontent.  Our home has been, for the most part, remodeled.  All but one room are fully functional with floors, doors and fresh paint.  A hot tub awaits us in the evening on weekdays and anytime on weekends, and with no major renovations projects pressing for our attention, one has the time to be lazy.  I have not had the opportunity to do nothing for a very long time.  I should be ready at the end of the day to fling myself under the cozy warmth of the covers and blot out the world, but I cannot.  I fidget, and my thoughts, far from quieting, kick up like a glacial wind driving down a south facing slope.  

How odd to be suspended so securely between fully awake and partially asleep lacking the physical will to press forward, yet driven to continue planning, scheming, dreaming in preparation for the spring and summer.  Perhaps the bears in their dens feel the same as do I?

Risk Management for the Canine Species: Living in the Moment... In a Good Way

Dogs are absolutely the best at living in the moment, seizing the now, and being comfortable in themselves.  They seem to insist on being grounded in whatever is happening to them in the present tense.

This is Magpie pictured to the right being as comfortable in her own skin as a dog can be.  We, the moms, managed to keep her off the bed for the first four years of her life; but, as you can see, she has claimed the bed.  Maggie is a long, big dog, but she does not realize this fact.  When she needs to stretch out, she stretches out.  No questions asked, no self scrutiny, and no regrets.  She assesses the situation: open bed.  She plugs her needs into the situation:  need to stretch out on something big and soft.  She seizes the opportunity after a quick risk vs. benefit (risk = moms not present to yell at me vs. benefit = soft, cozy bed), and onto the bed she jumps and sprawls out.

Later, when the moms enter the room, and she hears the word, "no," she reacts.  No longer is her emphasis on stretching, the focus becomes staying out of hot water.  No guilt.  She just handles the crisis as it unfolds.     The moms are upset, how do I calm them down.  Oh, jump off the bed, plop down on my face, and get really cute.  Problem solved.  The word from the moms morph from "no, bad dog" into "good girl" and the universe has realigned herself.

Dogs do what they do, not out of ignorance, but out of a very sophisticated implementation of doggy risk management.  They have excellent cognitive powers of recall, i.e., extensive memories.  They remember the really important details:  the sound of the moms' car engine, the time of morning and evening feedings, that the toy has to go out of doors with them or they don't get to play.  Dogs have mastered risk management in ways that corporations that spend millions each year on the subject have not.

Dogs see the world through risk/benefit goggles, and they seem to live almost exclusively by the principle that, if the benefit of an action outweighs the risk, they will complete the action and the result will suffice for the moment.  Tomorrow, that equation may shift, and a new action will need to sought.  For instance, yesterday, the couch was totally accessible, no moms were present to scowl and to scold our big girl, Magpie.  Her need to be comfortable outweighed the risk of an adverse outcome.  Plop.  Up on the couch the big dog went.  Today however, moms took the time to flip up the cushions, limiting access to the couch, the probability that Magpie would fall off of the couch was very high.  Still no moms were present to dissuade her, but the embarrassment of a failed mount onto the couch was deemed too risky to make the attempt.  A more suitable spot by the window was chosen.  Tomorrow, the moms may get in a hurry and forget to prep the couch, and the opportunity may present itself for a nice siesta.  This line of reasoning involves a whole heap of memory and reasoning.  Guilt requires memory of a previous bad action, but guilt plays little if any part in the risk/benefit analysis process.

I am so proud of my furry children.  They have the most loving, generous natures but how can I disagree with a rationale that mirrors what I teach people in the work place each and every day; a philosophy that I myself have found immensely useful for the past twenty years?  If anything, I long to embrace their method of managing life and their success at living in the moment.