A Dog Named Irish

She has a gentle soul, and an inner joyful vibe she emits.

When we stroll through the village, her golden fleece and wise eyes always get a comment. “What is she?“, or “she looks like a teddy bear” someone said once.

On that January night if she had not showed up at our door, if she had not run after her old owners car, if she had not got lost in the blizzard, and if she had not found her way to our Irish Lake, it would have been lonely.

Oh, but her will is strong. Given the opportunity, she just wanders off, after whatever takes her fancy. She could be a yard or so away, and be completely oblivious to your calls, completely engrossed. It is what brought her to us though, that willful character, and her strong need to follow her nose.

She has rarely ventured off-leash here in my little village in the city. I don’t trust her, as she is completely oblivious to cars. She is a dog of fields and tall grasses, not sidewalks and pavement. So we’ve both had to make adjustments to our new surroundings.

But something has changed of late. She turns 8 this year, so maybe she’s matured. But I’m not sure if I have changed, or her, or maybe we both have together. I’m beginning to trust her, maybe trust myself?

This winter I would have barely made it outside, if not for her. She inspires me to go forth. She forces me out of the winter doldrums that overtake me through the dark winter months.

As the sky grows grayer, with the sun dipping on the horizon, the temperature drops, my garden goes to sleep for the winter, and I want to hibernate from the gloom.

Yet, she drags me out-of-door, with her knowing looks, and her nose pokes to her leash.

At night, she snuggles up beside me in bed, often taking more of her fair share of the mattress. I don’t mind on those winter nights when I awake and find myself cocooned, it’s comforting.

And I love her ferocious bark when someone mysterious wanders past our abode. She definitely lets them know she will brook no bloke invading her domain. Although, in truth she wouldn’t hurt a fly, but when she raises her hackles she gains this wolf-like stature, as she lunges forth.

And all I can say is, blessed be spring, and Irish.