Flash

by Rachel Anne Ridge

  And there were bigger opportunities. Some months later, I found myself sitting across the table from a top talent manager in Nashville. I’d been invited there to discuss representation and to explore the prospects of starting a speaking tour, marketing my art, and writing a book. Me. Seriously? My head spun with ideas and possibilities! What an incredible turn of events.

  But this time, I totally botched it. I didn’t return phone calls, missed a deadline, and avoided making the commitment. In short, I choked. “This won’t work if I want it for you more than you want it for you,” the talent manager told me. And I knew she was right.

  It’s funny how you yearn for change, for something new, for a lucky chance, for an end to the monotony, for life as you know it to just stop, to just go away . . . and then when that change comes, you start backpedaling and pulling out every reason you want things to stay the same. You think of all the ways you’re not ready. You think of all the things you’ll miss. You even do things to sabotage moving forward.

  I remember as a kid sitting in the “way back” seat of the family station wagon, a car that was roughly the length of an ocean liner, with faux wood paneling on the sides. We loved the fact that it had automatic windows and was the perfect shade of avocado green.

  The “way back” seat was the one that got pulled up from the storage area in the rear and faced backward. I can still feel the sensation of barreling toward a destination I could not see while watching through the back window as the road fell away behind us. The dashed lane markers seemed to emerge from somewhere below, all huge and oversized, then quickly get smaller and smaller until they disappeared as tiny dots into nothingness. It felt like time travel, but with motion sickness. Everyone knows it’s a terrible idea to ride in a vehicle backward. Don’t even think about reading a book, unless you have a barf bag handy.

  But moving toward a destination you can’t see? Watching the past, where you’ve been, fall away? Even as new seasons of opportunities and personal growth were around the bend, I wanted to hold on to everything I had, everything I’d known. This life—this beautiful, messy life—was changing once again, and there was so much I hadn’t done in this season yet.

  Grayson’s last years at home felt bittersweet. When we’d moved to this funky barn house, he was eight. Eight! A kid with an orthodontic appliance and a penchant for building model airplanes. Lauren and Meghan were in high school and fixated on their hair (I don’t know where they got that), choir, youth group, and a dizzying schedule of activities. Flash arrived just as they were leaving, and I came to believe he was a little gift from above to occupy my mind and assuage the mama-ache.

  Now the girls had made it all the way through college and into new marriages, and Grayson was heading off to study aerospace engineering . . . and I couldn’t be more proud. Or more brokenhearted.

  How many times had I wished I could walk down the driveway, away from motherhood and work projects and all the laundry? How many tense discussions had Tom and I had over household rules, chores, activities, haircuts, and homework that made me want to run away? How often had I complained about the Explorer and the workload and the burden of shaping young lives, which always felt more like herding cats than actual shaping?

  Now, motherhood was falling away behind me, and I was hurtling toward a destination I couldn’t see. A great unknown. I wasn’t prepared for parenthood to disappear as a tiny dot into nothingness. I hadn’t even started their scrapbooks yet! And I had forgotten to show Grayson how to fold fitted sheets. My earlier confidence that I would accomplish these things before the kids left now made me feel awfully presumptuous.

  And to top it all off, the horses next door disappeared. Flash’s baby mama, his darling little mule, and the rest of the group just up and moved off with their owner somewhere. No! I leaned on the gate, still wired shut from the night Flash had broken the hinge, and scanned the field for any trace of them. Nothing. It felt strange and empty, like one more thing had slipped through my grasp.

  The gate protested my weight with a squeak, as if telling me to move on. But one look at Flash’s expression told me that moving on wouldn’t be so easy. They’d been such ideal companions for him, hanging their heads over the fence and shooting the breeze with him each day. Now who would Flash have? Certainly not Beau, the object of his unaffection. Something would have to be done, but I didn't want to consider that now.

  A puff of wind, change in the air. A phone call to come and speak. An invitation to write for a high-profile blog. A botched chance at stardom. An opportunity for our business to change. Kids driving off with a trunk full of belongings. A month in which projects took place in front of a computer screen instead of on a ladder with a paintbrush in hand.

