Minutia

Although my dogs prefer people food, in addition to table scraps, I feed them kibble twice a day. I keep the bag in the garage, just behind the door that leads from the kitchen. Usually I'm in a hurry and rarely do I stop to pick up the few pieces that fall out of the scoop as I make my way from one room to the next. Eventually, on their way out to the exercise pen, one of the dogs stops to pick them up. According to the dog food pyramid, "food dropped on floor" forms a significant portion of their diet.

The other morning, my husband, who is spending more time indoors than I prefer, calls me out to the garage to "see something." He's been suffering from acute shoulder and knee pain and spending less time gardening and more time "helping" me. Without entering the garage I see that he's stooped over and pointing to something next to the bag of dog food. "What is this?" He asks, pointing to the pieces of kibble I must have dropped the night before. Instantly, I feel blood coursing through my veins. What kind of question is that I want to say. A couple of years ago, we took a communication class and learned that you never ask questions when you know the answer. My husband knew better. I hold my tongue as I know using sarcasm or "that tone of voice" will only fuel the fire and I'm working on containing my wrath not igniting it. Instead, I stoop down next to him and take a closer look. "It looks like kibble to me." I respond. Then, in his most parental and fatherly tone he asks, "Do I have to build something to keep the food from falling all over the floor?" I clench my hands into a fist and take a deep breath as I do my best to refrain from becoming a five-year-old. "I don't think that's necessary." I said trying my best to use my sympathetic, grown-up voice, but I knew it wouldn't take much for me to snap. As I turned to go, I added, "I probably need to be more careful when I scoop the food." Knowing admission of my guilt would satisfy him, I took the high road. I didn't argue or defend my position as I used to, but now I had to deal with my feelings of resentment.

Later that day I took time to make sense of this scenario. I clapped myself on my metaphoric back for being calm on the outside and containing my anger. I realized my feelings were those of my five-year-old child who was often reprimanded for little things that made no sense to her--fingerprints on a mirror, dirty clothes on bedroom floor, balled-up wet towels in the bathroom, and yes, spilled kibble on the kitchen floor. My husband on the other hand had no clue about how his attention to such minutia affected me. He was simply doing what his parents had probably done to him--rubbing his nose in the details--their way of letting him know they cared. Admittedly, a confusing way to show love, but unless we consciously change our programming, we all are guilty of blindly reacting to our environment without consideration of the consequences.

By evening, I'd forgiven myself, my parents, and my husband and in an effort to show compassion, I picked up the pieces of kibble that fell from the scoop and dropped them into the dog's bowls. When my husband complained about his shoulder pain, I rubbed them with Boswellin Cream (arthritis pain relief from India). Later that night when I let the dogs into the garage on their way to the exercise pen, they didn't seem too disappointed at not finding kibble in the usual place on the floor. Instead, they raced out into the pen where the garbage cans are also located, knowing there's always a good chance I'd forgotten to tighten the lid.