Murphy's House

Murphy's House

Murphy the Dog didn’t simply like people; she seemed to collect them. More than any dog I’ve ever known, Murphy was the canine equivalent of a people-person, although even that feels like an understatement. She had a way of drawing in even the most dog-averse individuals, although she was rarely content to leave those encounters entirely up to chance. She was always looking for a way to come a little closer, get someone’s attention, or convince a neighbor to come over and say hello.

Murphy had many favorite spots in our yard, but the one she liked best was up front. Sitting as close to the curb as our invisible fence would allow, she had a prime view of everything happening in the neighborhood, and more importantly, everyone who might be walking toward her. You could almost tell how far away someone was by watching Murphy’s tail. When she first spotted a neighbor coming down the sidewalk, her long, whip-like tail would start with a slow wag. As the person got closer, the wag would accelerate until it crescendoed into her distinctive full-body wiggle. Usually, the wiggle was accompanied by a high-pitched whine that became increasingly desperate as the person approached. Murphy was not subtle. She wanted you to come over and pet her, and she wanted you to know it.

As a couple of introverts ourselves, Andrew and I have been more than happy to let Murphy serve as the extroverted member of our family from the start. We moved into our new construction home back in the fall of 2019 and adopted Murphy shortly after. It didn’t take long for us to realize that many of our neighbors knew Murphy before they knew us. When Andrew and I would meet someone new and explain where we lived, we would often hear some version of, “Oh, you mean the house with the white dog that sits at the edge of the lawn?” We named our home Wi-Fi network “Murphy’s House,” because apparently our dog had established a stronger neighborhood identity than either of the humans actually paying the mortgage. At the time, it was mostly a joke. Looking back, I’m not sure we could have picked a better name.

Murphy keeping an eye on the neighborhood

“Murphy’s House” had only been ours for two weeks when Murphy entered the picture. At the time, she wasn’t Murphy at all. She was an eight-month-old shelter dog named Honey who Andrew had found online one Saturday night. When he showed me the posting, I felt pulled to get to her as quickly as possible. On paper, she checked all our initial boxes: female, medium-sized, and less than a year old.

I drove about 45 minutes on Sunday morning to arrive just as they were unlocking the doors to the shelter, speed-walking behind a family that thankfully made a right turn toward the cat wing. The staff showed me to Honey’s kennel and then let me take her outside for a walk on the lawn. I immediately started sending Andrew pictures and videos of the dog I was already fairly sure I wanted to bring home. She may have been a little jumpier than I let on in those pictures and videos, but I put a hold on her anyway.

Andrew came back to the shelter with me later that night. Before we went, he only had one question for me: “Is she sweet?” “Yes. Very sweet,” I replied. And that is all it took. Andrew met Honey for himself that night and fell in love with her too. We named her Murphy, a name that had long been at the top of our running list of future dog names after a character in one of our favorite films, Interstellar. Not long after, we discovered there was also a Murphy Lake tucked inside the regional park just three miles east of our new house. At the time, it seemed like a funny coincidence. Murphy joined Andrew and me as a couple, but she turned us into a family of three.

Before she was Murphy, she was Honey.

We came into dog ownership with some baseline expectations. For example, Murphy was absolutely not going to sleep in our bed. Andrew was a light sleeper and worried about having a dog moving around next to him all night. I was less concerned about sleep and more concerned about the brand-new white bedding we had just bought and the dog hair and dirty paws that would inevitably come with allowing a dog into it. For the first month of Murphy ownership, we constructed ridiculous barricades out of large pieces of furniture around our bed each night to keep her out. Murphy would sleep on the other side, close to us, but not quite as close as she wanted to be.

This worked until one afternoon when I was at work and Andrew was taking a nap. Murphy decided she had waited long enough. Somehow, she managed to maneuver her way around our carefully constructed defenses and army-crawl into bed next to him. When I came home and questioned Andrew about why the dog was suddenly in our bed, he just shrugged and said, “How could I not let her up? She army-crawled into my heart.” And just like that, a rule we had been committed enough to enforce with actual furniture lasted approximately one month.

From then on, Murphy slept in our bed, and eventually it became hard to imagine her anywhere else. Over the years, she settled almost exclusively on my side, pressed against my body like a life-sized stuffed animal or stretched across the bottom of the bed with her head resting on my feet. Somewhere along the way, I stopped caring quite so much about keeping our white bedding white. Murphy’s white hair worked its way into every blanket, sheet, and pillowcase we owned, and I would spend the next several years complaining about it while simultaneously making room for her beside me every night.

Murphy laying in her favorite spot on my side of the bed

Sleeping pressed against us apparently wasn’t enough physical closeness for Murphy. From what started as an alternative to jumping, she developed a unique habit of approaching people from behind and gently pushing her nose through the space between their legs until she had worked her entire body underneath them. Family members and visitors alike learned to be prepared for Murphy to suddenly appear beneath them, standing perfectly content between their legs as if that were an entirely normal place for a dog to be.

Murphy learned all the normal dog tricks—sit, lay down, stay, roll over—but my favorite was appropriately one that gave her an excuse to get even closer to us. We called it “hug.” I would kneel in front of her and tap my shoulders, and Murphy would carefully put one paw up, then the other, before shimmying herself forward until both of her front legs were draped across my back.