  Still juggling, still keeping as many balls in the air as you can, because you never know when you’ll need one of them. You think you have an idea how everything is going to turn out, and in a moment of clarity find out you’re riding backward and someone else is driving the station wagon. You fight for control. Stomp a box. Leave a calling card.

  And in the end, you let go.

  Suddenly, all the lessons I had learned from Flash came flooding in. Refuge, remembering your name, running with horses, wearing your donkey heart on your sleeve, finding your passion, serving others. . . .

  All along, God had been quietly teaching me through a charming, bucktoothed, opinionated, sweet donkey. And now He was guiding me—us—through more changes. Would I keep kicking and resist anything altered or different, or would I learn to apply the lessons and adjust my old ways of thinking? Would I open my arms to new experiences, or be so focused on the present and the past that I’d miss them?

  My little notes, on scraps of paper here and there, were being challenged to come to life . . . to become real. To take on skin and bones, and breathe in air, and become more than cute axioms taped to my desk. If God was real and true, and deeply involved with the details of my life, then all of this was for something. Nothing would be wasted.

  But only if I chose to embrace a new season.

  Flash figured out that throwing a temper tantrum and destroying the things he could not change were futile attempts to control his little world. Once he realized that there was nothing to fear, and that good things could come from the changes he resisted, he settled down. He learned that the changes, like the golf and hockey areas and the workshop, brought people into his world. And more people equaled more attention. More attention equaled a happy donkey. He just couldn’t see it at the time. Oddly, getting his ears scratched more often helped him come around to this deep spiritual truth: Change is a good thing.

  Much of the time, the changes we face feel like little more than nearly imperceptible puffs of wind. C. S. Lewis once said, “Isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back, everything is different.” The incremental shifts, the tiny tectonic movements, the way your kid’s face loses that baby softness and becomes lean and chiseled, without your even noticing until you watch him sleep one night. The way you give everything you have to life and think it’s nothing much to offer, but there it is. Take it. And the way it starts coming back to you.

  The patterns on the insides of your eyelids tell you the sun has poked through the clouds, for just a moment, and there is change in the air.

  You must unfurl your fingers to catch the first rays.

  Embrace change.

  Don’t let fear of the unknown keep you from moving forward.

  “Sorry about Beau.” Grayson shrugged apologetically and motioned with his head to the dripping yellow Lab. I slid the glass door open to greet them in the breezeway, and a muggy blast of summer air pushed its way in as I stepped outside. Beau planted his feet, shaking pond water from his body in a violent vibration that started at his nose and ended at the tip of his thick tail. He sneezed and looked up at me with an expression of sheer joy.

  “I had him in the boat with me, but he jumped into the water to cool off and then went for a swim,” Gray expl
ained, setting his tackle box down and untying his muddy shoes. “You know how he is.”

  “Oh brother. Beau, you’re going to smell for two days.” I chided the dog, but he didn’t seem the least bit concerned with my scolding. He lumbered to his water dish and lapped at it noisily before flopping down on the cool cement floor. He sounded like a sponge hitting pavement, the water splattering outward from his saturated fur coat.

  He’s going to be stiff for days, too, I thought. Dear old Beau. But maybe the swim was good for his arthritis. I was happy that he had enjoyed some physical activity—something he’d always loved as a younger dog.

  For years, Beau’s powerful physique made him the perfect country companion: He regularly raced the Explorer up the driveway, clocking an easy twenty miles per hour on the quarter-mile run to the house. He loped along by the right front tire, pink tongue flapping from the side of his mouth, until the sound of the gas being applied caused him to engage his afterburners. Head tucked and tongue retracted, his mighty front paws pulled the earth beneath him, and his muscular hind legs propelled him forward in a golden blur. The race always ended in a tie, Beau braking to wag his entire body in excited welcome.

