Musings on a Country Life

I'm sitting here in Kate's living room typing away at my computer (well, my netbook), listening to Chica's heavy breathing from her position curled up on the floor. My parents were commenting earlier this week that I seem to really like Chica, which, I guess, is a bit of a surprise, as I have never really expressed any special interest in dogs before. Probably because my earliest memory of a dog is getting bitten in the park down the street from our house. But in Ireland, it seems like the dogs can actually be dogs. At home (well, in Arlington, at least), dogs always seem contrained by leashes or fences. Or they are small dogs whose only task is to lay in the lap of their owners.

Dogs in Ireland are very different (well, in this part of Ireland). They seem to be in control of their own days. Chica, though she allows me to take her on walks two times a day, is free to not only roam around the farm yard here, but make excursions onto other people's land without any supervision. For example, I met Bran, a bran-colored dog who lives down the lane, two days before I ever met his owner, because Bran has taken to visiting Chica during the day. In fact, Bran joined Chica and me on our walk this morning. Yet it wasn't until Kate had me take some salad (lettuce that I harvested yesterday and edible flowers) over to the neighbor (Barbara) this afternoon that I found out where Bran lived and who his owners were. (Note: given my limited knowledge of dogs, I would guess that Bran is some kind of Terrier breed, but he is about as big as Chica. He's probably a mutt.)

I suspect that it has more to do with urban versus rural than the United States versus Ireland. For example, there are quite a few dogs in the States that I know who were raised in the country, and they too seem to have a laid back attitude that is lacking from dogs who are in the city.

I can image having a dog (when I'm grown up, whenever that might mean) as long as it has plenty of land to explore. I know that I don't mind waking up at 6:30 in the morning if it means that I get to walk through the countryside with Chica before breakfast. And this is coming from the person who wouldn't wake up before noon any day if she could get away with it.

I like Chica, cause she's loyal and friendly and forgiving and a great listener (she has to put up with my singing as we walk). But part of her appeal is that she embodies the country life I have come to find is a sanctuary for me.

That is not to say that I won't get tired of the country life, but for now, it suits me just fine.

On the first or second day that I was here, Kate was talking about the difference between being lonely in the city and being alone in the country. And how you can be very lonely in the city surrounded by a lot of people who you don't connect with. Then you come to the country, and you find that perhaps there aren't that many people, but you talk (not just talk, but really talk) with a farm-owner and her dog, and suddenly you aren't lonely anymore.

I think it is this way because there is more opportunity to connect. In the city, people walk with their eyes cast down, or listening to their iPod, or talking on the phone. It is rare that people will say hello to a complete stranger. In the country, you smile at everyone you past, even if you've never seen them before. It's not impossible to connect with someone else in the city, but it is harder.

Don't get me wrong. I love the city. There is always something to do. Always something new to see. Most of my friends and family live in cities or in suburbs. But I definitely would not object to having a country retreat.