It is hard not to smile at Rose. She is a beautiful dog and people, even sick, grouchy, stressed people, can sense that if you smile, she will smile back and wiggle her way to you. And force you to smile some more.

Today we went to the hospital for our weekly therapy dog visit. We hadn’t been the previous two weeks so Rose and all the staff that welcome her arrival each Monday were primed for a happy reunion. The danger we always face, as we walk through the main lobby to get to the elevators to start our patient rounds, is that she will suck in so many people waiting for their lab tests that it takes forever to greet them. Today, it seemed we couldn’t get two feet before she had smiled at someone else and drawn them into her web. And then they touch her. If there was ever a dog designed to be a therapy dog, her silken hair would be high on the list of necessary attributes. And so, we get bogged down. I listen to the stories of people’s pets while Rose patiently accepts all the affection she can gather.

Rose isn’t the sort of dog who climbs into bed and rests with a weary patient. And she can’t sit still while a child reads to her if there is someone else to greet as well. Indeed, her mission in any setting isn’t complete  until every person who is willing has been greeted. She is the perfect cocktail party hostesss – always on the lookout for the newcomer but unusually sensitive to not approaching those who don’t wish to be approached.

When we finally arrived on the rehab floor, one of the staff asked a patient in the hallway – “would you like to visit with a therapy dog?” The patient demurred stating that she was a cat  person, not a dog person. And so we moved down the hallway, stopping here and there, getting pets from staff and patients and hearing the oft repeated “oh she is so beautiful.” When we arrived in the therapy room we made our usual rounds. By the end of our visit the cat lady had entered the room with a staff person who is a particular Rose fan. As Rose approached to say hello to the staff, the cat lady suddenly reached out to pet Rose, who quietly offered her back for a scritch. Rose did it again – sucked in someone who was initially resistant to her charms.

And so we continued on our rounds. It seemed that many of the staff were a little more stressed than usual. Perhaps it is the holiday time. I live on a farm in the woods with only distant family so I am not feeling the holiday rush and crush but I imagine in a hospital of sick people who wish they were at home, it can get to be quite wearing. Suddenly Rose was surrounded by no less than 5 of the nursing staff, all looking for a dog hug. And Rose, like few other dogs I have ever met, just patiently turned from staff to  staff, accepting hugs, giving quick illicit kisses, and offering her butt for scritches. And ever smiling. Really and truly smiling. Tightly surrounded by people in a situation that most dogs would find oppressive, she looked at me and smiled.

I don’t carry a purse.
I never have.
Wallet and keys.
Never wore make-up.
Don’t like to look in the mirror.
Bite my nails.
What’s the point?
Pockets are for stuff.
Purses are just something to put down and forget.

Sure, my truck can be like Mary Poppin’s carpet bag.
Leashes, dog treats, towels.
Bungee cords, rope.
Pens, bandaids, business cards.
Peanuts for the hungry.
It even has that mirror (or 3)
that I don’t carry in my non-existent purse.
What ya lookin’ for? I might have it.

These days in my pocket is a cell phone.
For safety it goes everywhere.
But around the farm
No keys or wallet.
They are things
To lose in the tall grass or the deep manure.
Sheep don’t take credit cards (or paypal either)
Jura does the driving, without a license, or keys.

And yet my pockets
Are full of things now.
In the summer, my jeans creep down
Towards my knees with their weight.
When it cools my hoodie
Looks like chipmunk cheeks.
Laundry day brings surprises.
And reminders of recent projects.

So I ask,
What would be in my purse
If I had a purse?

Instead of a nail file,
There would be a utility knife.
No lipstick
But a livestock marking crayon.
No hair scrunchie
But always a bungee
A voltmeter, vise grips.
No pen but maybe a headlamp.

I hear tell all purses
Have trash in them.
Instead of gum wrappers,
I’d have baling twine,
A broken ear tag
Not a singleton earring,
A few stray nails (not of the human kind)
Perhaps a rusted screw

Some stray piece of weathered duct tape
Found drifting across a field
Little bits of shredded hay and straw…
Snips of wire from a fence repair
And of course, the discarded syringe
From Joe’s recent dewormer shot.
And one glove
Because I dropped the other – somewhere in the back field.
It is a good thing that I don’t go through airport security.