Many of our fears are tissue-paper-thin, and a single courageous step would carry us clear through them. ~Brendan Francis, Irish poet and writer
I have a bone to pick with my mama and that flute of hers.
Now I’m a reasonable dog. I’ll gladly take my snoozle while she’s practicing, and I never complain about wrong notes, shaky rhythms, and the inevitable squeeks that a beginning instrumentalist makes.
But recently I overheard Mama talking to The Kid (AKA Domer) on the phone. Seems she has to play in a real concert.
Of course, I’m not invited. That’s the first problem.
Because how does she think she can play without ME lying underneath her?
I understand when she leaves me every week to go to something called band practice.
She comes home with a smile on her face and a tune in her head, and I guess that makes her happy.
I’m happy when Mama is happy.
But this concert feels different somehow.
Poor Mama is freeting over:
- What to wear (all black, Mama, head to toe — you don’t want to stick out)
- Whether she can play all the songs well enough, and in tune (practice, Mama!)
- Having to sit in the front row, within spitting distance of the conductor (don’t give him any reason to spit at you, Mama!)
And she’s wondering whether she’s bitten off more than she can chew.
Her daytime angst is bad, but I’ve noticed it affecting her nights as well.
She tosses and turns, flips and flops, and is so exhausted from dreaming that she drags through the next day.
We can’t have that!
This band thing was supposed to be FUN. Not something that would turn on performance anxiety.
I’m clinging extra-close to her these days in case she needs to stroke my furs. Pets know that relieves anxiety, but Mama’s best bet is getting past this concert.
Wait, she just informed The Kid she’s got a second concert coming up in about six weeks.
What’s a dog to do?