With a flurry of new babies being born this spring, and at least one keeping his or her parents waiting past the due date, I’m hoping it’s not all that shameful to arrive late with a mere blog post.
This one I dedicate wholeheartedly to my dog Rocky, who, on a daily basis, helps me to clarify my priorities. Specifically, I mean the age-old dilemma of what to run for, what to hold on to, what to deliver, what to ignore, and why.
I should say that he demonstrates it better than he explains it.
I’m the one trying to figure out the reasoning behind my choices, with plenty of muddied thinking and occasional moments of lucidity, much like when the sun breaks through over a soggy field.
Let’s start with Rocky, since his behavior is easy to describe if more challenging to understand. He’s frequently a passionate fetcher, but also an unpredictable one. For years now, I’ve regularly grabbed an old tennis racquet— while he watches me, with fire in his eyes—and hit him balls across the lawn. He brings the ball back quite reliably, even if he needs some coaxing to release it. Sometimes, however, he shows an odd preference for one old green ball over another; it’s not just any ball he wants, but a certain one. Others can fly around practically unnoticed. And he looks at me as if to say, “Well, obviously, they’re not all equally desirable.”
When this happens, it always reminds me of a New Yorker cartoon, now made into a card you can buy, of one dog saying to another, “Are you happy with your current ball?”
For some reason, though, he does not bring this same discerning approach to his relationship with sticks.
When we’re on a walk, particularly on the return trip, he’s voracious about finding a good stick to carry….and just about any substantial one will do. He’ll prance along happily with the first one, but then— like someone who really knows how to play the field—he’ll drop it immediately if I choose to throw another similar one nearby. And then, if the stick breaks in two as it hits the ground, he’ll just grab one piece and be thrilled again.
It’s really the mood he’s in that matters most, I’ve learned: when that I-gotta-have-it look comes on, it borders on a kind of desperation. And that kind of zest has to fizzle after a short time; on one run recently, when he was on the leash, he carried a chunk for a couple of miles, finally releasing it when the jagged wood started bothering the inside of his mouth. Thanks for the memories, but see ya later.
What does any of this have to do with those of us who don’t chase balls or sticks?
Here’s my modest takeaway:
- With so many potential claims on our attention every day, it’s best to have some kind of a strategy for responding, or not responding. Waffling takes up too much time.
- Those balls that Rocky ignores—they’re like most of the emails or many of the opinions or even some of the problems that we encounter: we don’t need to go get involved with them. As dog trainers sometimes teach, “Leave it!”
- When he will do anything to go get a certain stick—swim across the pond, or paw his way into a pile of brush – I like to think that he’s focusing on what matters most. For us, that would be people we care deeply about, goals we most want to meet, feelings we most cherish. We do whatever it takes, but sparingly, in bursts, to conserve strength.
The truth is, even if Rocky didn’t teach me any lessons at all, I’d still love being with him. But it sure is nice when he unwittingly provides me with the kind of reflection that, unlike tedious deliberation, can actually be a handy-dandy aide— like a kitchen appliance that whirls and twirls — in managing the ingredients of modern adult life.