Okay, time for some realities in relation to Wendy. As clearly stated in my last newsletter on the topic Lessons from Labradors, admittedly, she was not perfect. In fact, Wendy actually had some pesky traits and embarrassing habits that included:
*She hated to have her nails clipped. And would act up horribly when at the vet’s for a routine exam and we’d casually mention, “Would you please clip her nails while we’re here?” The unsuspecting tech person would be more than happy to do so…until Wendy saw the nail tool and headed for the nearest chair to hide under. The resulting professional-wrestling-worthy antics by Wendy caused Craig and me to desire hiding under a chair too, in embarrassment.
*She viewed geese poop as a true delicacy. Wendy and I walked pretty much every day at a park behind our backyard—a park that Canadian geese obviously enjoyed too. Large numbers of geese. Who also consumed large amounts of (green) food because the rather sizable green poop was everywhere. Anyone watching us walk would’ve been hooting with laughter as I tip-toed around the piles, Wendy lunged, and then I jerked the leash to keep her from grabbing the treat. And that’s how we traversed the oval at the park: Tip-toe, lunge and jerk. Tip-toe, lunge and jerk. Tip-toe, lunge and jerk.
*She believed any food at her nose level was fair game. Robb’s college roommate would doggie sit while we went to the OSU games, and he was crazy about Wendy—until he naively left his burger and fries on a coffee table to fetch a drink. My memory is that only a few slobbery fries survived that theft. And then there was the time we were hiking and Wendy ran off the path to greet a friendly group of people who were camping. We could hear them making over her until the sentiment suddenly changed to “Nooooo! Dop that right now!” Craig and I were left to profusely apologize for the snatched sandwich that she’d wolfed down in record time.
*She demonstrated ninja-like level moves in the car. I’d bought her a gift that I was excited to put away as her Christmas present: A rather large soft and fuzzy stuffed dog bone toy. I was driving a van then, and I’d hidden the toy in the bottom of a big sack, in the very back floorboard of the van. To my mind and estimation, it was clearly way out of Wendy’s reach—and how would she even know it was there? The van had captain’s seats in the second row, and Wendy generally sat in the one right behind the driver’s seat. We hadn’t even exited the parking lot of the store when I glanced up at the rearview mirror….and spied Wendy sitting there with her head held high, proudly sporting the toy in her mouth. To this day, I have NO earthly explanation how she got to that toy…
Wendy had various other annoying habits, like being obsessed with chasing any pikas we encountered when hiking in the mountains (paying absolutely no attention to our repeated calls to “COME, WENDY!”), and she could over-react about anything new spotted in the backyard—like the neighbor’s huge beach ball that had blown into the trees behind our home. Staying a safe several yards away from the frightening intruder, Wendy went into full attack mode, hackles raised, legs wide apart, barking furiously. To protect us all, I surmised. From a beach ball.
But all those things were eclipsed by a talent that no other dog we’ve had has ever possessed, even in a minuscule imitation: Wendy smiled. Honestly—she truly did. When we’d come home from being away for a while, she’d greet us, being so overcome in her joy to see us that she’d sit down, raise her nose slightly…and smile. Both sides of that wide mouth of jowls would lift into a full-fledged smile to show her joy that her family was home! Unfortunately, that was way before cameras were on our phones, and I never did manage to catch that sweet smile on film. But I sure can still picture it, and how it made me feel to see sweet Wendy grinning at us!
Leaders, there’s a lesson in here, I promise you—as protracted as this might seem. But here’s the takeaway: Craig and I have learned that to survive as a leader of anything, you need to take those multitudes of frustrations and annoyances and irritations and, if possible, somehow find the humor in them. A good number are most likely not going to go away, and allowing them to continually eat at you will be like “being nibbled to death by a duck.” Turning them into something to laugh at, however, will be better for you physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually. A giggle is good, but a sizable belly laugh? That’s pure gold. And then? Then you find joy in something as simple as an unexpected quick hug from a child. God’s glorious work in a brilliant sunset. The taste of a hot fudge sundae on a hot August afternoon. A beloved dog who greets you with tail-wagging wiggles—or a jowly smile. Sometimes joy needs to be mined, and sometimes it only needs to be noticed.
List those aggravations. Find the laughter. Mine or notice the joy. You got this.