Once upon a time, someone told me I was a calming presence, that I was soothing and restful to be around. I was very flattered, especially considering the chaotic nature of my inside life. My brain is many things, but it’s not restful.

She was referring to the fact that I’m not especially reactive to people or things when I’m out and about. My responses are measured, and I think about what I’m going to contribute to the conversation and how I’ll to say it. Mostly. It’s always a good day to punch a Nazi. This is also a quality that developed over time. I was far less restful in my twenties.

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I like things easy when it comes to relationships. I don’t like interpersonal conflict. It makes me feel tense, anxious, and under attack, and bad things happen in my non-restful brain when I’m feeling anxious and vulnerable.

I was a bit more energetically explosive and quick to react in years past, but with age comes (a little bit of) wisdom. I’ve learned that I often don’t enjoy the consequences of exploding even if it’s just dealing with the mental cringe of memories. My brain does like to keep those highlights on repeat.

Haste makes waste, so they say, and the momentary joy that comes with free speaking is often overshadowed by my sense of remorse. I’m not my best self when I’m impulsive, and I can be unkind.

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My family would never accuse me of being restful, nor would the longtime connections who are more apt to see the real me. I’m a thoughtful person, in that I spend time thinking about things, but I’m also an object in motion. Objects in motion stay in motion – there’s no dust on me. However, when one lives alone, one can start to believe the advertising. There’s no one around to provide a reality check.

I started thinking perhaps I was Zen and restful. Does feeling a little bit smug about that contradict the Zen? Nor does my embrace of being seen as a source of ease conflict with my desire to be wild and bohemian. I’m human, and I contain multitudes.

I was disabused of my self-flattering delusions about being a slice of cool peace, however, once came dog. 

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A dog is many things. It’s a four-legged, hairy mammal that barks and sheds if one is being pedantic. It’s also love walking. A dog is joy, wrapped in skin, attached to a wagging tail, and a face that grins often. Nothing in this world is ever as glad to see you as your dog. Nothing else in this world will ever find you as perfect.

This is why we put up with the shedding. The frustration hair on clothing pales in the face of such enthusiastic and fervent devotion.

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With German Shepherds like the long-haired-Shepherd-Collie cross I recently adopted, the quantity of hair shed is impressive. Suki is a daily-brushing kind of girl, and I’m thinking about acquiring more stick vacuums as I encounter them at thrift stores. One to collect hair from each room seems about right.

Luckily, grooming is her happy place. Would that was also true of brushing her teeth. So far, she’s not having it.

I’ve been giving vague thought to collecting her hair and using it productively. Making a stuffed dog-sized dog is an option, but what will I do for month two? I could spin the hair into cloth, or make felt, but I’m a lily-of-the-field type: toil not, neither do I spin.

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When there’s no one about you, you pay less attention to the ‘how’ of your life. Now that Suki is here, I’m more aware of it, especially of the aforementioned flitting. She is my constant shadow. She is as I do. But though I’m apparently fine with lurching freneticism for myself, I find I’m loathe to inflict it on the dog.

She’s lying on the floor beside me on her fluffy brown cushion as I type. She’s happy to do nothing for long stretches as long as I’m adjacent or in eyesight. Would that I was finding it as easy. A reputation for being restful and generating ease notwithstanding, what adopting a dog has taught me is that I’m restful like firecrackers.

Too bad Suki gets real-me, and not performance-me. The real me has more flaws, and one’s never so aware of one’s shortcomings as when you gaze into your dog’s eyes.

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Suki is around two, and I adopted her from my local SPCA. The dog who comes home to you after a period of time in rescue care has very specific requirements. No matter how well run, the experience is traumatic for the animals. It would be easier if we all spoke the same language.

The animals in care are scared and confused: everything smells different and wrong, the food is probably different, the people are strange, and everything is loud and bright much of the time, with little in the way of space or freedom.

And then there’s you, another strange person, and your house, another strange place. It will take weeks of quiet and calm for the dog to decompress, rest, ease, and trust. You know you’re a good person and this a good place. All the dog knows for the first bit is that change has happened again.

You don’t speak the same language, and there’s no trust as yet. You’ve no way of truly reassuring them. Only time, consistency, and a positive environment can do that. A new owner that doesn’t pop up every five minutes or so chasing metaphorical squirrels would also be ideal.

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I didn’t know I was the human equivalent of a ping-pong ball. True, I often have multiple things going on at home, and I tend to move from one room to the next repeatedly over the day, but everything gets done by the end. Without someone reflecting my behaviours back to me, however, I gave them no thought.

I didn’t realize how desperately I needed to move until Suki was depending on me not to. I have ants in my pants. Or perhaps I’m a shark? Even when I’m reading, I get up and move about as this idea or that one distracts me.

Suki’s recovery wasn’t a complete cessation of movement. We took short walks around the yard after the first forty-eight hours, and as she felt better, we graduated to around block several times a day.

And still, I chafed at the imaginary bit. I’ve not been forced to sit for more than an hour at a time since I left formal education behind, excepting, of course, the occasional movie or show – though I don’t attend those that often anymore.  I no longer enjoy the sit.

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My problems with sitting and being still live in my brain. When I pause, I have space to start thinking about things. This is often a bad idea. My brain often has bad ideas about the kinds of things it should be thinking.

I’m not as patient as I like to pretend, or as people perceive me to be. You’d think my ability to go from DEFCON five to one in the space of a turn signal that wasn’t would be a clue. I’m used to things being done my way and on my timetable. The dog often has other ideas, what with being an individual on her own. It’s been a long time since I had to compromise.

Patience is more than a virtue when it comes to interacting with others: it’s a necessity. I had patience once upon a time. It’s vital when you have small kids running about. As they aged, however, I needed it less, and it atrophied. Luckily, patience is muscle. I simply need to get back into the habit of exercising it.

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I like the view people have of me as being restful, calming, and a source of ease. Who doesn’t enjoy being admired? Who doesn’t want to be an oasis – the desert-type, not from Manchester. If I suspected that perhaps my admirers were off base in their analyses, well, who am I to contradict or correct?

At least until the self-delusions are challenged by reality. The dog mirror suggests I’ve work to do when it comes to living as others perceive. I’ve work to do when it comes to exercising patience and ease.

I am, however, inspired. Love comes quickly with a dog.

Jim Davies said it well: aspire to be the person your dog thinks you are.

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