Murphy’s tendency to form attachments wasn’t limited to people. She had one particularly beloved stuffed animal we called Monkey. I had originally bought Monkey for Andrew during a college spring break trip to Los Angeles with my softball team, but once Murphy came along, ownership transferred. She carried Monkey around the house like her baby, brought it to bed, and always seemed to know exactly where it was when we told her, “Go find your monkey.”

One night, Murphy curled up next to Monkey just as she had countless times before. There was nothing particularly remarkable about that night at the time, but it would turn out to be the last one that Andrew, Murphy and I spent as a family of three. My water broke that night, and a few hours later, Cooper was born.

A Murphy hug, and her beloved Monkey

From there, Murphy’s House started to get a little more crowded. Murphy was beside me through pregnancies and maternity leaves with both Cooper and Cole, and then through every stage that followed. As the boys learned to talk, “Murphy” became “Mur-see,” her name apparently just difficult enough for two new talkers to give it their own interpretation. As babies, their affection often meant little bodies sprawled across hers. As toddlers, it meant arms wrapped tightly around her neck and enthusiastic kisses that probably involved more force and slobber than she would have preferred. Murphy patiently accepted all of it and usually returned those kisses with plenty of her own. Our boys have never known our family without Murphy in it, and as they grew, their routines simply became hers too.

Murphy loved her role as a big sister

For years, Murphy was ready for bed significantly earlier than Andrew and I were. She would stand at the bottom of the stairs and turn around to stare at us, making it very clear that she thought we should all be heading upstairs. If we ignored her long enough, she would eventually go without us, but she would only tolerate our absence for so long. Before long, she would reappear halfway down the stairs, sitting in the most awkward position imaginable—her butt on one step, front paws on the step below and shoulders hunched forward—staring at us with those giant brown eyes as if to ask what exactly was taking us so long.

Once the boys developed their own bedtime routines, Murphy incorporated those into hers too. She would lie in the upstairs loft just outside their bathroom and bedrooms in what we called her “settle” position, her body stretched straight as an arrow with her head resting on the floor between her front paws. She waited there patiently while teeth were brushed, pajamas were put on, books were read and goodnights were said. As soon as their bedroom door closed, Murphy knew what came next and headed straight for our bed—my side, obviously.

Murphy's nightly bedtime reminder pose

Over the years, those routines became the rhythm of our house, and Murphy provided much of its soundtrack. Her toenails clicked across the wood floors as she trailed behind us after we walked in the door from work, earning her the nickname “Miss Click-y-toes.” After doing her business outside, we would hear the light scratching and tapping of her paw against the front door, letting us know she was ready to come back inside. At bedtime, there was the unmistakable rhythmic cadence of her bounding up the stairs, usually ahead of the rest of us. And then, of course, there was the high-pitched whine she used whenever she felt particularly strongly that we should be paying attention to her.

My favorite sound may have been the little grumble Murphy made once she had finally settled somewhere near us. We’d hear it at bedtime, when she would curl herself into her signature donut shape beside us in bed. She would also grumble when we made our way into the living room after dinner for family time. Murphy would often choose to lie right in front of the couch by our feet. Once she had found just the right spot, she would let out that little sound somewhere between a grunt and a sigh, her entire body relaxing as if to announce she had no plans to move again anytime soon.

Murphy’s presence around the house wasn't limited to its soundtrack. Her white hair has become so thoroughly embedded in the fabrics and fibers of our home that I’m convinced we will still be finding it years from now. It is woven deep into the carpet. It somehow survives a full cycle through the washing machine still attached to our clothes. It collects with the dust on the tops of tables and chairs we don’t dust as often as we should. It is especially plentiful along the front edge of our living room couch, where Murphy frequently rubbed her entire body back and forth when one of us isn’t fast enough to give her a scratch. Over the past seven years, she has worked an impressive amount of white hair into the blue fabric.

*   *   *   *   *

Murphy in her element: outside on a perfect fall day

We only had ten days from first noticing Murphy’s health declining to her final breath, which was much faster than we were prepared for. During that stretch of days, I sent a message to our family, friends, and closest neighbors letting them know that if they saw her outside, they could come over and give her some gentle love and say goodbye. Over the next few days, our community made its way into our yard and our home to see Murphy one more time. She was clearly exhausted, but still wagged her long tail as people approached. There were a lot of tears shed and stories shared about the neighborhood dog they had gotten to know and love as their own. For years, Murphy had sat at the edge of that lawn trying to convince people to come to her. In her final days, they did just that. 

The Saturday that we said goodbye was one of those perfect fall days Murphy loved. The sun was shining, bouncing off the vibrant tips of the leaves that were just starting to change color. A crisp breeze blew through the air, the kind that made you want to cuddle up under a blanket—unless, of course, you had fur. On days like that, Murphy loved nothing more than spending the entire day outside. She would sit in the grass watching the world around her, nose lifted just enough to catch the breeze. Eventually, she’d stretch out in her sunny spot for hours, her face settling into the expression we always described as her smile.

The lawn is empty today, and inside, the house is quieter than I have ever known it. There is no clicking of toenails across the wood floor behind us, no scratching at the door to come back inside, no familiar cadence of Murphy bounding up the stairs at bedtime. It’s amazing how quiet a house can suddenly seem when the sounds you barely noticed for years are gone.

