Make A Mess

Emergency Vet. Saturday afternoon. The waiting room was quiet when we arrived. One lady sat in the corner holding her only 8-week-old puppy in a blanket and her 3-month-old baby in a carriage on the floor at her feet. She seemed stressed.

“Well, we know who’s winning the cute award today,” I said. These waiting rooms are nothing but anxiety manufacturing plants. I couldn’t help but attempt some light humor.

“I think she broke her leg last night when she was chasing after her older sister,” she told me, swaddling the pup and scratching her head.

“Dang. No fun. At least we know she’s a total badass.” The light humor was a success. She cracked a smile. No need to dig deeper and pry, although I’m always inclined to want to know more.

Ten minutes pass. The entrance door flings open. A woman holding a small dog in her arms is crying and walks straight into the back. Her young daughter, not crying, followed behind her. Tough situation. No clue what happened. It doesn’t matter. It’s impossible not to feel empathetic. The room quiets down for a moment.

Three minutes pass. A lady in her sixties enters with her excited dog on a leash. Some kind of pit mix. The young dog is spinning, wagging her tail, and prancing all over the waiting room. The owner tries calming her.

“Sugarplum! Mind your manners! Sorry, she is just so friendly. Mind your manners!” The owner kept telling her.

When she tried to lick us, Dirt must have given her the left stink eye telling her he wasn’t in the mood.

“She’s a rescue. They found her with a pile of other fur babies, and she loves everybody and everything.”

We can tell, I thought.

Five minutes pass. Dirt and I had a perfect view of the parking lot from the window in front of us. Two doors from a black SUV flung open. A couple gets out. The husband — a turquoise golf shirt, black ball cap and khakis, cradling something in a beach towel — heads directly to the receptionist.

“We've been here for an hour and a half!" He said in a tone to convey his annoyance. “Are we supposed to just wait all day?” They had obviously been waiting in their car.

“Both Doctors are doing their best to see everybody. As soon as a room opens up, we will get you back. It shouldn’t be much longer.”

His wife went straight to the seats with the body language accustomed to being with a husband who gets fired up at waiters, flight attendants and emergency vet receptionists fairly often. He walks over and sits beside her.

Sugarplum immediately tries to jump up and say hello.

“Manners! Sugarplum, manners!” Her owner says with a grin. “I’m sorry! She’s just so excited.”

As soon as Sugarplum greeted the turquoise golf shirt fella, a white curly Chihuahua looking dog popped her head out of the beach towel he was cradling and growled her little head off.

“Rosebudddd,” the man says in a deep, low dragging voice, “Don’t make me take you back out to the car.”

Dirt and I looked at each other, wondering where we could get a Rosebud.

While Rosebud was growling and Sugarplum was sniffing, I almost missed the next member of our Saturday afternoon animal anxiety anonymous meeting.

A lady in a white beanie, large goose down jacket, softly walked to the counter, picked up a bag of some sort, then walked back outside to her car.

I thought nothing of it until a few minutes later when I looked up and out of the window in front of me, saw her sitting in her car with her white beanie pressed against her dash. I couldn’t see her face — I didn’t need to. Her posture said it all. I watched until she picked her head up slightly and wiped a tear.

I reached down and scratched Dirt on the head. Realizing one day, hopefully far from now, I’ll be the one wiping tears.

“Dirt.” The nurse called his name. We headed out of the AAAM (Animal Anxiety Anonymous Meeting) and went back to see the doc.

The dogs in the waiting room got injured because they were making a mess. Sure, now and then, we might break a bone or get a corneal ulcer in our right eye (Dirt), but the price of making a mess is nothing compared to losing our imagination, creativity, and playfulness.

Nothing is healthier for our brains than when we become lost in our imagination. This is the same reason we all have a favorite movie, song, book, etc… because they consume our imagination and overwhelm us with feelings.

The feeling we experience when we engage in the imaginative parts of our brain is where dogs spend their entire lives

What if we lived like dogs? What if we went through life never considering the mess we make? I’m talking about a good mess. The type of mess you make when you build a fort from your mother's dining room table, or the disaster that happens in the kitchen the first time you attempt homemade pasta. The type of mess that never gets a grade or a success or failure and no measure of achieving any result.

What if we stopped trying to do everything so…well? And all we focused on was the feeling we got from trying.

Not one dog at the emergency vet was there because they were trying to hit a quota at work.

Dogs are conduits meant to remind us of our childhood. And not just our childhood, but the feeling we had as children when we didn’t care whether we were good at something. We only cared about enjoying the process. The process which requires us first to learn it’s ok to make a mess.

This week, I challenge you to make a mess. Try to engage in something you find joy in. Pick up a guitar, play the piano or try to use a sewing machine. Pull out everything in the fridge and have a go at being a chef. Try to build something with whatever you have around the house. Try to tell a story of some kind. Take pictures. Jot down a few words.

The only thing I want you to think about is the feeling you're having from trying. Leave the editor, judge, and critic out of it. There are no grades or tests. You can’t win or lose, fail or succeed. There is no measure of good or bad. All you have to do is try.

Afterward, take note of how you feel. It’s the feeling of being brave. It takes bravery to make a mess.

I’d love to hear about the mess you made!