  The dog could keep fetching sticks tossed into the pond long after your arm could possibly continue throwing. He’d leap into the water with a giant ka-ploosh, swim out to the stick, pick it up with his teeth, and circle back around toward shore. Sometimes he’d just paddle around the pond with the stick, as if he was so happy to be fetching that he didn’t know what to do with himself except take a couple of extra laps. If you depleted your supply of sticks (or if your arm gave out, whichever came first), he’d grab a giant log floating in the water and bring it to you. His love of water also made him a natural hunting dog. He could sit motionless in a duck blind for hours, then swim through icy water to retrieve fallen birds.

  Beau took it upon himself to guard the entire property with his daily circuits along the fence lines, his nose and tail working from side to side, and making use of his bottomless bladder by marking his territory with boundless enthusiasm. He chased off wandering dogs and coyotes, scared up birds, and sent bunnies scurrying into their holes; but then he would come back and graciously allow the girls’ kittens to pounce all over him and play with his tail.

  Beau, one hundred pounds of friendly, covered in nearly white, shedding fur, had once been an “outside only” dog, and I liked it that way. But somehow, he had finagled his way indoors during the coldest nights of winter and the hottest days of summer . . . and gradually, everything in between. His wet black nose and pleading brown eyes were difficult to resist, and since he was good about staying off the carpeted areas of the house, we allowed him in.

  Well, I take that back. He wasn’t that good about staying off the carpeted areas. He was very good about staying downstairs—on the carpet, of course. And he was only good about the downstairs part until one October night, about a year after we’d moved in.

  “Tommy, wake up!” I shook Tom awake at the sound of a peculiar noise coming from the other room. Something, or someone, was moving around Grayson’s bedroom in the middle of the night. My hands clutched Tom’s arm. An intruder? A burglar?

  We held our breath and listened a moment longer, our heartbeats pounding in our ears. Tom slowly slid out of bed and crept to the door. He stepped through the small hallway at the top of the stairs and paused at Grayson’s door to peer inside. I heard him let out his breath.

  “Rachel, it’s okay,” he whispered. “Come in here.” I flipped the covers back to follow him.

  The moonlight filtered through Grayson’s window blinds, revealing the silhouette of our intruder, who was standing next to the bed of our then nine-year-old son. It was Beau. With his nose just inches from Grayson’s face, he watched the boy breathe, his chest rising and falling. In. Out. In. Out. The tip of the dog’s tail moved slightly, letting us know that he was aware of our presence, but his resolute profile didn’t waver an inch.

  “What’s going on, Beau?” He’d never challenged our downstairs-only rule before. Tom patted the dog’s head and reached forward to straighten Grayson’s pillow. He turned to me in alarm.

  “Gray’s burning up,” Tom said, feeling his forehead and pulling off the blankets. I ran to get cool washcloths and medicine to bring his fever down.

  The next morning, a trip to the doctor’s office and X-rays at the hospital revealed pneumonia in Grayson’s lungs. We’d known that Grayson didn’t feel well when we put him to bed that night, but we had no idea how serious his illness was. Yet somehow, Beau sensed it. For the next three nights, the dog remained at his bedside until the antibiotics began to work and the worst was over. His buddy needed him.

  I guess we figured Beau had earned the right to go upstairs and sleep wherever he wanted. Mostly, he chose to curl up on the small hooked rug next to Grayson’s bed, right where the boy’s hand could reach down and scratch his blocky head, causing the dog’s heavy tail to thump on the floor at odd hours of the night.

  I looked at Beau now, soggy and happy from his afternoon swim. “Walk with me to the barn,” I called to him. “It will help you dry off and keep you from stiffening up.” He pulled himself up, his hind legs reluctant, and gave another vigorous shake before accompanying me to the gate.

  Lifting the heavy chain from the nail, I pushed the metal gate open and stepped into the pasture. The ground was hard and dry under my feet, and the sparse summer grass clung to the cracked earth for dear life. Beau stopped at the fence post and sat down, refusing to go any farther. He was at The Line.

  The Line had been drawn from day one of Flash’s residency, and it followed the fence exactly. The pie-shaped pasture on one side of the fence was Flash’s territory, with the remaining land on the other side belonging to Beau. Made of wood posts connected by galvanized wire mesh, the fence provided the legal framework for the two animals to work within. Beau was respecting his limits.

  “You stay on your side, and I’ll stay on mine” were the general terms of agreement the two abided by. But there were exceptions, such as these laid out by Flash:

  1. Dog may enter pasture when accompanied by a human.

  2. Dog may not drink from donkey’s water bucket.

  3. Dog may sit in barn, but only if accompanied by humans.

  4. Dog may not bark, whine, or look appealing while donkey completes his interaction with said humans.

  5. Dog is not permitted to make eye contact with donkey.

  Beau, for his part, had his own stipulations:

  1. Donkey may not bray in dog’s presence.

  2. Donkey must be on a lead at all times when outside pasture territory.

  3. Donkey may not kick or bite, but may sniff and stand quietly in dog’s presence.

  4. Donkey may graze in the yard, under strict supervision by humans, and only when tied to a stake.

  5. Donkey may make eye contact with dog, on a limited basis.

  6. Donkey may not eat dog food. (To my knowledge, this was never an actual issue, but Beau felt strongly about his food, so . . . you know.)

  “Oh, come on, boy.” I reasoned with him at The Line. “I’ll be right with you the whole time. It’s okay.” At my reassurance, Beau resumed his walk to the barn and sniffed out a perfect spot to sit and watch the evening proceedings. Tom was already there, cleaning out Flash’s stall and putting a flake of fresh hay in the feeding rack.

  “So what’s the deal with these two, anyway?” Tom asked as he set a new bag of wood shavings on the ground. I picked up a rake that leaned against the plywood wall and watched as Flash sauntered in to check out our activity.

  “I don’t know. I don’t get it,” I said, setting the rake aside and rubbing Flash’s forehead.

  Clumps of dirt and blades of dried grass clung to his coat from his last dust roll, giving him a rugged, tousled appearance. As much as he likes being brushed and fussed over, I must say he wears the rough outdoorsman look best.

  With a nod of his head,
the donkey dismissed Beau from his vantage point in the corner and then positioned himself directly in front of me. The yellow Lab, his head low and eyes averted according to code, made a wide circle past Flash and took a seat under the shade of a mesquite tree just beyond the barn. He gave a resigned yawn and lowered himself to the ground, settling his head on his front legs. Satisfied that the dog was out of range, Flash swished his tail and inquired about a treat.

  I pulled a few burrs from his mane and then stepped toward the tack room to grab a small cookie from a jar just inside the door. Animal crackers—Flash’s favorite. He eagerly poked his head in, blocking my exit as his mouth moved in anticipation.

  “Back up, Flash,” I said. “You need to be a gentleman.” I waited until he stepped backward, then opened my palm with the treat inside. It was gone in an instant, Flash’s deft top lip picking up the cookie in a swift movement. He was already looking for more before he even swallowed it. I acquiesced with a second cookie. Okay, a third one too. But that’s all. I mean it. Really, I do. No more, Flash.

  “I think they got off to a rocky start and never really recovered,” I said, turning to Tom, who was now dumping the shavings into the stall. “Beau is still bent out of shape over Flash trying to kick him that first day.”

  “That’s a long time to hold a grudge,” Tom replied thoughtfully. “I find it hard to believe they aren’t the best of friends by now. I mean, there’s absolutely no reason they can’t get along. They’re both friendly, loyal, sweet, and lovable.” He counted their attributes off with his fingers.

  “Right,” I laughed, “just not to each other!” I looked at the dog, nearly dry in the late afternoon heat. “I wonder if Beau feels resentful about Flash taking over the pasture. I think he wishes he had this area back in his control.”

  “Well, Beau does take his guard duties very seriously. Remember how he used to walk the perimeter of the entire property each day? He never includes the pasture anymore. He leaves that part up to Flash to take care of. Maybe he feels Flash isn’t doing a good enough job.”