Teacher
So many people talk about the "lessons" their dog has taught them. You get forwarded messages as old as time with lists of canine advice like, "Roll down your windows and feel the wind" or "Love unconditionally" or "Turn circles three times before laying down." Crap like that. I say crap only because these people that circulate these tidbits of doggy wisdom (not to generalize) are the same people that smile, click forward, and then behave horridly to a human in the next hour (at most).
That's why I hestitate to share the lessons I've learned from my dog. But they're different. They came to me last night, when I was stumbling through the darkness of my room (a veritable death trap and firehazard at the moment), following the bluish glow of my cell phone. Daisy followed me, stumbling when I did, her head bent low and weary.
I watched her curl up beside my bed, lick her front paws a few times, and nuzzle her face into her chest. In less than a minute, she was out. It struck me how slowly she had walked down the stairs that day. How calmly and quietly she had sank into her pillow. My nose tingled. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes and slid along my nose.
I knelt down beside her and pressed my cheek against her white fur, wrapping my arms around her. Her breaths were deep, heavy, and slow through her black nose. I can't help but remember years gone by - years when she leapt onto my bed and fought me for covers. When she ran ahead of me in the morning, anticipating the day. When her fur was still soft and puppylike, her muscles sleek against her ribs. The arthritis doesn't let her run like she used to.
And it hit me. Like pepper spray in the eyes. A bell sounding in my heart. In that moment, I came face to face with my own fragility. Mortality slid the tip of its dagger between my ribs by showing me, through her eyes, what it means to grow old. Her strength of love remains. The spark in her jetstone eyes when she knowingly disobeys me. But her body simply fades a little bit every time I look at her.
Now, watching her curled in a fetal position, breathing gently in much-desired sleep, I wonder how far away that the morning is. The one where I wake up...and she doesn't. It's sooner than I think. Who would have thought that I would learn about human vulnerability from a dog? That I would know the reach of my love only because I saw, in that second, how short a time I have with her. And how much I miss her already.
That's why I hestitate to share the lessons I've learned from my dog. But they're different. They came to me last night, when I was stumbling through the darkness of my room (a veritable death trap and firehazard at the moment), following the bluish glow of my cell phone. Daisy followed me, stumbling when I did, her head bent low and weary.
I watched her curl up beside my bed, lick her front paws a few times, and nuzzle her face into her chest. In less than a minute, she was out. It struck me how slowly she had walked down the stairs that day. How calmly and quietly she had sank into her pillow. My nose tingled. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes and slid along my nose.
I knelt down beside her and pressed my cheek against her white fur, wrapping my arms around her. Her breaths were deep, heavy, and slow through her black nose. I can't help but remember years gone by - years when she leapt onto my bed and fought me for covers. When she ran ahead of me in the morning, anticipating the day. When her fur was still soft and puppylike, her muscles sleek against her ribs. The arthritis doesn't let her run like she used to.
And it hit me. Like pepper spray in the eyes. A bell sounding in my heart. In that moment, I came face to face with my own fragility. Mortality slid the tip of its dagger between my ribs by showing me, through her eyes, what it means to grow old. Her strength of love remains. The spark in her jetstone eyes when she knowingly disobeys me. But her body simply fades a little bit every time I look at her.
Now, watching her curled in a fetal position, breathing gently in much-desired sleep, I wonder how far away that the morning is. The one where I wake up...and she doesn't. It's sooner than I think. Who would have thought that I would learn about human vulnerability from a dog? That I would know the reach of my love only because I saw, in that second, how short a time I have with her. And how much I miss her already.
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~Eva