Tanner wasn’t waiting for me at the fence yesterday.

Dakota and Tanner, my two oldest dogs, are always waiting for me at the chain-link fence. Dakota can’t hear and doesn’t see well, so she stays close to the fence in the afternoon when I walk by in order to collect her treat. Tanner really can’t see or hear at all, so he keeps close to Dakota. Yesterday he wasn’t there.

The thing about giving out dog treats is that, even though I have a relationship with all these dogs, I don’t know much about them.

“Where is your brother?” I once asked a long-legged hound that I always met with her sibling.

“We had to put him down yesterday,” the hound dog’s owner said, as his eyes filled with tears.

“Oh! I’m sorry. That was sudden,” I said.

He nodded and wiped his eyes. The now-single hound looked up at me with big sad eyes, as if she knew what we were talking about. It was sudden for everyone.

Today I am worried about Tanner. He’s 14, and it pulls at my heart the way he takes his treat so gently. He cannot see my hand. His teeth are old and worn. His muzzle is gray. He is so old and kind and careful. And yesterday, he was missing.

My heart was already tender.

My husband Peter’s oldest sister, Shelley, has been in and out of the hospital for more than two months. She has made it out as far as rehab, and then had to go back to the hospital for more surgeries, more infections, more trouble.

Peter is still grieving the loss of his other sister, Lori, who died of cancer just this spring. He is worried -- we are both so worried -- about Shelley.

I try not to ask Peter, “Any news on Shelley?” because he would tell me if there was. And so I go for my walk and always in the back of my mind I’m wondering about Shelley. And then, yesterday, Tanner was missing.

“Where is Tanner?” I asked Dakota, as she ate her treat. She did not answer. I could tell she thought she should get a second treat, since I had another one in my hand, ready.

“This treat is for Tanner!” I told her. But she kept staring at me, giving me no clue where he might be.

I used to think bad news was the hardest thing to bear. Now I’m not sure if no news isn’t a little worse. No news is a constant buzzing. It is hopeful one moment and doom-filled the next. It is pain and fear mixed together. It is the anticipation of loss, and it causes me to see ill omens and sadness everywhere.

There is still no news on Shelley. Her son and daughter-in-law can’t know any more than the doctors, and the doctors don’t know what is happening. She is tired. She is sad. I imagine she must be lonely. All we know is that she does not call and her voicemail is full and that is not like Shelley.

I brought a couple of extra-large treats with me on my walk today. When I got to Tanner’s house, there was only one dog waiting outside. It was Tanner.

I hollered at him to no avail. I jumped up and down and waved my arms and finally caught his eye. He tottered over.

“Oh, Tanner. It’s so good to see you,” I told him.

“What’s the big deal?” he seemed to say.

Sometimes no news is the best news of all.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

"Do you have time for this?" my husband, Peter, asked.

Peter almost never questions what I'm doing unless I'm doing something particularly stupid. Yesterday, I had a meeting on Zoom. I figured I could finish my work, take my walk early, then run downtown and get my errands done all in time for my meeting.

"Sure!" I assured him. Peter looked skeptical. "Maybe I'll skip the stop at the hardware store," I added, to pacify him.

But the hardware store was right on the way, as I went from the library to the grocery store, so I dashed in, got my paint roller and potting soil, and dashed back out.

"Plenty of time!" I assured myself as I hit the grocery store, chose two graduation cards in record time, and grabbed wrapping paper, ribbon and a bunch of flowers.

It wasn't until then that I noticed there were people standing in the aisles.

"Why are people standing in the aisles?" I wondered. But I continued my high-speed chase and picked out two bags of grapes and six Honeycrisp apples.

Only when I had gathered everything from the four corners of the store did it dawn on me what those people were doing, standing in the aisles. They were waiting to check out.

"What?!" I said aloud, outraged.

"It's always like this at 4:30," a smiling fellow, standing in the seemingly endless line, said to me when he saw my face. "Half an hour earlier, there's no one in the store." Apparently, I had never been in the store at exactly 4:30 before.

"But ... I don't have time for this!" I said to no one who cared -- or could do anything about it.

I raced to return my items to the four corners of the store, zipped out to my car, and made it to my Zoom meeting in the nick of time. The meeting was about the benefits of meditation; the speaker started out by talking about how meditation could alleviate stress.

The irony was not wasted on me.

I used to judge how well I had spent my time by how many items I had checked off my "to-do" list. If I arrived somewhere five minutes early, I figured there was something I could have done with those five minutes and then arrived on time -- or maybe just a minute or two late, since everyone else would be late anyway. I felt gratified when I beat the clock, skidded in at the last possible moment, got more done than seemed possible. I used to think that when I was bathed in adrenaline, I was the most alive.

Now I think it's OK to have time to spare.

Because I've realized that it's only in those times when I don't need to hurry that I notice what is going on around me. Unexpected ideas occur. I see funny things. I have time to talk to people I meet. I take the time to stop and listen. I learn things. None of this happens if I am racing across the store in an effort to set the world record for the speediest purchase of a greeting card.

Manufactured emergencies are not the real thing. If the need arises to run from a predator, I'm pretty sure I'll still be able to do it. Purchasing wrapping paper should not rely on survival instincts.

"The store was crazy!" I told Peter. But really, it was me who was crazy.

Today I will go back to get my apples. I will make my selection carefully. I will have time to spare.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon's memoir is called "Blue Yarn." Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

A cousin of mine reportedly said, “I can’t imagine living in a house where other people have lived!”

I don’t know if she really said this, as I heard the story secondhand. But it stuck in my mind because every home I’ve owned has been lived in by other people, and a few people have died in them as well. So far, this has not bothered me in the least.

I’m used to living in the homes of dead people.

The first house I bought was owned by a woman named Ruby. She was still living there when I bought it, but she wasn’t doing very well. She had outlived two husbands in the house, so I suppose there’s a better-than-even chance at least one of them died there.

Ruby finally had to move to a nursing home after she showed up at the neighbor’s door a few times without clothes. As she had no children, the responsibility for finding her more suitable accommodations fell to her niece. I have no children, so I expect my niece, Isabelle, might be performing this duty for me sometime in the future. (She recently turned 18 and has that to look forward to.)

My only other real home is the one I’ve been living in with my husband, Peter. The neighbors say “three witches” lived in the house before the man we bought it from. I don’t know if this is true, and no one seems to know much about them.

But now we are moving into a new condo, and I know much more about it because it had only had one other resident. Her name was Elizabeth and, like Ruby, she lived there alone, although unlike Ruby, there is no record of any husbands, dead or alive.

Elizabeth bought the condo when it was built, more than 40 years ago, and she died in it. I know this because I looked up her obituary, and it said she “died at home,” so I have to suppose she died in the home we now own.

Elizabeth seems like a lovely person, judging from her obituary. Of course, most people sound nice in their obituaries. I’m going to have to ask Isabelle to say something nice about me when she gets around to writing mine. (A person doesn’t turn 18 without acquiring some responsibilities.)

I’ve been thinking about Ruby and Elizabeth as Peter and I work to renovate this new condo. The walls had been painted and some new flooring put in, but pretty much everything else was as Elizabeth left it. The appliances are old. We’ve already replaced the countertop and had the cabinets repainted and put in shiny new sinks. I don’t think Elizabeth would recognize the place. But I hope she’d be pleased.

Because, unlike my cousin, I very much like the idea of Elizabeth living in my home before me. I like that she was so happy here that she never chose to leave. I’m glad she didn’t show up at the neighbor’s naked and have to find another home. (Although I don’t know this for sure. It’s possible she just didn’t have a dutiful niece like Ruby did and I do.)

And even without the yellowing 1980s bath fixtures and the chipped countertop, I would like to think there is a little of Elizabeth around. It makes me feel as if I have an invisible friend, looking at the same sun shining in the same windows, seeing the same view, living our overlapping lives without ever getting the chance to meet.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION