Angelic messengers speak to us all day long in many forms if we only stop and listen.
This morning, I stuffed myself into my winter jacket, scarf, hat and gloves, chased after my dog Dixie to hook up her leash and began stumbling around in the semi-dark outside to help her do her business.
As I reached the little park behind my house I ran into my neighbor Bernadette Boas walking her dog Charlie, a labradoodle.
“How are you?” Bernadette asked.
“Not awake,” I replied.
As I came to my senses, I thanked Bernadette for having me on her program, Shed the Bitch Radio.
As a corporate coach, Bernadette Boas empowers women to shed self-limiting beliefs. Little did I realize she was sprinkling her fairy dust on me as I walked my dog Dixie beside her labradoodle Charlie in the wee hours of the morning.
“I had these $400 red patent leather shoes with cork wedges. One day I fell asleep and when I woke up Charlie had eaten one entire shoe,” Bernadette related.
“I used to be a perfectionist before I got Charlie,” Bernadette reported.
“Oh my goodness,” I replied, finally awake enough to recognize what Bernadette had said.
“God just spoke to me through you.”
The day before, I had been minding my own business vegging out with a friend binge watching The Crown on Netflix.
Meanwhile Dixie kept making loud tearing noises in the dark.
“Stop eating that pillow,” I commanded Dixie.
The next morning, I went down to my living room only to discover that Dixie had not been chomping on a pillow. She had been tearing a hole in the chair itself.
As luck would have it, I had been hoping my new dog Dixie would be a better behaved model than my previous rescue girl Belle.
One day Belle and I visited my dear friend Virginia Wright.
Virginia and I chatted away in her living room but things seemed a bit too quiet, no Belle in sight.
When I went to look for her, Belle had discovered and already consumed an entire bag of chocolate covered pecans.
As we all know, dogs should not be eating chocolate, much less an entire bag of chocolate covered nuts, but at that point, the entire bag had disappeared into Belle’s bowels.
With nothing left to do, Virginia and I went off to the movies.
On returning home, Virginia stepped into the squishy aftermath of chocolate covered pecans that had quite quickly passed through my dog.
“I’m so sorry Virginia,” I apologized.
That amounted to one of the last few visits Belle had to Virginia’s house before she passed away this July.
I had high hopes for my new dog Dixie, an AKC registered, three-time beauty queen cocker spaniel.
Surely this time I would enjoy the company of a well-behaved dog who could accompany me everywhere with no sudden embarrassments.
Dixe and I went to visit Virginia recently, but things turned south when Dixie decided to poo profusely on Virginia’s living room rug.
“I’m so sorry Virginia,” I apologized, cleaning up the mess as quickly as I discovered it.
The next day I called back.
“I’m so sorry,” I repeated.
“Dixie also peed on my couch,” Virginia reported.
Meanwhile at my house I have my Bissell portable rug cleaner on standby. You just plug the thing in and go, a good thing too as I have found little spots all over my home.
“You’ve got to train her,” Virginia advised me. “If you’re not training her, you are untraining her.”
Determined to be a better dog owner and a forever friend, I gave Virginia a free healing session to try to make up for our behavior at her home.
You can never be too careful with your dearest friends, after all. Even if they accommodate you and your dog, you never know how far you can take these things, where your dog crosses a line too far.
Dixie has tons of energy, tears the covers off countless tennis balls, leaving little bits of yellow fluff all over the house for me to vacuum in her cheerful, constantly pouncing wake.
My enthusiasm for daily rug cleaning had begun to wear off recently, however.
Then Bernadette made it clear to me this morning in words I could understand even though I had barely wiped the sleep out of my eyes.
“You can’t be a perfectionist and have a puppy,” Bernadette said.
Acknowledging this simple truth, I bow to my Zen master, my Dixie chick spiritual guide.