Today is International Guide Dog Day! I’ve been working on this post for awhile (read: since October), but what better day to finish it and share?

Murray the service dog on his 3rd birthday

This is my buddy Murray, on his third birthday last July. I took this picture of him, a smiley-looking Black Lab in his brown leather Guide Dogs for the Blind harness sitting at a bus stop, before Murray and I were basically best friends—I’ll get to that in a minute.

Since before I started coaching goalball last October, I’ve spent a lot of time with my friends Stephen and Gerry, and their Guide Dog partners. I know better than anybody that dogs are cute and furry, and I’ve learned that they even more attractive to people when they’re working dogs and are as smart as they are adorable. As such, I’ve become that person who tells people “Please don’t pet his dog, he is working,” or informing the well meaning people who talk to Murray saying “I won’t pet him I know he’s working,” that talking to him or waving to him can be just as distracting as being touched. The guys don’t mind me doing this: they’ve both been at this for close to a decade—Gerry—or two—Steve, and I get it: it gets tiring. One thing I find never gets old, though, is hearing parents explain to their kids that Murray is a special puppy with important work to do, and that the kids are not allowed to pet him.

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Me with Steve and Murray a few weeks ago

Every person with a service dog will be different with whether or not they allow interaction with their pup while they are working—but if you really can’t resist your desire to pet the dog, ask first, and ask every time. Respect it if they say no: the dog, just like the handler, can have an off day too, where being touched may be more distracting than usual. The answer might always be no, or, it might vary—a crowded bus stop may be a no, as to not invite a parade of people, whereas if the dog is laying calmly under a restaurant table, it could be a yes (…that is, if anybody even notices the dog is there!).
And, just because someone with a guide dog is visually impaired does not mean they can’t tell when you’re petting their dog—after working with a dog for any length of time, handlers are super in tune with their dog’s movements and behaviours—they will usually be able to tell!

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Murray, who is from Guide Dogs for the Blind in San Rafael, CA, stops to say hello to a Canadian Guide Dog in the mall. (The Canadian yellow lab is a plastic donation collection receptacle!)

Working dogs in harnesses are smart and well behaved. They have important work to do. I get it: yup, for some reason, being in uniform makes the cute-factor for these pups go up about 1000% (don’t get me started on the rain jackets). It sounds ridiculous, but imagine if you went to work and all day dealt with: “Oh, a human! Here human, hi human!” all day long. You’d get distracted, too (and God, I hope nobody tries to pet you at work…). Praise and treats are how these puppies are rewarded for their hard work—working dogs are fed specific amounts at specific times of the day, and while some handlers will allow you to give a Milk Bone to their dog if they’re behaving well in a coffee shop, often the answer will be no. Just like petting or otherwise interacting with the dog: ask first. If you’d really like to give the pup a treat, you can always ask if the handler would like it to give the dog later—the dog will be just as happy with your gift when they’re not working!

The handler always sets the rules for working dogs. This enables them the authority they need to keep their service pup working hard and focused on their job—to keep both halves of the partnership safe.

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Here comes the confession, regarding my friendship with Murray.

I am a rule-breaker.
I am that person who talks to Murray and pets him when he is in harness—when he is working. The game changer is this:
I have permission. Each person with a service dog sets the rules differently about interaction with their dog—based on what is best for them and with how the dog can handle this. The way Murray responds to me is different than he responds to other people, because he has consistently been allowed to behave this way around me—he’s a smart puppy, after all. My points here are that:
a) Steve has chosen not to correct Murray for being a little silly around me or for his response to me, and
b) We are fully aware I am a potential distraction to Murray.
Murray is serious about his work—even when he’s heeling (walking on-leash on Steve’s left side, kind of like pseudo-working?) as I do the work as a sighted guide, Murray rarely does so much as look at me, and focuses on his work even though I am calling the shots. He’s still in harness, after all! We know Murray may be distracted by me—he is a dog, after all—so it is deliberate that I guide Steve 99% of the time when I am in Murray’s sight, to minimize most risks (I say most. I mean, I do on rare occasion bump Steve into an obstacle because I haven’t moved my arm back quick enough, or sometimes Steve does not listen when I say “two steps down” and miraculously does not get injured after flying down two steps… I do try to pause before descending now! Also the dog is smarter at being able to tell if branches are Steve’s height than I am.)
When I meet up with Steve and Murray (usually signalled by Murray starting to wiggle happily, wag his tail more forcefully, or pick up speed!), I will approach, say hi to Steve, give the wiggly, happy puppy a pat and a hello, usually let Murray give my hand a lick, and then I’ll move to Steve’s right (as the dogs are trained to heel on the left). Murray then ignores me when we’re walking, aside from when we have to do a u-turn and he’s forced to say hello (I presume he’s thinking “Human, I know where I am going, figure it out!” and shaking his puppy head.)

