Now! Now! Now!

In this in-between week of the year where people say goodbye to the past and hello to the future, I thought I might deny the dreary concept that I am falling behind in all that I want to accomplish. I might even forgo New Year’s resolutions, forging recklessly ahead without a list of resolves. Why risk reasons to be disappointed in myself later for not living up to my idealistic goals? And for those of us whose birthdays fall in January—yes fall, just think if there hadn’t been hands to catch us at that last push—the month can be dreaded for its reminder of age or welcomed for the prospect of receiving those few Christmas gifts that thrifty and organized family members set aside for the upcoming celebration. I choose, this year, to ring in my age, to think of 45 with joy instead of words that sound like they originate from the Tasmanian Devil, regardless of how many times my nine-year-old asks if I will still be alive when she is 45.

Bella rescued me from the soul-sucking end-of-the-year-birthday-doldrums a few weeks ago on a sharply cold Saturday morning at Hinckley Park in South Portland, Maine. Bella reminded me that, unless it’s time for her raw meat patty, which might be any moment, that time, as a topic of consideration, is inconsequential. Bella is a boxer I photographed with her Weimaraner dog buddy Gordon, for her owner Jennifer Luc Lariviere. She raced to me and away from me, she danced on her hind legs, and struggled to make herself sit so she could earn her treat, she bounced, zig-zagged, and danced with delight at me, at Gordon, at Jennifer, at the trees, at the puddles, and at a ball she didn’t even want. Bella even loves life when it chases her and nips her on the butt in the form of a furry mixed breed who wasn’t quite as enthusiastic with his walk in the park.

Bella, packaged in fawn fur, reminded me to stop worrying about the mud and spit on my water-resistant pants, the dog poop wedged into the treads of my insulated boots, and the mountain of work at home. “That work,” she seemed to say as she twirled on her flashy white legs and slung drool from her black velvety lips, “will always be there.” She didn’t add carpe diem, as she is only a year old and a dog trained in obedience not in influential ancient poets, but said with wiggly-butt energy,”Have fun now. Now! Now! Now!”

So anything less, minus the slobber on my knees, would be ignoring the wise advice of a Canis lupis familiaris and falling behind in all that I want to accomplish.