There is a void in Murphy’s House now that won’t ever truly go away, but over time, the house will become full again. There will still be kids running in and out of these doors, neighbors stopping in the yard to visit, family gathered around the table, and ordinary nights spent together in the living room. Cooper and Cole will continue to grow up here. Life will keep filling the rooms around the space Murphy left behind.

A few months before Murphy died, the five of us took what would turn out to be our last family walk together. It was Cole’s idea to go to what the boys call the “Murphy Woods,” the trails surrounding Murphy Lake near our house. Andrew and the boys led the way, collecting cool rocks along the trail and trying to decide which tree was the tallest. I trailed behind holding Murphy’s purple leash while she darted from one side of the trail to the other, stopping constantly to investigate new smells along the way. After weeks of sweltering summer temperatures, it was finally a cooler day, and Murphy spent the whole walk smiling as she explored alongside her people.

When Murphy’s ashes come home, we’ll take some of them back to the Murphy Woods and walk those same trails again, scattering them in the spaces surrounding the lake that shares her name. The rest will find their place at home, along the edge of the pond behind Murphy’s House.

Murphy’s Rainbow Bridge, over our backyard the evening we said goodbye

Perfect Timing

This isn't your typical quarantine pregnancy announcement...

    If you keep reading, you won't find any of that “Oh, we’ve been stuck at home with nothing else to do” business. In fact, Andrew and I have been essential workers throughout the pandemic, and I even transferred Target stores in the midst of all this... so there definitely has been no down time for us. But for as much as we didn’t plan for this news to be announced in the midst of a pandemic, it’s been the biggest test in patience, faith, and emotional endurance either of us have faced in our lives. And although our story is nowhere near complete, it is a story that has shaped us in numerous ways and prepared us for what is to come, and it's time that this story was shared with you.

Murphy the Dog (and future big sister)

Quote for Thought

Having trouble sleeping this evening. Not sure what it is that keeps running through my brain, but whatever it is, it is definitely making its presence known.

I was browsing Facebook when I came across a blog post that really struck a chord with me. The content was not only personally relevant, but the quote at the end was especially inspiring. I honestly am not sure of the origin or author, but I share it here in the hopes that it makes you think about your own self worth.

Remember: YOU MATTER. YOU ARE LOVED. 

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?' Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

Struggle Bus

I haven't been feeling much like myself lately.

As I'm sure others can relate, I strive to be great in everything I do. I suffer from a chronic case of overly high expectations for myself, and unfortunately I haven't been living up to them in my mind recently. These feelings of inadequacy that are creeping up make it easy for me to feel victimized by my own mind; in fact, the more I think about life, the more instances surface where I clearly fell short of my goals. I try not to be one to complain, but there are small parts of me that just feel defeated by the mental trap I've locked myself into.

Fortunately, I've been in this situation before, and I know the right reaction is to rise above. Here is the history of what I consider one of my greatest accomplishments:

My love for softball began at the age of six when I played my first year of little League baseball with my brother and other local boys. Eventually I transitioned to slow pitch softball in middle school (with girls, thank goodness), but the pace of the game felt too relaxed for me; it was fun, but I wanted to challenge myself to do something tougher. As you can see, my high expectations for myself started at a very young age.

I started playing fastpitch softball during my first year of high school, but even with my baseball background and passion for the game, I was not a stand out on the Champlin Park team by any means. Sure, I ended up being a three-time Varsity letter-winner, but my coach didn't have the confidence in me to make me a starter, especially not when there was a group of girls one year younger who had played together since they were five and were better than I could ever hope to be. It got more and more aggravating to sit on the bench while my mom would come every game to watch me "play", which would sometimes consist of a pinch-running gig if I was lucky. Eventually I got to play for the last half of my senior year after a teammate suffered a season-ending injury. Even though it hurt to be the second choice (which was understandable because I still wasn't great), I made the most of that season by working hard, having fun, and even making a few awesome plays. 

In all honesty though, it is still embarrassing for me to say that I received three Varsity letters in a sport from one of the largest high schools in the state when my career high school batting average was .051. There were definitely times when I wondered what I was doing spending day after day practicing in the gym, seeing no results, and knowing that what I did wouldn't really make a difference. Feeling like I wasn't living up to my expectations, I began to contemplate putting an end to playing the game I loved.

When I got to St. Olaf, I really wasn't planning on playing softball. A spot on a Division III athletics team seemed like the wrong place for someone who performed so poorly in high school. Nevertheless, my love for the game and the new environment drove me to at least give it a try, and after walking on to the first fall practice of the season, I felt hopeful about having a place on the team. Luckily, the team was in a rebuilding year: the roster was very small, and as I was one of only three outfielders to fill three spots, the odds were in my favor. I started every game except one during my first year, and even though I still knew that I wasn't the best one on the team, I also knew that I had nothing to lose. I worked extremely hard, sought feedback from my coach and teammates, and had fun with girls who had as much passion for the game as I did. My batting average still left much to be desired at .159, but I celebrated that it was better than I had done in high school, it wasn't the worst on the team, and (by some miracle) it included the only home run I've ever hit in my career. I believed in myself again, and I was proud of the improvements I had made.

My sophomore and junior year began with a bit of déjà vu from high school. I was beat out of my outfield spot by a group of gals one year younger than me who, admittedly, were better all-around players than I was, and my feelings of inadequacy returned. Sophomore year, I started in only six of forty games (mostly the ones that didn't matter, like preseason and non-conference match ups) and junior year wasn't much better, starting in twelve games and appearing in only twenty . During those cold spring seasons, my roles were mostly limited to bench warmer (literally, the average temperature those Aprils was around forty degrees), cheerleader, pinch runner, and pinch hitter. It would have been very easy to quit at that point as some other girls from the team had done, and I'll admit that the thought crossed my mind. Why should I spend three hours a day at practices for a team that I sit on the bench for, my friends asked, when there were other things that seemed to be a better use of my time. Logically, my friends' advice made sense, but I decided that I was not going to stop working hard only to let myself down; I still had high expectations for myself, and I knew that I would have my shot to make a difference for the team and my hard work would pay off.

I distinctly remember two pinch hit at bats during sophomore and junior year that allowed me to regain the respect of my teammates and my coach as a competitor on the team. On April 15, 2010, I was called upon to pinch hit in the bottom of the sixth inning with two outs against MIAC rival Macalaster. Going into the inning, the Oles were down 5-2, but had cut the lead down to one by the time I came up to the plate. Macalaster had just switched pitchers in an effort to throw off the Oles' rally, and I would be the first one to face her. With runners on first and second and after fouling off nearly every pitch of the at bat , I popped a long fly ball into the far left field corner, allowing both runners to score for a one run lead and leaving me with a stand-up double, grinning from ear to ear on second base. Unfortunately in the top of the seventh, Macalester, down to their last out, hit a three run homerun that sealed the game for them. Nevertheless, seeing my name on the athletics page recap as the almost-hero left me feeling as good as if we had pulled it out in the end.

The second of my pinch-hit "heroics" came on a rainy 38 degree day on April 21, 2011. The Oles had travelled to Augsburg College, and my brother, Eric, came to watch me play for the first time in my fastpitch career. Although I didn't start either game of the double header and spent most of my time trying to stay warm under my four layers of clothes, I was determined to give my brother a reason to watch me play. I finally got my chance in the top of the ninth inning of the second game, both teams scoreless as they had been all game. Cold, wet, hungry, and tired, the scoreless game had gone into extra innings, and the Oles were desperate to put an end to it while finishing the game on top. With one out and the bases loaded, my coach called me to pinch hit, and I knew it was my chance to seal our fate. I was patient, having watched the two batters before me get free passes to first base, but when I saw the beautiful pitch cross the middle of the plate, I swung hard and launched a line drive to left center field for a bases clearing double. Unlike the end of the Macalester game a year earlier, we held on to win, and I truly left feeling like the hero of the game. To sweeten the moment, Eric had captured the heroics on camera.

Those two moments were critical in giving me the confidence to keep trying and keep working hard during those two years in the middle of my college career. My hard work despite the heartache and embarrassment of not playing much set me up for a captainship of the Oles as a senior, where I was a solid contributor to the team. During my senior year, I led by example, ending with the third highest batting average on the team at .293 and the only consistent starter with a 1.000 fielding percentage through 32 games. It was the greatest feeling knowing that after so many years, my hard work led me to that point of being able to be an example for my teammates rather than the one who brought the team down. I was no longer the girl who only got to play when the coach had no better option as a second choice; instead, I was a difference maker for the team, and I was having fun while doing it. I was exceeding the expectations I had set for myself, which made me feel best of all.

Playing softball for four years at St. Olaf is one of my greatest accomplishments. It reminds me that even through the tough times when things aren't fair or even ideal, I have the strength and willpower to get through any challenge. My time spent as an athlete built a lasting endurance inside me that can withstand adversity and launch me into success if I just put my mind to it.

I reflect now on how I have been feeling as of late, and all I can think of is how the little girl with a love for softball inside of me rose above and conquered all that she set out to do. She was a warrior, and now I have to be one, too. Just like my journey through my softball career, success won't necessarily come quickly to me, but through hard work, determination, and passion, I have no doubt that I will conquer this slump in order to create another great accomplishment that I will be proud of for years to come.

New Beginnings!

I'll begin by stating the obvious: it's been a while since I've sat down to compose.

I know it's not a great excuse, but my mind has been incredibly busy focusing on work for the past six months. I hate to be that kind of person that pours themselves into their career and doesn't take time for themselves - and that's really not the case since I feel like I have had plenty of me-time - but that's what I've turned into. Scary. And what's even more frightening is this: I love my job.

If you'd asked me two years ago what I'd be doing now, working in retail would have been the last thing I would have imagined. I wanted to teach, to be a role model, to mold impressionable minds, to make lasting impressions. Real life changing stuff, you know? What's heartbreaking is that no matter how strong my desire for teaching was, I felt that I had no control in getting myself into my dream career. Every application I sent was accompanied by the same sense of hope, that maybe this time would be the time, but the due dates for the applications would come and go and the responses were always the same: "Thank you for your interest in working in the ______ School District. We were pleased to have received such an impressive pool of applicants. After a thorough interview and selection process, we have made our hiring decision and the position has been filled." After years of feeling special, like I was someone who could really make a difference, my opinion of myself devolved into feeling as generic as the numerous rejection emails that filled my inbox.

I don't think I'm wrong in saying that teaching is one of the most admirable careers a person could choose. Everyone has come into contact with teachers throughout their lives, and I'd be hard pressed to find someone who, even years after graduating, could not name a teacher that made an impact on them personally. Heck, the reason many young twenty-somethings decide to become teachers is directly due to the fond memories they have of their favorite teacher growing up. Great teachers are the perfect blend of patience, passion, and inspiration, among other intangible qualities. During college, I worked tirelessly on that personality concoction through classes and field experiences, and I began to find that teaching ran naturally through my blood and shone through my soul. Someday I would be the one that students remembered by name, the one that gave them the tough-love and advice that they needed in order to get into college. Yeah, someday...

After I spent longer than the appropriate amount of time wallowing in the fact that I still made an hourly wage as a retail manager with my college degree, I finally realized something that has ultimately changed me for the better. The title of my position and my job description does not define who I am; rather, the traits of my personality that I allow to emerge through my actions and words makes me memorable no matter what profession I am in. Once I embraced my true self (and not the self that those rejection letters made me think I was), I was unstoppably happy. That happiness allowed me to keep an open mind to new possibilities, ultimately leading me to pursue and attain the new position that I am about to take starting Monday as I climb the retail management ladder one rung higher.

No one will argue that working in retail takes patience, but there are some who will surely question whether retail jobs include passion and inspiration. After all, the business world is cold cut and hard, focused solely on constant company improvements and the almighty dollar. Am I really going to go to work at Target and feel passionate about selling accessories for electronics? No. Will my interactions with guests leave myself and the guests inspired to make drastic changes in their lives? Of course not. Selling accessories is not like analyzing a piece of English literature, and guests are not people that I work with day in and day out in a confined classroom space. But during my eight years at my (now) old Target store, I have become intensely close to my coworkers in a way that I could never be with students. I have passion for working with amazing people and taking partnerships with those who I also call my friends. And for my electronics team, my business goals were always given through messages tied to the greater good, and for that I was called "inspirational", the greatest compliment I could think to receive.

I'm starting a new job on Monday, and although it will not be in a classroom like I may have thought two years ago, my attitude is bright about what I'm getting myself into. I love my job because I love that I can be my true self, full of patience, passion, and (when I'm lucky) a bit of inspiration. :)

Long Hair, Don't Care

            This essay was started during my senior year of college, but it remained unfinished until I rediscovered it in my old files. It is not one of my favorites, and I feel like the message comes across too bluntly at the end, but sometimes in life we need a lesson to smack us right across the face in order to truly understand it. Finishing this essay was the smack in the face I needed. For me, a perfectionist and planner, I know one of my opportunities is to relinquish control and allow life to just happen. Ultimately, I know that God is in control, so there should be no other choice but to take each day as it comes, live it to the fullest, and be satisfied with the result. Hopefully the connection between my long hair and my decision to let life happen is clear to you. Enjoy!

Long Hair, Don't Care

by Kayla Knutson

            I was a chromosome shy from being a Dustin.

When I arrived as a girl, my mom must have thought she was delirious from the drugs. She spent her whole forty-one week pregnancy convinced that her second child was going to be a little brother to Eric. To be fair, she had plenty of opportunities to gain gender confirmation from the doctor visits, but she insisted on keeping that information a secret until I was born. Even after the doctors cleaned me off and brought me back to her wrapped in a soft pink blanket, my mom couldn’t believe her eyes. She cried. I was the little girl she had always dreamed of. In her mind, I was already playing with her ancient collection of Barbie dolls complete with outfits from the 70s and missing limbs, painting my tiny finger and toe nails hot pink, and twirling around in fancy skirts fresh off the sewing machine.

I was her little girl.

And I was pretty much bald. In a vain attempt to proclaim my gender, the doctors slapped a little bow on the side of my head before allowing me to go home from the hospital. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much that my mom could do with my hair for the first sixteen months of my existence – bows or headbands made feigned attempts at holding back my nonexistent strands while blatantly showcasing my femininity. Alas, even the hair accessories and matching pink and purple outfits did not keep onlookers from telling my mom what a cute little boy she had.

            When my hair finally decided to grow, it grew like bamboo shoots. Thick ash blonde curls sprouted from my follicles like fertilized grass. My hair was a combination of my dad’s sun-streaked brown waves and my mother’s dark ringlets – a perfect genetic mix. Recognizing the beauty of the luscious locks that now adorned the head of their once hairless daughter, my parents taught me the importance of hair care at an early age. My mom carefully washed my hair during my baths; my dad told me it would grow faster if I ate all the crusts on my jelly sandwiches. I still don’t know if his words were just a ploy for me to consume the bread edges, but since he had such nice hair, I figured he must be telling the truth and chose to buy in.

By the time I entered kindergarten, my hair had passed my waist. Among my peers with buzz cuts and bobs, I was proud that I had the longest hair of anyone in the class. My long hair did get in the way sometimes, but I made the necessary adaptations intrinsically. I remember needing to gather it around the middle in my small fists when I wanted to drink from the water fountain and pull it out from underneath my bottom when I wanted to use the slide at recess. After one time allowing the ends of my hair to dip in the toilet bowl, I learned to tuck my hair in the back of my shirt until I was a safe distance away from the seat.

            Growing up in the 90s meant that there were many style options and accessories for little girls with long hair: pigtails, French braids, large and small bows, alligator clips, bandannas, barrettes, butterfly clips, and of course the classic ponytail bound by a neon scrunchie. Being the middle child of two brothers, my accessory of choice was usually a baseball cap or nothing at all. In my opinion, accessories only confined my hair from reaching its maximum playtime potential. I loved the free feeling of creating my own wind as I ran around the backyard. My curls would trail behind me, turning me into a superhero with a cape. On the swings, my locks were wings that gave me extra distance as I jumped at the peak. When I got tired and laid underneath the birch tree, I would wrap myself up in a blanket of my hair and curl up in a ball. After a full night of playing, I would come back inside at dusk with dirt caked knees and knotted hair beneath my Little League cap. Bath time.

The half hour right after my evening bath was a special time of night with my mom. Freshly washed and returned to the proper level of cleanliness for a young girl, I would sit on the floor in front of my mom embraced by the curve of her legs around me while she stroked the length of my wet hair with a boar-bristle brush. I loved the feeling of the brush starting at the top of my hairline and slowly tracing a line from my scalp down my back. Closing my eyes would only enhance the experience. With each stroke, I would breathe deeply and crane my neck to feel the full effect of each miniature massager until every hair on my head had been restored from its knotted mess. These evenings were some of the closest bonding moments that I remember with my mom at a young age.

Every night as she brushed, my mom would ask the same question: “Kayla, aren’t you ever going to cut your hair?” She was only joking, of course, since she loved my hair just as much as I did. I’m sure brushing my hair brought her back to her own childhood where her mother would do the same thing. I imagine that if I have a daughter of my own some day I would like to continue a third generation of moments like these. My nightly response to my mom was as expected as the question: “No, Mom. I want my hair as long as a wedding dress!”

Of course I was not thinking about getting married already as a five year old, but my comment was more than just a childish fantasy. With my long hair, I could do anything or be anyone that I wanted: superhero, bird, blanket, or bride. My hair was the ultimate tool of imagination where getting married in a dress of my own locks was as normal as using my separate strands to construct wings like an eagle. When I couldn’t fall asleep at night, I would pretend my hair was one continuous horsetail and mane and silently gallop around my room until I finally started to feel the effects of slumber. During long car rides, I would twist and twirl small chunks until they curled around themselves and pretend that each ball of twisted hair represented a jewel on my crown.

Over the years, my hair endured many stages of evolution. In third grade, I chose a maintenance-free shoulder-length cut that made it easier to conceal under the cap of my baseball uniform. I got my money’s worth out of the first flat iron that I bought in seventh grade; every morning, I woke up an extra hour early to plug in my Conair styler in order to flatten my natural curls into the same pin-straight strands that I would see on the heads of other girls roaming the halls of the middle school. Just before entering high school, and after begging my mom for months, I was finally allowed to get blond highlights in my hair just as I had seen in magazines. As a shy, insecure teenage girl, the last thing I wanted to do was to stand out; as I grew up, I realized that my hair was an extension of my personality that I could control. Rather than opening my mind to the different options and possibilities, I changed my hair to conform and fit in with the crowd.

I distinctly remember the summer after my freshman year of college as a turning point in my life. Although I was grateful for the break from the academic trials, it was the ways in which college tested me as a person that were still weighing heavily upon me: faith, friendships, and future were all on my mind as I settled back in at home. At nineteen years old, I realized that I thought I had life all figured out, when in reality I had a lot of unknowns ahead of me. In a subconscious exercise of control, one of the first things I did after returning home was go to the salon and chop my hair off, and I emerged with the shortest style I have ever sported. My mom told me that she loved it; she said it made me look more grown up. What I didn’t understand was how I could appear so grown up on the outside when I still felt as lost as a child on the inside. As I took the next few years to figure my life out, I decided to go back to my roots and began to let my hair grow...

It’s been four years since my last significant hair cut, and in that time my life has sorted itself out somewhat. My faith is strong and my friendships are valuable, but my future is still very much unknown. After long days at work only to come home to more chores at home, I reminisce about the days as a child when I could fly down the hill in my backyard, long hair flowing like a cape behind me, and collapse into the cool grass at the bottom. It didn’t matter how long I lay there, if my knees were dirty, or if my hair was tangled so long as I made it back into my bed to wake up to another day. Now, as a young adult, I know that life is not about controlling the tangible, but rather about embracing the unknown. When we live life with the wonder of a child, we awaken every day to a new adventure where the horizon is only the beginning of the opportunities we have in store if we believe that to be true. I was blessed with long, curly hair, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t let it grow out to its full potential. 

Lessons from a Dog

What a rush! After a year and a half break from composing something new, I finally finished my newest essay. I found the process of writing this piece incredibly cathartic; it allowed me to flush my emotions and memories into an essay about my favorite little dog, and I'm pretty proud of where it stands after only a few revisions. Molly was an unconditional companion, a faithful friend, and a true member of the family. We miss her dearly.

"Dogs have a way of finding the people who need them the most, filling an emptiness we didn't even know existed..." - Thorn Jones

I dedicate this newest essay to Molly, the loving Shih Tzu who taught us to...

play games...

show off...

be mischievous...

seek solitude...

be okay with a bad hair day...

smile...

dance...

and love. <3

Lessons from a Dog

by Kayla D. Knutson

The first thing I noticed was the smell.