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Fair trade, I think. I occasionally use Murray as a pillow (below), for all the times he does the same to me (above).

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It’s been about 7 months now since Murray decided he and I should be besties. The running joke now is that I’m trying to steal Steve’s dog. Back in October, Murray got sneaky for the first time—he did a little Downward Dog-esque stretch, and moved toward the middle of the table that Steve and I were sitting across from each other at—nothing unusual, the dog likes his yoga. A few minutes later, though, he did it again… this time turning his whole body around to sit beside me, facing Steve.

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Laughing, I told Steve that his dog had ditched him to come sit with me. He reached down to of course not find his dog at his side, but rather a good foot away, beside me. I laughed when he tried to hand me the leash, and didn’t take it.

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Steve’s picture of Murray sneaking away to sit beside me, top, and below, my selfie with sneaky Murray.

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Just look at that face… He knows he’s up to something 😉

It became a pattern: Starbucks after goalball (picture below)—or any coffee shop, sitting on the gym floor before goalball (out of harness). As he learned Steve wasn’t going to correct him, he became less stealthy and would just stand up and turn himself around—Steve would just laugh and shake his head.

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It’s not like I let Murray get away with anything, either—nor had I even fed him a single treat when he started sneaking over to me. I love him to bits, and especially since we’ve bent the rules here, I’m just as strict on catching him doing things he shouldn’t and verbally correcting him with a “Murray, no”, or giving him a little tug on his collar if he goes after floor food, or licks his paws/boots/fur too much, or tries to sniff random people’s shoes (he has a bit of a foot/shoe fetish, that dog).

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Shoe fetish, however, does not mean Murray enjoys his boots. He tries to lose them often—probably so all the “Oh, look, that dog has boots!” people stop discussing his boots.

I’m lucky that I get to have guide dog friends (their owners are pretty okay too, I guess ;)). So, as much as I love Murray-face and as much as it’s obvious he loves me, he knows when he’s working and that I’m not going to let him get away with much besides choosing a different place under the table (or, licking my hand depending on the circumstances… there are just some places that it’s easier to let him slobber all over my hand versus trying to prevent him from sniffing/licking at every gross thing on the ground… Steve agrees!).

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Montreal in January. Nah, I don’t spoil this dog at all. Except I did make him move to the bottom/other side of the bed because, hey, that’s where I sleep.

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Someone looks comfy… Complete with a towel blanket and everything.

And, while Steve has yet to go on a trip without Murray and me since Murray and I have become buddies, he knows he’s got another puppy-sitter. Although, on our last few hotel stays, Murray has been my roommate—the first time, it was just easier with me rooming by myself and Steve being with two other guys, the second was just for fun, and the third was this past weekend in Quebec City—Gerry had his new guide dog, Brody, too, and though well-behaved, the two dogs get kind of silly…

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Murray crashed out on my hotel bed this past weekend. It took him a bit to decide hie did not, in fact, want the pillow.

By the way, Murray knows me as Small Fry, not Kerri (useful trick: Steve can ask Murray “Where’s Small Fry?” and he’ll come find me)… and he was perfectly happy to overtake Small Fry’s bed this weekend. (That’s what I get for, after learning Steve did not mind puppy going on the bed, opting to share my bed with a 75-pound Black Lab…)

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This, in Toronto, is when he actually chose a good spot and not the middle of the bed. Beggin bacon bribery may have occurred this past weekend when he decided he wanted the whole bed…

I mean, other than that, I don’t mind—he’s a pretty good excuse to spend 5 more minutes laying in bed in the morning, as when I give him any indication I’m awake and moving, Murray seems perfectly content to engage in a brief yoga pose with his front paws to my right and back paws to my left, and then end by resting on top of me…

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Murray sometimes decides that Small Fry is comfier than the bed. This often leads to me texting Steve to inform him that sorry, puppy will not let me get out of bed.

