Like Mother, Like Daughter

Terry once said that baby animals imprint on the first living thing they see when they are rescued in a crisis. He said it plainly, like a fact you could hang your coat on, and I believed him immediately. It explained so much. It explained why certain creatures simply stayed.

Over the years, many animals chose Terry. There was Conrad the monkey, who apparently decided that Terry was the only sensible being in the universe. There was also a swan whose name was never settled, because it hardly mattered. The swan followed Terry everywhere, like a feathery punctuation mark at the end of his sentences.

Our dog Sammie took a different approach. She attached herself to me with such commitment that I tripped over her more than once. She stayed so close to my heels that gravity eventually won. I would fall. Sammie would look offended, as if I had betrayed a perfectly good system.

Then came Jolie.

Jolie did not glue herself to me. She studied me. She watched quietly, eyes tracking, head tilting, filing things away. Jolie learned by observing. This felt more dangerous.

For a long stretch of time, Terry was confined to bed. His body was still, but his hearing sharpened. He could tell where I was in the house by the rhythm of my steps. I was the one moving through the rooms, measuring time in minutes, running small missions with quiet urgency. Life still needed doing.

One day Terry said something that stopped me. He told me he could no longer tell the difference between my footsteps and Jolie’s.

We thought about this together. Carefully. Thoughtfully.

Jolie does not walk.

She runs.

Always.

Terry was absolutely certain she learned this from me. I tend to move quickly, as if the world might close early if I do not hurry. Jolie picked this up. She absorbed it. She decided this was the correct way to exist.

Run through the doors.
Run to the bowl.
Run to see what is happening, just in case.

There was no panic in it. Only purpose.

It feels oddly flattering to realize you have taught someone how to move through the world, even accidentally. Especially when that someone has four legs and absolute confidence. Jolie runs through the house like a small, determined tonado. I run behind her, still timing things, still getting things done.

Some lessons arrive without announcement. Some love does the same.

Shall we call it imprinting. Or learning. Or simply paying attention.

Whatever it is, it keeps pace with us.