Although I couldn’t quite describe it, the scent was vaguely familiar but carried with it a hint of rancid fish. It hit me as soon as I climbed into the passenger seat of the van next to my mom. I had received the devastating news only eight hours earlier, but I found myself still denying the finality of the event since I hadn’t actually been there to see it happen. Now the smell permeated the air in and around me as we pulled out of the driveway on our way to a place where neither of us had been and had no plans of retuning to. After silently staring through the rain-pattered windshield for a few minutes, I gave in to reality and spoke a sentence that I’m positive we both were thinking.

“It smells in here,” my voice cracked, horse from all the crying I had done already that morning.

“I know,” my mom responded briefly, not wanting to say anything more.

As the wipers whisked away the water drops on the glass in front of me, I sensed tears stream silently down my cheeks. In that moment, I finally allowed myself to accept the identity of the scent coming from the trunk: the haunting mixture of wet dog and death.

***

At the age of twelve and a half (almost ninety in dog-years), Molly peacefully left the world surrounded by the people she loved. When I received the call from my mom at 6:14 that Friday morning, I was somewhat surprised, although I know I wouldn’t have been ready for that news even if I had months to prepare. In retrospect, the warning signs became obvious during the last weeks of her life: we learned that Molly had a stage five-heart murmur, hypertension, and rotten teeth that needed to be extracted. She spent her final few days breathing heavily, eating very little, and resting for hours at a time. I suppose I shouldn’t have been shocked by the loss of our little Shih Tzu, but when death suddenly strikes and personally stings you, it’s hard not to dwell on its painful effects.

The last time I had to deal with the death of someone close to me, the deceased also took the form of a canine. My family always said that Charley was “the greatest,” and even though I was only eight when we had to put her down, I believe that to be true. A Golden Retriever-German Shepherd mix, Charley was the perfect size for me as a young girl. I remember straddling her furry body pretending to ride her around the front yard and using the soft back half of her torso as a pillow when we went inside the house later, both exhausted from play. Even if my hugs looked and felt more like headlocks to her, Charley just endured my unconditional love the way that all great companions should. She spent sixteen great years on this earth before falling into my grandparents’ pond and catching pneumonia while we vacationed in Montana. We always took the middle seats out of the van to make traveling with a dog easier, but that time I rode the whole way home in an empty spot, nestled in the blankets that now only held the old scent of my faithful friend.

After we put Charley down, my parents insisted that we were done with pets. They claimed their reasoning was that no dog could ever replace Charley, but I knew there was more to it than that. I saw the way my mom still looked longingly to the top of the stairs every time she walked in the house after work, and when my dad went into the garage, I would catch him rubbing the cool metal of the large cylindrical can that used to hold Charley’s food. The truth, I realized, wasn’t fear of another dog failing to live up to Charley’s life; rather, they were terrified of becoming vulnerable once more to the inevitable pains of death.

When dogs die, it’s not uncommon for owners to initially boycott the idea of welcoming another pet. Some may find it inappropriate to grieve over the loss of an animal (after all, it was “just a pet”), but many owners consider losing a pet as devastating as the death of a family member. Many support options exist, including therapy groups, grief hotlines, and even online message boards, to help owners cope with the loss of their pet in an appropriate way. Psychologists believe a healthy response to death, human or animal, includes cycling through the five stages of grief: denial, anger, guilt, depression, and acceptance. While the first four steps deal with the difficult reactions to death, the final step may be the hardest yet most important to achieve. Acceptance comes in many forms, but its purpose is always the same: to bring the survivor back to reality and remind them what it means to live.

All three of the dogs that my family has cared for came into our lives in an unexpected fashion. First there was Clyde, the scraggly Airedale Terrier that my dad picked up from a national park while hitchhiking from Montana to Minnesota. Charley joined shortly after when my parents found her barking outside their door during a Thanksgiving blizzard. Immediately, they recognized her as the neighbor’s dog, but when my dad went over later to return her, all he found was an open door and an empty house. As saddening as the scene was, the vacancy was a clear signal that she now belonged in our home.

Ironically, those neighbors to the south were not the only ones whose canine would find a place in our home. Only a few years after Charley’s death and my parents’ vow against any future pets, acceptance came to us in the form of a black and white Shih Tzu puppy. Layne and Barb, our neighbors to the north, had decided to adopt the little ball of fluff as a companion now that their children had moved away from the cities, but they were concerned about raising a puppy since they both still worked full time. At the age of ten and a rate of three dollars a day, I was hired for my first job as a dog-sitter for Molly.

At first, my responsibilities were quite limited: go next door after school to let Molly outside to do her business and play with her for a little bit before locking her back in her kennel and leaving. Of course, the dog-lover in me didn’t like those restrictions, so I started bringing Molly over to our house during that time. I’m not sure exactly when the shift occurred, but it eventually became routine for Layne to stop by after he was done with work to pick up his dog from “daycare.” Still wounded from the loss of our beloved Charley yet thirsty for the unconditional affection that only dogs can provide, my family found that having Molly as our “part-time” dog slowly broke down the walls around our hearts to love another pet.

