Sunday, September 6, 2009

I Am Saying A Mumbling Word

I'm coming back around.

I took my dog over by the municipal lake. The water was shimmering. I could hear people on the far shore. Must have been some children because they were yelling.

We looked over the lake. Me with my two eyes. The dog with her two eyes. We stood there. Me with my two legs. She with her four. It would've made a great painting.

Then she took a pootie and the mood was broken. But I responded the best way I know how, to tell her she's a good girl.

I suddenly had a flash about existence, thanks to Underbrush (my dog). The flash was this -- and it was a flash -- that a dog's life is so temporary, meaning that ours is too. She would have no history whatsoever if it weren't for me remembering it. And there's no future either except standing by the lake, doing her bathroom business, eating, drinking, and sleeping. All that, again, I keep track of.

In this flash it occurred to me the temporary nature of her place in the world. She'll join the dead dogs of the past soon enough, but for now she's living the best life I can provide. Her fur is soft, she seems happy, her breath stinks. And it will go on like that ... until that day.

The mumbling words I spoke today were to give her the various declarations of assurance and happy words to let her know we're on the same page. I tell her, "Hi, Good. How's the sweetie?"

By tomorrow I hope I've through being wracked by the events of the last couple of days. But even when you're wracked it's a rewarding experience if you can manage to look at life slightly cockeyed. The whole experience that I call "pulling your mantle up over your face" is in that. Really even if you don't have a mantle. Use a scarf. Use your shirt sleeve. Face the west or east or the sky and look at it with a face that's really set, intentionally set.

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