a tiny umbrella

"The greatest pleasure of a dog is that you may make a fool of yourself with him, and not only will he not scold you, but he will make a fool of himself, too."
  Samuel Butler
 
i was driving away this morning, just out for coffee.  jack was in the yard.  a good feeling standing on the porch and looking down at him.  it was sunny.  but sometimes, i suddenly remembered, it can be sunny and rain at the same time.  we chatted a sec and then i purred out of the driveway.  in a long moment, i watched him watch me drive away.  in that moment, lots came to the surface.

this time last year, i'd be leaving for the north, hours away.  i often thought about it through jack's eyes.  he's pretty well read.  maybe he fancied himself in the (single-headed) role of fluffy, guarding the philosopher's stone while i was gone.  or cerberus, waiting on the shores of the lethe for his dark master's return.  i like to think that he dreams expansively.  maybe that he is suening, signing legislation into effect with his paw.  or riva, leading his human down 71 stories before the tower collapsed.  as for me, i suppose that while i toiled away in the quiet kitchen on the pond, i would simply picture jack waiting by the door, like hachiko waited at the train station for his beloved dr. ueno. 

at any rate, though i am no byrnes, he is my luath.  friday afternoons i'd walk through the door after a long absence.  sunday mornings i'd leave.  the front door was a kind of portal to, as far as he was concerned, my oblivion.  in a way, maybe, there is a kind of truth here.  at any rate, if the door was a portal, then jack was the hound that guarded it.  constantly. 


there's a little social anxiety.  there's the idea that things fall apart.  shoutout to chinua achebe.  this idea runs deep in me.  for as long as i could remember, i've thought, 'oh don't give that to me. i will ruin it.' my own neurosis, but ... there are worries, right?  all kinds of ways to overthink every bloody thing in one's life.  pero, no lo exista con su perro.  with your dog, it's only lovelovelove.  it's not only that his is unconditional.  it' s that sometimes he can channel it to me, help me think of only thoughts that overwhelm the worried thoughts.  he's doing it now, slowly scratching his chin with his back paw.  it's like some weird cyclical mechanism.  i've seen it operate at much greater speeds.  what the hell is that doing for him?  i guess that's what i mean.  it isn't that, upon gazing on him,  the dog inspires me with prosac-like thoughts of utopian blissfulness.  not some pathetic sitcom drivel.  like a good book, he just distracts me from the adultnonsense that pervades life like a curtain of rain.  he's like a tiny umbrella, then.  

he is my own greyfriars bobby.  but it's not that i sit around thinking about john gray's predicament. not so much these days, when i can help it.  were i sick and confined to the house, but still able, i would write my own 'to flush, my dog'.  in the meantime, these are just some thoughts dedicated to the boy.  just thoughts on being home.  not so much on what i've left behind, but why it's so important to've come back.  in a way, this blog isn't about jack at all.