#67 PUPPY – CHANGE   January 8, 2024

“lt’s whole wheat,” I said.

“But, it’s sourdough. You made it, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“It’s my favorite,” said Scooter with goldendoodle joy.

“I thought the Ciabatta was your favorite” I said.

“It was.”

“What happened?”

“I’ve changed.”

“And now you want a bite of my whole wheat bread?


“With the cheese on it, please.” 

Scooter has grown fond of Paradiso cheese. It is very firm, this stuff made from North Holland cow’s milk. The salt in it is detectable, but it’s sweet. It isn’t easily described. It requires bite after bite when a serious effort is being made to discover the taste.

“Let me try,” Scooter says with his eyes. His nose points up from where he sits on the floor beside my desk. Cheese toast smells very good. He mutters a plea.

“Lift,” I say.

This is the suggestion he has loved since his baby days. Scooter gets lifted to my desktop where he is one glass pane’s separation from birds at a feeder attached on the other side. One glass pane’s width from surprising Squirrel with a snarl when that small rodent dares jump to the bird feeder. Scooter loves lift.

“No thanks,” he says, bottom firmly planted to the carpet.

“But you love lift,” I say.  

“I’ve changed,” says he.

I coaxed. Basically, I insisted. I lifted Scooter to my desk.

I stopped writing and took a picture. I studied it. Not surprisingly, I noticed that he desperately needs brushing, but what I should have seen is that Scooter has changed. He sports a strong body. He wears seriousness. He questions things. He expresses opinion. He’s capable of worry. He never worried as a pup.

“I’ve changed,” he said. “I’m four-years-and five months old. I’m an adult. You’re an adult, Mom. And if my senses are to be trusted, and yes, they are, then I might remind you that you’ve been an adult for a good long while. You’ve experienced change, a goodly amount of it. How’s that going for you?”

“What does that mean, Scooter?”

“Can I get serious?”

“Please,” I say.

“Change is the constant. It comes in various costumes. Whether or not it’s recognized, no living thing gets to escape it. It settles inside us, outside us, around us, over us, among us, for us, and in spite of us.

“True.”

“Stay with me here, Mom. You have friends fighting illnesses or disease. Change can hurt. Your grandson sent a bouquet. The scent in the room changed, your heart rate changed. Your spirit was lifted. Change can be wonderful.

Last Saturday, just before new acquaintances were to arrive, Dad got distracted. The cereal he was refreshing in the counter oven burned to a crisp. Smoke everywhere. Lots of change: Attitudes. Odor. Plans. Ovens. Me. I slipped under the bed.

“You have two avocado trees growing on the balcony.” Scooter was on a roll. “A freeze is coming. Those trees have grown from seeds to strong saplings. The outside temperature is changing. Will they live? What if they don’t? Will their change change you?

“Well, we’re planning to . . .”

Scooter interrupts. “Marcus Aurelius said that all things take place by change. Did you know him?

“Scooter!”

“He says we should pay attention to change. I say we all need to make friends with it. It is, after all, a constant.”

 “Lift?” I asked.

“No thanks, but I’ll have another bite of that cheese.”