Molly became a more integral part of our family as the years went by. When Layne and Barb would spend the weekend at their antique shop or go on a vacation with their grandkids, Molly had a second family to take care of her. We brought her to baseball and soccer games where she would bark at every dog until we allowed her to sniff it, took her on long walks to the park with multiple bathroom breaks along the side of the path, and even let her climb up in my mom’s lap at the dinner table where we would feed her baby carrot slices, the only food that she would actually chew.

On special occasions when Molly got to stay overnight with us, I would always quietly bring her down to my room and set up a cozy spot for her at the end of my bed. Even if I stayed up late into the night to finish homework or talk on the phone with my high school boyfriend, I always found comfort in watching her scratch up her bed for the night, turning around and around until she curled into a ball, closed her eyes, and allowed her long tongue to relax and stick out the front of her mouth. In the morning, I could always count on Molly affectionately licking up and down my arm to wake me up, a sweet yet sloppy reminder that she was still there.

For most people, life boils down to simple routines. Sure, everyone goes through big changes like getting married, finding a new job, or having children, events that undoubtedly make large prints on our timelines of life, but those instances comprise only small moments of life in the grand scheme. Routines are comforting because they are predictable; forty hours of nine-to-five workdays during the week, three meals a day on the dining room table, and weekly and monthly appointments and activities allow us to run our lives on autopilot even when they may seem out of control. Unfortunately, we oftentimes exhaust ourselves immediately upon waking up knowing that what awaits in our day is the same schedule as the previous days, weeks, and months. Despite all the comfort they offer, routines harm us by blurring our worlds into a sense of monotony, stripping away simple beauties like waking up to live another day.

 As I neared the end of my junior year of high school, I learning that nothing knocks the wind out of the sails of life’s routine quite like death. School was coming to a close and I was already mentally filling up my summer calendar with softball games, graduation parties, and weekend getaways with friends along with the twenty hours a week I received as a cashier at Target. My mental routines jolted to a halt when I came home from school one day to find my mom crying. As I sat down to comfort her, she recounted the devastating news from that morning: our neighbor Layne suffered from a ruptured brain aneurism, was in a coma, and the doctors were unsure if he would ever wake up.

Layne’s death left us all unsettled for a while. Just one day before the tragedy, Layne had followed his usual routine of picking up Molly from our house after work and stopping to chat for a while before taking his dog for their evening walk. The absence of those seemingly insignificant actions brought back daily reminders of the heart-wrenching sadness that abrupt change can bring into our lives.

  The months and years that followed were obviously difficult for Barb, but her strength through the whole situation illustrated the silver lining that exists behind every negative situation. In three years’ time, Barb renewed her faith by joining our church as a regular member, met a wonderful man (also widowed) who became her healing companion, sold her house, and decided to get married again. Her new relationship gave her the acceptance she so desperately needed, and her eyes were opened to a beautiful new life.

Barb’s new living arrangement didn’t allow her to bring all of her possessions; during my sophomore year of college, Molly was promoted from part-time to full-time in our house. The transition between owners came easy for her since she was already comfortable with our house, and we easily began to make our own new routines. In the mornings after she went outside, Molly would always race back into the house and stop directly next to her dish, waiting to be fed her morning meal. In the afternoons as each family member arrived home from work or school, she would be waiting at the top of the stairs to “dig us up,” her furry little paws attempting to excavate through the Pergo flooring until we came to pet her. During dinner, Molly would sit by our feet and politely grumble until we let her climb up in our laps, paws on the table and mouth salivating. She knew that after dinner came the “Find It Game” where she would scour the living room in all the usual places for the three hidden treats, working harder than we ever saw just to get the food. After crashing near one of the air vents for a few hours, my mom would finally announce that it was “bedtime.” No matter where in the house she was, Molly would rise and follow at my mom’s heels to the bedroom where she would curl up at the end of the bed for the remainder of the night only to wake up the next morning and do it all again.

             Humans have much to learn from their canine counterparts. While most of us can’t stand our schedules of monotony, dogs have the ability to find excitement in the most routine events: a walk around the block, the presence of a ball, and a pat on the head all make dogs feel loved and appreciated. Dogs never take for granted even the smallest of events, and I’d like to believe that we should take that approach to life as well. Each moment in our lives plays a part in shaping our futures whether we realize it at the time our not. An abandoned house can lead to sixteen years with the world’s greatest four-legged friend. The death of a dear neighbor can bring you to open your heart to love once more. A final goodbye to a loyal companion and best friend can conjure honest reflection and acceptance of the life that is to come. Although it still tears me apart knowing that she is no longer with us, I realize that it took Molly’s death to remind me what it truly means to be living.

***

           

            The smell still lingered in the air of the van as I slid back into the passenger seat, but I could already tell the scent would fade with time. I bit my lip as my mom started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot of the Humane Society, the final resting place for our little dog.

            “Well,” my mom broke the silence with a shaky smile, “now we can finally get new carpet in the bedroom without worrying about it getting ruined.” I smiled bravely at the memory of Molly secretly urinating on my younger brother’s green carpet for months because she thought it looked like grass.

            “This is it, though,” my mom said with tears in her eyes. “No more dogs.”

            I stared out the windshield only to see the sun finally start to peek out of the grey clouds and the slightest hues of an unexpected rainbow off in the distance.

I smiled, this time for real as I thought of Layne now having the opportunity to take Molly on eternal walks in the clouds. “You never know, Mom.” I said. “You really never know.”