by SherriAnne Leslie
Otter and his toy.
At fifty-six years old, I still step outside in autumn like a child seeing snow for the first time.
Every tree gets my attention. Every shade of crimson, rust, orange, purple, and yellow makes me look again. It's almost ridiculous, really, how excited I get over something I've seen happen every year of my life.
Almost.
Today, I get to enjoy it with Otter and Rhett.
Otter, Rhett, and the Little Orange Ball
I've been stopping in to care for Otter and Rhett for nearly a year, usually on weekdays when their pet parents have long work hours. I've spent the night with them before, too, and now I'm back for a long weekend while their family visits relatives out of town for trick-or-treating.
Rhett is a beautiful reddish-brown girl with a playful look in her eyes. In one of my favorite pictures, she has an orange ball tucked firmly in her mouth, her tail held high, looking ready for another round.
Otter is my handsome boy, with a rusty orange coat that looks right at home among the colors of autumn. He can get just as excited to see me, but I also love the sight of him proudly carrying his favorite ball, those soulful eyes looking up at me.
They jump, they wiggle, and they make sure I know they're happy I've arrived. We could probably work on the jumping, but I love these two. Spending time with them has helped me build a little strength and stamina, too.
Our usual routine includes a little lunch, a trip outside, and some time to play ball. They get to run around, and I get to enjoy watching them.
Nearly a year ago, I brought them a little orange rubber ball with a squeaker inside. It was flimsy enough that I wouldn't have expected it to last long, but Otter and Rhett loved it, and somehow it survived for almost a year.
When it finally fell apart, I brought them a six-pack of tennis balls. I thought they'd be sturdier.
They went through those faster than they went through that little orange ball. Go figure. I haven't been able to find another one like it yet, but I'll keep looking.
Sweet gal, Mocha.
A Treat for Mocha
Upstairs is Mocha, their pet mama's longtime companion from her college days. She's a lovely old lady with a soft cream-colored coat and a dark face and ears. In her photo, she's sitting in a patch of sunlight on the carpet, with little flecks of rainbow light around her.
Mocha can't see or hear very well anymore, but she knows when I've been there. I always leave her treats when I stop by to let Otter and Rhett out.
There's something special about caring for pets over time: learning their routines, seeing their excitement when you walk through the door, and finding those little ways to let each of them know you're there.
A Table Full of Work
Inside, the long dining room table tells another part of the story.
Like so many dining tables and kitchen islands wherever I go, this one has become my temporary office. It's covered with receipts, bank statements, and invoices. My computers are set up, and I'm trying to make sense of revenue, expenses, profit, and loss.
Just saying those words can make my head hurt.
Yesterday, I met with Laura and Kevin and spent time with Rufus so Laura can begin taking over his Oberlin drop-in care. It's one more step in growing my business and learning to share the work. Today, I have emails to send and a whole lot of paperwork waiting for me.
I look at my rose-pink Law of Attraction planner, the same kind I've ordered every year for more than a decade, and see what I've done and what still needs my attention. Some days, it feels like there is never enough time or energy for all of it.
My favorite planner for over a decade.
And energy is something I've had to think about differently for a long time.
Living with dystonia since 2005 and long COVID for nearly seven years has meant making choices other people may never see. Some days, I have to decide which tasks I can manage and which ones will have to wait, even things as ordinary as taking a shower. Functional capacity evaluations have documented limits I already knew from living in this body, but documentation doesn't make those limits any less frustrating.
I've called my dystonia "the demon" since my accident, and eventually I gave it a name: Damien. Personifying it gives me a way to visualize and write about the experience; it doesn't mean I'm handing it control.
A Little Room to Breathe
Before I tackle the table, I take my computer outside.
It's close to seventy degrees, and the sky is a clear, light cornflower blue. Above the roofline, a great old tree stretches its thick, steady limbs beneath a canopy of gold. Its trunk is dark and deeply ridged, the kind that makes me wonder how many seasons it has stood here watching the neighborhood change.
Its leaves glow yellow in the sunshine, with green still tucked among them. Beyond those strong limbs, I can see flashes of red. Nearby, an evergreen stands tall and full, holding on to its deep green while everything around it changes.
That's who I want to be.
Otter and Rhett have already had their burst of excitement, running around the yard when I first arrived. Now they've settled down and are soaking up the late-morning sun.
Dry leaves blanket the ground along the wooden fence, where the branches overhead cast a pattern of dancing shadows. I feel the breeze across my shoulders and breathe in that unmistakable scent of fallen leaves: crisp and earthy, a scent that belongs entirely to autumn.
Autumn leaves.
For a little while, I write. Out here with Otter and Rhett, my thoughts begin to settle, and I can feel my motivation returning. The receipts, bank statements, and invoices will still be waiting inside, but the fresh air and a few words on the page help me find my way back to them.
Writing reminds me that I'm building something, too. I have manuscripts I want to publish, stories I want to share, and a business that continues to grow. I find joy in all of it, even when the work takes me longer than I wish it would.
Someone once told me to "get a job," without knowing, or perhaps without caring, what it takes for me to do the work already in front of me. I'm not interested in measuring my life by someone else's idea of what work should look like. I'm building a business and a body of writing within the limits of the body I have, and I'm proud of that.
The Stories That Ground Us
Every hand that wore it left a story behind.
This stay feels meaningful for another reason, too. I'm near Kamm's Corners, an area woven into my family history and the place where our heirloom ring originated.
As an adopted child, that connection is another thread that keeps me grounded. The ring has a story of its own, one I've written in a manuscript I hope to publish. For now, I'll leave that story waiting, like a little treasure tucked away for another day.
Today’s story belongs to Otter, Rhett, and Mocha; to a beloved orange ball that outlasted a whole pack of tennis balls; and to a quiet yard on a beautiful late-October morning.
The receipts, bank statements, and invoices are still spread across the table inside. I’ll get back to them. But first, I’m going to sit here a little longer, Otter and Rhett stretched out in the sun beside me, breathing in the autumn air and watching the sunlight find its way through the leaves.
