Pax is the most graceless border collie I’ve ever known. She stumbles, she falls. I’ve seen her slip through cattle guards and staircases. When I first got her three years ago, she couldn’t stay upright in a car and would resort to standing in the cubby at the feet of the front-seat passenger side. She wouldn’t cross narrow creeks, couldn’t keep her balance in even the smallest currents.
In later years, she’s adapted. She happily lurches out into swift rivers, chest-deep in water. She can transition from the front seat to the back seat in a moving car. I call that progress.
But I’ve changed, too. I don’t drive so crazily as I used to (I had a roommate in college who frequently liked to tell people that he trusted my piloting skills more than my driving abilities), and living in rural Missouri, everyone seems to drive slow. I think it’s only about ten miles from our house to the farm, but it takes me nearly thirty minutes every day to get there. With Pax in the car, I average 20-25 miles an hour, braking around corners that are mere curves, creeping over gentle hills.
Sometimes, out of nowhere, Gretchen Rubin’s words come to mind: “The days are long but the years are short.”
Why not savor every moment?
Drive slow. There’s miracle there.