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All in a day’s work, right? If only he actually motivated me to do yoga with him…

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You think you’re going somewhere? You’re silly, Small Fry.  My paw will keep you here.

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That’s my story about my buddy Guide Dog Murray. (Your friends with service dogs, and service dog friends may vary.)

Want to read more about Murray? You can follow him on Twitter, @GuideDogMurray. And, as a thanks for reading all the way to the bottom… Here’s Burger Face (for a period of time around Halloween, Murray responded to “Burger Face”. Silly.)

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The oldish new thing is to go to these events where an artist teaches you how to paint a picture, and drink adult beverages.

Except I don’t drink, so I went to one of these events on Saturday night and learned to paint a thing. It was also a fundraiser so I went and learned to paint a thing for a good cause (or so my cousin Alyssa can be sent away on dance competiton trips. One or the other, or both.)

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We signed in, flipped our canvases around (to claim them), and then waited for the fun to start. Then we flipped our canvases back the right way.

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Note my non-alcoholic $2.50 iced tea beside my canvas there. Also I thought I was totally going to need more red eventually, but nope. Then we had to promise to not say that our thing sucked at any point. Which just meant that my cousin Jenn and I quietly discussed our perceived suck-ness at the break. 😉 (I said perceived suck-ness. It’s subjective, just like art, it’s fiiiine. We did it quietly at break and whatever.)

https://i0.wp.com/farm2.staticflickr.com/1612/25939363420_abb17ecac3.jpg?resize=375%2C500&ssl=1This was not my favourite picture I could have painted, but I guess that just means they’ll sell me on another event, right? This is the artist’s.

I was mildly confident going in, except for I think I’m more confident (and do better, even, possibly) when I can actually self-depreciate a little bit. It’s like, motivating-ish. Self-depreciation, and other related things, were against the “oath” we took before we started painting. Which mostly meant I had to be quiet about it. I am okay with making fun of myself, it does not bother me. There must be research supporting this!

Anyways.

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Phase one, sky. I intended to take a picture every time we were forced to stop for instructions, except—typical—i did not always listen to that instruction.

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Phase two: Grass. Here’s the part where I started hating on my grass. I mean, I was partly more engrossed in painting the sky all pretty than I was listening to the grass tutorial.
I mean, I listened but then I returned to painting sky. Jungle grass is what I ended up with here. So, I started hating on my grass out of earshot of the instructor who would surely tell me it looks fiiiine like Alyssa and my aunt did.

Alyssa and I also pretended we knew things about art before we started. Which, nope not really.

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Phase three: And then there were flowers. Also later on the artist told us that taking a picture would make our paintings look better if we weren’t happy with them. So, I mean, yeah, maybe my grass looks better after having taken a picture of it?  Or that could be that I did a bunch of touching up with black and white and stuff in there.

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Mine, the sample, and the instructional piece. In retrospect (aka 10 minutes after painting the orange in), bigger clouds would have been excellent.

I thought I’d have some good, introspective things to say here when I decided, pre-painting, that I was writing a blog post on this—something self-expression-y or therapeutic or whatever. Like when I went to thermea or when I started creating things on purpose last year. Instead, I found this a bit of a challenge and that I was rather hyperfocused, which in some situations is good, and others it is extremely frustrating and difficult—last night was the latter, I think. Like, I legitimately missed the how to paint the flower instruction (which ended up totally okay) beyond “Start with a V” because I was still working on the grass (I copied Alyssa, it was cool). So, I do think that aspect—which can vary on a day to day basis—might have detracted from the experience a bit. (And maybe I should do my next Paint Nite without my ADHD meds—except I might still hyperfocus anyways. Also I didn’t intend for this to wind up being about ADHD either. It just truly does affect everything.

With that, I’ll end this with an after-the-fact realization that in life, we’re all creating the same thing, but they’re all going to turn out differently because we are who we are. Or something.

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(Photo cred to my aunt, Linda)

That’s the Paint Nite nugget of wisdom. Maybe the “drink creatively” slogan is what leads to the insight—or, at least more creative acceptance ;). (Not that I’m going to start now.) 

 

PS. Yes, I did sign my painting with a Sharpie once I got home.

