One of our dogs, Snips, is a border collie-corgi mix, or a borgi, and she is an exuberant soul. When she wags her stumpy tail, her entire body wiggles. She knows she is not supposed to jump up on people but sometimes cannot contain herself. She is eager to assist in any activity at any time — I work from home, and if I get up to get a drink of water, she usually hops up from her pad and follows me into the kitchen to see if she can be involved. She loves our older dog, loves our cat, loves my husband, loves my son, loves me. 

But she probably loves playing fetch more than anything. Every morning, one of us throws the ball for her for about fifteen minutes, and we repeat the routine each evening before dinner. She is always eager to get started, staring from us to the back door until we put on our coats and go outside.

Once we get out the ball, she becomes so immersed she ignores everything else, even our neighbors’ dogs coming to the fence to say “hello.” She is built for this game, too. Though she is long-bodied and short-legged, she is muscular and athletic and boasts quick bursts of speed of which her quarter horse friends would be envious. She often catches the ball mid stride or with spectacular air-borne leaps.

Maybe saying that she “loves” fetch isn’t quite right. A friend of mine once described working dogs like border collies, Australian shepherds, and blue heelers as “dogs that need a job.” Snips definitely fits this bill, and since we live in town and don’t have a herd of cattle in our backyard, we started playing fetch with her as a way to fill the gap.

Watching her, I’ve begun to wonder if it is more than a job. One might use the term “obsession.” Even after an eight-hour-day of hiking during backpacking trips, she’s game — she hunts up sticks and tosses them at as us the minute we take of her pack and continues to do so until we acquiesce. She only really rests after it gets too dark to play, and then only if she has gotten in a solid fetch-session. 

Fetch is the thing that fulfills her like nothing else. Though I risk anthropomorphizing her (more than I already have) by doing so, I think of it as her calling.  Would it be if she had the opportunity to work cattle as she’s bred to do? I’m not sure. But I believe dogs know love and joy, and I believe I see it in her face every time she plops down, panting and grinning, after playing fetch.

I’ve been meditating on passions and callings and jobs of late as I continue to reestablish and reimagine routines that were disrupted when my father died and then during the holidays. I’ve been thinking about how I actually spend my time and how I want to spend it. I am learning from watching Snips play fetch. I wouldn’t enjoy running wind-sprints after a ball in the backyard (though, man, I’d be in great shape if I did), nor would I be fulfilled by doing so. But I am realizing that I am lucky that, like Snips, I know what my calling is. 

I think each of us has something like this, something that draws us. We can’t borrow it from someone else but must find it for ourselves. Even once we do, we then have to insist, as Snips does by trotting to the door every day, that we get to do it regularly. 

This is where I fall short too often — I feel the pull to write, the need to, and I know that if I do, I will feel the same satisfaction Snips does after fetch. But it is easy to think I don’t have time. Unlike my dog, I tell myself, I have to deal with “real life.” She doesn’t have to answer emails, run errands, or file taxes. 

Then I remind myself that Snips only asks for one or two fifteen minute sessions of fetch each day, that fifteen minutes is enough. That, like Snips with a ball, once I get started writing, I don’t want to stop.

One of my favorite “people” is actually my horse, Scout. She is an eight-year-old buckskin, Quarter Horse mare. My dear friend, M., gave her to me as a gift when she was a yearling, right after my beloved gelding, Tucker, died. With lots of guidance from M., I started Scout myself, and I’ve done all of her training since. She is a gentle, generous horse, and she has never bucked and rarely spooks unless a duck flies out from under a bridge. (She is not a fan of birds in general.) We’ve done a fair amount of trail riding around Laramie, Riverton, and Lander, and in the winter, we are lucky to have access to an indoor arena at the barn where I board her. I’ve learned a lot over the last seven years with Scout, most certainly more than she has learned from me. 

When you start and train a horse yourself, you see your own strengths and limitations mirrored back to you every time you handle them. As many a trainer will tell you, horses don’t lie. So, I am proud that Scout stands quietly while being saddled, takes the bit willingly, and is more likely to walk up to a flapping tarp to inspect it than she is to shy away from it. On the other hand, she grows anxious and tense when I ask for a lope in the arena.

She’s heavily “left” handed, meaning she prefers to pick up her left lead any time she lopes. When a horse lopes, their legs on one side will stretch farther forward than on the other, determining the “lead.” When you ride a circle, being on the “correct” lead means the inside front and back leg are the ones leading. If you’re riding down the road and decide to lope for a bit, it doesn’t really matter what lead the horse picks up, but if you’re riding in a circle, being on the wrong one makes the horse less balanced and the ride far rougher. In show competitions, riders are penalized if their horse is on the wrong lead. It is usually easier for a horse to pick up the inside lead, but they don’t always do so.

Scout likes to be on the left lead, even if I’m not riding her and she’s going to the right in the round pen. We’ve worked on this issue for a long time, and I’m afraid the result is that I get too heavy in my hands and overly strong with my legs when I ask her to lope — I pick up on my inside rein too much, cue her too hard with my outside leg, and if she picks up the wrong lead, I’m too fast to gather my reins and slow her down. The result is that she throws herself into a fast lope rather than picking up an easy one. She’s nervous, anticipating the tug at her mouth and the touch of my spur. 

On the other hand, if I am patient, if I am gentle with my cues, if I give her time to settle into the lope and find her own cadence, she calms and softens. As we practice lead departures in this relaxed, easy manner, she begins to gain confidence, and we both build the muscle memory and trust needed to move forward into more advanced maneuvers. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about this lesson from Scout as we enter the new year, with all of the associated pressures to set goals, be productive, and generally improve in all areas of our lives. The most obvious resolution for me is to double-down on my writing, especially after setting aside the revisions of my novel following my father’s death, during the holidays, and while I’m teaching a four-week winter break class at the University of Wyoming. But instead of setting ambitious deadlines and hard targets for word counts and hours spent at my desk, I’m trying to give myself the time and space to listen to characters and the story, to let the novel lead me into the rhythm it requires to move forward. So, perhaps this is my goal for 2024, to be softer and far more patient as I decide what patterns, habits, and aspirations I want to foster. Scout will let me know if I’m getting off track. After all, horses don’t lie.