Every Seven Years

In June of 2018, just as Dirt surpassed six months of age, my girlfriend and I were invited to attend a wedding in the Bahamas – for a week. Dirt would need to stay with someone while we were gone.  A regular boarding facility wasn’t an option. Traditional kennels wouldn’t take him because of a working dog's intense exercise requirements.

Two weeks before the trip, tickets purchased and rooms reserved, I still hadn’t found a place for him to stay. It was crunch time, and I needed help.

“What kind of dog is it?” a sweet girl with impeccable reviews on the dog-watching app, Rover, innocently asked within ten seconds of answering the phone.

“He’s a Blue Heeler!” I said proudly.

“A blue what?”

“A Blue Heeler, an Australian Cattle Dog…” An awkward silence filled the conversation.

“Oh! They’re so smart! I’ve always wanted one, but I don’t have the space for any working breeds. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no big deal!” I told her. But I lied. It was a big deal.

When I was scouring the list of Craig for Cow-Dogs, I never thought a babysitter would be something I needed to consider. I assumed people would be jumping at the chance. I assumed wrong.

My mom loves Dirt. “He’s so smart,” she says when Dirt shows her a few of his new tricks. “Make him take a bow, son.” I bend at the waist, Dirt takes a bow, “I just love that!” She says with a smile. At six months old, she saw the cute, rambunctious, fun puppy — she didn’t know he had transformed into a velociraptor.

I did what any good son would do. I called and begged her to please get me out of a pinch. “Oh, I don’t mind,” she told me over the phone, though I sensed the hesitation in her voice. Nonetheless, I was out of options and out of time. I threw Dirt in the truck and drove four hours to Greenville for his first week without me. Dependable.

When we arrived, he ran up to her, barking and yapping like he’d just escaped a North Korean internment camp. Overwhelming excited.

I had a two-page printout with all his “instructions” listed out and organized.  How much food to give him and when, specific commands, etc… forgetting she’d raised human babies and Dirt was a dog. “You sure you don’t mind, momma?” I asked, trying to show some empathy.

“It’s fine, son. Really. It’ll give me a reason to get some extra exercise,” she selflessly responded so I wouldn’t feel bad. “We’ll have a good time, won’t we, Dirt?” So I watched them look at each other as I slipped down the steps and drove back to Charleston.

I called a few times during the week to check on things. I could hear Dirt barking in the background while she would assure me everything was going great and they were having lots of fun. She even offered to drive him to Charleston when we got back. Selfless.

We made the swap, for whatever reason, in the Lowe’s parking lot in Mount Pleasant. When she got out of her car, she had bandaids on her arms, and I could see scratches on her hands. Once again, she didn’t want to make me feel bad, so she made light of the situation and how horrific the drive was. “Well, Dirt does not like riding in the car!” She said, half laughing.

“Mom! Your arms! What happened?” I asked, all while knowing exactly what happened. But again, she let her feelings be secondary to mine.

“Oh, we were just having a good time, that’s all. He’s just a lot of fun and a lot of energy!” Devoted.

Every seven years, Mother’s Day has to share itself with me turning a year older. This is one of those years. That’s thirty-six years of my mother being selfless, dependable, and unwaveringly devoted to placing her children, grandchildren, and granddogs, wants and needs before her own. I didn’t always understand what that truly meant. I do now. Unconditional love.

So for my birthday, I’d just like to celebrate you, Momma. Happy Mother’s Day!

To all the moms who get us out of pinches, make THE painful things in life digestible, and watch over us from above, Happy Mother’s Day!