What? Two posts in a week? [And I won’t make this a goals update ‘cause that is boringpants. Although I haven’t ridden the bike this week—confession.] Since it’s becoming evident I will probably never actually complete VEDA or #hawmc or NaNoWriMo or NaBloPoMo [the last two, I cannot actually stand the names. NaNoWriMo has grown on me a teensy bit but not enough to say I actually don’t hate it] (and, though I will probably try them all again at some point) {bracket},

Untitled

I have to start somewhere, right? Here’s some stuff I wrote on the plane back from Ottawa, fleshed out a bit.
So, let’s talk about Copeland and airplanes.

Imbalance. Unbalance.
Imbalanced. Unbalanced.

Stillness… [while] moving.
Waves. 

I tend to feel most settled in a place where I am unsettled. The preparation for the next adventure is not enough: right now, I’m four weeks back from Montreal and Ottawa, and less than a week back from Toronto.
And despite that, the desire to be in flight again is strong. As much as I want to feel home, I feel unbalanced. Unpredictability, the non-routine of being away, being on the road, feels like home to me. Maybe I can thank ADHD for that, maybe it’s just how I’m wired, maybe it’s the bit of Romani Gypsy in my genes (seriously)–chances are it’s all three.

and it feels like we can’t get out
and it feels like hell

i think i’m safer in an airplane
i think i’m safer [with my lungs full of smoke / if i run through the streets]
i think i’m safer on the jetway
than a world without [hope / peace]

oh, and arms will stretch out when they’ve had enough
oh, when they are tired of holding up us…

–safer in an airplane, copeland 

This imbalance, this unsettled-ness, is a different type of unrest. The only cure is to travel with hundreds of kikometers between your starting porint and your end point, wherever those may be, without touching ground. The flight map that shows you’ve travelled thousands of miles hundreds of feet in the air, all without leaving your seat. The number ticks up. It is in the air that I am settled, a place where many find unrest.

“wandering flushes a glory that fades with arrival.”

–j. a. baker

I put my earphones in and stare out the window. My In the Air playlist and the sky—exactly where I want to be. Sorry to my friends who are my plane neighbours, I am not an in-fight talker. To the strangers who are my plane neighbours, I will engage until those wheels start rolling. After that point, my attention belongs in my head and to the sky.

UntitledThe seatbelt sign is on,
And I am most alive here.
Turbulence,
Matching the imbalance
I feel the other thousands of hours a year when I’m not in the air.
Colours streaking the sky that I can never dream to recreate on paper or even with a camera.
I am alive, free,
myself.

I am these things in a place that so many attribute to chaos. While I’ve engaged in a few discussions about becoming grounded, I think maybe I am most grounded when I am airborne. Embracing chaos. The sky is place that so many worry about the things that can go wrong. That is out of my control, so I might as well remain unfazed.

Cell phone with transmitting modes off. Nothing but me and the moment I’m in and the music (maybe some words flowing from my fingertips, and the cabin service cart). And I need more of these moments, replicated outside of a plane seat. Intentionally.

“cause my mind just can’t stop moving
i think i know why.”

–i’m a sucker for a kind word, copeland

I’m not a resolutionist for the simple reason is that I don’t think resolutions help to build habits. People get off to a great start or a bad start and often that sets the tone for the year—at some point, I read on Forbes.com that only 8% of people accomplish their new years resolutions. And I’d probably definitely be in the 92% that doesn’t. (Look, I’m not being a defeatist here, just honest.)

Simplicity.

Simplicity is the intention here. Akin to the final notes of 2015’s soundtrack, here’s what I’m aiming to accomplish in 2016—even if that takes me the next 362 days to sort-of get right.

1) Write with my hands more. 
I picked up a couple unlined Moleskines on sale at Home Outfitters on Boxing Day. Since January 1, I’ve been trying to write daily, even if just a few lines (or, not lines. I’m hoping to be freed by the totally blank pages. 

Not that I consistently write on lines or anything. Overrated.

2) Read 40 books.
It’s a little more realistic than 75. In progress—new for 2016—Freak the Mighty by Rodman Philbrick and an advance review copy of a book called Millersville by Brendan Detzner.

3) That self-care/mindfulness/exercise/wellness thing.

4) Create.
Even if that’s just colouring, or writing more (even typing). In some fashion, I want to aim to write (non-work-things) for 20 minutes a day—at least. Goes back to the “just start” thing.

5) Engage more on Twitter.
Sometimes it seems like it’s counter productive to have a goal to engage more with people on social media, but you know what? I think I engaged a lot less that year, and realized repeatedly how much I missed it. So, the Twitter part of my heart is getting some focus. 🙂

That’s it.

Keeping it simple—God knows I’ll complicate stuff in other ways. Let’s go.

Back in February, I summarized the 2015 soundtrack so far. In reality, I didn’t add another new song until May—probably because other than travel, March was much a void, and in April I found more work and felt more of a semblance of normalcy—even just saying you have proper work plays into that—and as I’ll get into later, the stories for me happen in transition. I headed to Toronto at the end of April for goalball nationals, my first competitive coaching gig, and then returned in May for Clearing the Air. Then, it was off to Denver

My Disease – A Skylit Drive.

awaken to the eyes of glazed humor
the haze in my somber eyes it burns so cold,
the things you wish you could know

What I thought on those return flights from Toronto and Denver was this: Chronic disease sucks—the community that can arise from it, though, makes it better. If I didn’t have asthma, didn’t candidly share that experience, I’d be a much different person today—for better or worse. And, there’s humour in it that only “sick people” get, and a world that only we understand.

as he enters into the world,
as a ghost
the terror inflicted scrapes your bones
let him hold you close.

[Look… where… over there… fear me]
oh i see what you mean, step too close
see what i see—construct desire
the fine line between disease and what i need

it’s exactly what it seems
the horror i love, the evil that beats inside me:
it’s called my disease.

All of the above: it’s a blessing and a curse. I may have friends and adventures gained from having messed up lungs and other sorts of shenanigans going on in my body, but I still face the reality that everybody with chronic disease does every day. I don’t know what that day will bring, I don’t know what the next hour will bring. Even when my health is stable, there’s still the lurking thought of when will the stability end? It’s not encompassing, but it’s still there. The community of people, the friends I’ve made, makes that tolerable—but even in the good, the amazing, there’s still a kind of evil inside my body that I have to make a commitment everyday to coexist with so that I can continue to own it. A choice so that “evil” does not crawl into my mind and make me more cynical than I already may be somedays, and more importantly, keeps me seeing my circumstance for what it is, rather than what it could be tomorrow. I somehow got a reputation for positivity, and damn it, I’ll keep trying. While everything I chronicle here is the truth, like I said in 2013, there are still “stories I will never tell”, or I will never tell in as much detail as maybe they deserve–there are some stories I’d rather forget—even though I can’t.

The possibility to do good, why the travel opportunities existed to an extent, counterbalances some of that. But it doesn’t make the other stuff suck any less. 
 

Progress – MUTEMATH.

Progress was added to the soundtrack in about July, but really encapsulated April through August well. Work stuff started happening: I got a job with Tennis Manitoba (thanks for the recommendation, Sam!), as well as a more formal respite care provider position

pulling your confidence through
some courage is well overdue
i believe solely in all your promise
why waste a second in doubt
you could be helping out
keeping your head in the clear

I finally felt unstuck for a bit—looking for work is kind of depressing until stuff falls into place. Which can take forever.

[…] every moment of time’s just an answer to find
what you’re here for, what you breathe for
what you wake for, what you bleed for.

Certain things stick with you, no matter what, so every time I hear this song, I think of the above lyric, specifically “[…] just an answer to find […] what you bleed for”, and gently (usually) flash back to the whole situation of most of 2013, and, while maybe I haven’t figured out that whole effing scene, at least I can see how far I’ve come.

everyone’s counting on you
say for yourself what to do
life is a card that you lay down sometimes
to search for the best way of all
is finding the best way to fall
keeping your head in the clear

Sometimes I feel like I don’t know what direction I’m going. I wrote before that I was okay with this—now, I feel like I’m finding the best way to float, not necessarily to fall. Falling means taking risk, at least, means doing something—floating just seems passive. And I’ll admit it: some of the progress has been passive.

every moment of time’s just an answer to find
what you’re here for, what you breathe for
what you wake for, what you bleed for.
what you hope for, what you live for,
what you’re here for, what you breathe for
what you live for,
what you’re here for, what you bleed for
what you live for…

Every minute I’m given is another minute to figure it out; another moment to make a choice to be mindful of even the most passive of things…