Blue had been through a rough patch.

He was adopted from the shelter and then returned for unspecified reasons. That’s when Bill met him.

Blue is an Italian mastiff -- which means he is massive, just not quite as massive as an ordinary mastiff. I don’t know exactly what attracted Bill to Blue, but it’s not hard to understand. Blue is a very sweet boy. But he’d been through a lot.

Bill is still working from home most days, but he’s been going in on Wednesdays and that’s what Bill did the Wednesday before last, the first Wednesday after he adopted Blue.

That’s when Blue ate the door frame.

“Well, it stands to reason,” I told my husband, Peter. “A small dog chews up your socks when he’s anxious. A big dog eats the door frame.”

Bill asked if we could babysit Blue the next Wednesday and I was delighted. He brought Blue over and Blue watched Bill’s car drive off. That’s when Blue got a little anxious.

“It’s OK, Blue,” I said. “Bill is coming back.”

Peter distracted Blue by tossing goldfish crackers to him. Blue was a terrible catch. Every goldfish hit the ground, but Blue was happy to eat them once they did. He kept looking for Bill’s car.

“Let’s go inside, Blue!” I said, and Blue came upstairs to my writing room while Peter got ready for his hike. Blue nervously watched me and then Peter and then me again.

When Peter went on his walk, Blue began to cry. Peter was back a few minutes later because he forgot his phone. Blue greeted him like he’d been gone a month. After Peter left the second time, Blue relaxed a little. It appeared that people left this place and then they came back. It was worrisome, but maybe it would be OK.

Blue lay down on his bed, and he spent most of the morning watching me, making sure I didn’t go anywhere.

Every so often, I’d reach down and pet his worried forehead. “It’s OK, Blue,” I said. “Peter is coming back and then Bill is coming back and everything is going to be OK.”

But I wasn’t sure if I was the best person to be reassuring him -- because I’ve been Blue.

I’ve been anxious and worried and told myself that everything is going to be OK. Then I’ve replied, “That’s what you say. But how do I know for sure?”

When I think back on times I’ve been anxious, it’s hard to remember exactly what I was worried about because that is never the point. I’m just worried. Things don’t seem right. Things might not work out. I might have done something wrong. Maybe people will be unhappy with me. I know exactly what it feels like to be Blue.

But the next time I feel anxious, I have a new trick I’m going to try. I’m going to picture that big worried dog -- who has reason to worry, who has been through some worrisome things -- and say, “It’s OK this time. This time you are going to be fine.”

When Bill returned, Blue ran over to him and leaned his big head against him and wagged his tail.

“You see, Blue?” I said, “I told you everything was going to be fine.”

Then Blue did something I didn’t expect. He came over to me and leaned his head against me for a long moment. He wagged his tail. Then he returned to Bill.

You can think whatever you like. I’m going to believe that’s how Blue says, “Thank you.”

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

Yesterday, I bought gladiolas. They are nearly three feet tall and bright fuchsia. It is safe to say they are the most exciting thing to appear at my desk in ages.

When I walked in the front door, my husband, Peter, said, “Oh my gosh.”

Translated, that means: “You have gone overboard on the flowers.” But Peter is too nice to say that.

I always have flowers on my desk. I used to feel guilty, spending good money on flowers every week. It seemed to me it was a little frivolous, an unnecessary expense like buying a coffee I could make at home or buying a book I could get at the library. Except, I can’t make flowers or check them out from anywhere. I sit at my desk all day and, almost all day, I am looking at my flowers.

My love for flowers probably comes from my mother. My mother is good about bringing flowers into the house although, being my mother, she always goes with the minimalist approach. Her flowers are tiny, and they are in a tiny vase. The whole thing is lovely in miniature, a sort of bonsai bouquet. I admire what my mother does. But I am not like that.

When the pandemic started, it was hard to get flowers. The floral section of the grocery store was closed. But then the bushes and flowering trees started to bloom, and I poached branches from the neighbors (usually with their permission) and put those on my desk. They shed something terrible, and most of the flowers were dead the next morning. But the next day I would go foraging again.

