Jan. 1, 2025:
I brought in the new year with a blind dog. She was seated beside me, wagging her butt. I think she could feel the energy in the air.
Everyone else in my house was asleep because they are — in the literary sense — massive party poopers. Thus, I was alone in the den except for Marigold, the blind coonhound.
Marigold had one eye removed. The other eye is dead. She lives in darkness. She moves by rote. When I turned on the TV, I could see her stepping carefully through the room, looking for me. Using her nose to feel the edge of the wall.
“Here I am,” I said.
I’m used to alerting Marigold to where I am. We’re all used to acting as her Seeing Eye Humans.
Marigold crawled upon the sofa beside me as I watched the TV-people with weird hairdos perform a countdown.
Times Square was littered with thousands of giddy people who you could have blindfolded with strips of dental floss.
And when the ball dropped, everyone on the screen cheered. My phone started blowing up with texts from loved ones.
But in that moment, it was just me and Mary.
“Happy New Year,” I whispered her.
Her tail began smacking the sofa, making a gentle “Thwat!” noise.
Then, she used her nose to trace the contours of my face.
Marigold will use her muzzle to feel the shape of your mouth, to see what your lips are doing. At first we didn’t know why she did this. Then we realized that Marigold was feeling our faces to see whether we were smiling.
The way we figured this out was, whenever she felt us smiling, her tail would wag. Whereas, if our mouths were slack, if we were not smiling, she would not move her tail.
“I’m smiling, Mary,” I said to her.
She moved her nose to feel my tightened cheek muscles, just to be sure I wasn’t lying. I could feel her sweet little hound nose on my skin.
Thwat! Thwat!
And I smiled as I felt the old year slipping away. Like grime on your skin, rinsed off in the shower. I could feel the old year, the old me, the old garbage that follows me, the old way of thinking, the oldness of my own idiocy, washing away.
Today is the first day of the rest of my life. This means I have a chance to find meaning. I have a chance to tell my friends and family how much I truly love them.
I have a chance to make the act of living more important than the act of earning one. I have a chance to make memories with my wife. I have a chance to make space for new, unexpected friends who will alter the course of my existence.
But most of all, I have a chance to make Marigold’s tail wag harder.
January 3, 2025:
I
t’s the New Year and, judging by people’s resolutions, they think they’re supposed to be doing all sorts of impressive things like losing weight, saving more money, training for marathons, etc.
Well, I’m making some changes this year, too. Only I’m making little changes. Big changes never last for me. It’s little ones that stick. So I’m going to start by making my bed every morning.
When I was a kid, my mother believed, firmly, that making the bed set a positive tone for each day. I firmly believed that. So each morning I let my mother make my bed.
But now that I’m older, I’ve decided to make our bed every morning.
Another change I’m making: I’m going to play with my phone less. Phones are time-suckers. So I’m not going to play on my phone. Instead, I’m going to spend quality time playing on my wife’s phone.
I’m going to eat more bacon. Life is too short to deprive oneself of bacon. A woman named Susannah Mushatt Jones of Brooklyn, New York, lived until age 116. She was skinny and healthy and she ate a serving of bacon every day. But frankly, I don’t want to live to 116, so I will also eat queso dip to offset things.
I’m going to give to homeless people more often. Every time I drive past a homeless guy I think to myself, “He’s just looking for drugs.” But my conscience knows better. And addicts need lunch too.
I’m going to run some 5Ks or 10Ks, for good causes. I’m going to do this because I enjoy running, because I like meeting people, and above all, because there is often free beer at the finish line.
I’m going to have more fun, and not apologize for it. More fishing trips. More camping trips. And I’m finally going to get around to making that honey-do list. In fact, I’m going to write the list right now, so my wife can get started.
I’m going to laugh more. And if I can’t laugh, I’m going to make someone else laugh. And if I can’t make someone laugh, I’m going to drink beer.
More pizza. More pasta. More salad. I’m going to make an effort to enjoy tiny moments in my life. Not just the big ones. I mean the happenings that I never pay attention to. The taste of chocolate. The smell of summer rain. Colonoscopies.
I’m going to tell people I love them. Not just family and friends, but anyone who crosses my path. I’m going to use these words often. “I love you, I love you. I love you,” I’ll go around saying.
I’m going to say yes more than I say no. I’m going to worry less. And whenever I catch myself worrying, I’m not going to worry about it.
And if I can’t do any of the above because I’m too uncommitted, too undisciplined, or just flat lazy. I’m not going to be disappointed in myself. I’m going to eat some bacon and congratulate myself.
Because at least I made the bed this morning.
