Honoring Wisdom in the Dyslexic Dog
|Out for our morning drag.|
My dog is way smarter than me. In fact, he may be a messenger from God, with a capital G.
See, he has this new habit in the morning, which is only a slightly different habit than he had when he was but a wee pup. I call this habit DESTRUCTION & ANNOYANCE. (I love him, I swear.) This is his thing: While I sit at my special writing desk trying to spit out each morning's thoughts, he wanders the 10x10 room, sniffing at corners and under things, looking for ways to destroy my soul.
If he disappears by himself into the kitchen for a moment, then I know he's hell-bent on my eternal damnation. Today, he brought my death sentence directly to me and I now know I will live out eternity in Lucifer's inferno: He presented to me my last surviving oven mitt, sans thumb, bought for me by my sister with Alzheimer's. And then, because I clearly have not repented for my sins, he found and ate my last surviving good spatula, bought for hubby for Christmas many years ago. It's in the shape of an electric guitar. You see why this is precious.
Because it's morning, and we're not quite awake, and maybe just maybe on day 56 of quarantine, we woke up a little testy. The dog saw opportunity. He starts barking. And barking. And barking. Also, barking. I don't know why. I think it's because he's wicked smart: Yesterday, when he barked incessantly, I took him for a walk. The little f#$#ker remembered. Well, I wasn't getting very far with the writing anyway, and it's gorgeous out there, so out we went. Another walk.
I haven't been out much, truth be told. Yes, I know they say it's more or less ok to get out into the air, but I live downtown and a lot of other people love walking by the ocean, too. So as the true altruist that I am, I've been leaving that space to them. They can have the outside. They probably need it more than me. Note: That is a total lie. I've actually been lazy, drinking beer with breakfast, and eating cookies. (Part of that is also a lie. You choose.)
This morning, my little fuzzbutt dog made me get up and how kind of him, really. We walked along the ocean and words fell like September apples. Music flowed beneath my footsteps, while I narrated a life well lived in my head. Some friends texted and made me smile. My brother called ten times. We kept walking. It felt good.
So now business doors are starting to open again, and I have a question. Do you want it to go back to the way it was? I'm just guessing your answer might be no. No one I know wants it to go back to the way it was. When I'm not fretting about dying people and the bizarre state of American "leadership," this time with family and with me has been pretty wonderful. The space, the isolation, the creativity: heaven.
Toby the Infernal Pesterer is currently lying on the floor behind me, silent. Snoring. He rests. And he rests his case: Dog spelled backwards is god. With a little g.
What do you call an dyslexic, agnostic, insomniac? A woman who stays up all night wondering if there is a dog.
Here lies my case, as well.