Later, my roses started to bloom and that was nice. But now my roses have taken a sabbatical, and so yesterday I went to the grocery store to buy more flowers.

I figured I’d end up with alstroemeria. They are always cheap because, amazingly, they can be shipped flat as a pancake and they bounce back into shape. It’s miraculous. Then they last for at least two weeks -- three weeks if they are very fresh. Restaurants love them for this reason. I think they are pretty, and I can get them year-round.

But then I saw the gladiolas.

Once a year, the gladiolas come into the store. They are huge and weird-looking and absolutely splendid. I should note, I have a small desk. One bunch of gladiolas fills all the available space at my desk, towers high above it, and forms a canopy over my coffee cup. Gladiolas are not a decoration on my desk; they are the main event.

So now I am writing under the looming spikes of the gladiolas and feeling more than usually happy. The best part about gladiolas is that they are only $4 a bunch. I can assure you that gladiolas provide far more than $4 worth of happiness.

Being at home so much these days has made me realize that I own a lot of things I do not need. Like everyone I know, I’ve been cleaning out closets and cupboards and finding lots of things that have no reason to be in my house or my life.

But this time has also made me appreciate the things that make me smile every day: a good cup of coffee, clean sheets, an uncluttered desk and flowers -- always flowers. Having flowers on my desk makes me feel special, as if every day is a little celebration.

And flowers do not lie. Because the truth is, even the most ordinary day is worth celebrating.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

The two women told me about the bear when I was on my hike.

They were on trail bikes and saw the bear in the direction I was headed. “It was scary!” one of the women said.

We were all a little nervous. There had been a bear attack just a few weeks earlier up on the ski hill. A couple had gone up to see the comet. They didn’t bring food. There were no bear cubs. There was no reason to think they were in any danger. They were just sitting and watching the sky when a bear attacked, seriously injuring the woman.

Their dog ran away, and folks assumed she would not make it through the night. Miraculously, the dog was found by some hikers the next morning, still trailing her leash. The woman was still recovering, and it was expected she would be for a full year.

This was on our minds, even though we were nowhere near where it had happened. We talked about how terrible things can happen, out of the blue, when no one is at fault.

“It’s scary to know something like that could happen!” one biker said.

I agreed, but asked her, “What are the options?”

If I’m going swimming in the ocean, I will research to see if there have been any sharks in the area. But if no one has been bothered in 100 years, I figure I’m not likely to be the first.

“It’s like getting hit by lightning,” I added. “We know it can happen, but we also know it is a small chance. I can’t remove all risk. I can just be smart, research the dangers, and live my life as safely as I can.”

The two women agreed. They were going to keep riding their bikes. But they were also going to keep their eyes open. I thanked them and said I would too.

I discovered the limits to my rational approach about 30 minutes later when I came upon a surprisingly large black bear.

First, I saw a deer take off right in front of me. It was scared of something and it wasn’t me. I looked up and saw the bear sitting quite close, right on the trail. The bear looked at me.

When I’ve seen bears before, they immediately run away. It’s good to know the bear is as scared of me as I am of it. The bear directly in front of me did not move.

I looked at the bear. The bear looked back at me.

I backed up, slowly, until I was several yards away. Then I made my way up a hill, to the cemetery, so I could do a big detour around the bear. The bear did not move.

“There’s a bear on the trail!” I told a man riding a bike, once I got to the cemetery.

“Really?” he said, then fell off his bike.

“Darn these toe clips!” he laughed.

We talked about how food was scarce for bears in the forest. I felt a lot calmer, just talking to someone about the bear. The next day, I was on the trail again.

But if I am going to tell the truth (and I try to), I was a little afraid. Because I do my best to be smart and be careful, and I count on my cleverness to keep me safe. And, of course, I never really am.

It is probably a good thing to remember -- no matter how clever or careful I think I am -- the bears are always there.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION