Sitting in an empty house with a dog from the Mexican Circus! O Daisy, embrace is my only pleasure. Holding and hugging my friends. Education. A wave of eucalyptus. Warm granite. These are the things I have in my heart. Heart and skills, there’s nothing else.
I usually don’t like small dogs but you like midwestern women take over the air. You leap into the air and pivot a diver going up! You are known to open the fridge and eat when you wish you can roll down car windows and step out you know when to get off the elevator.
I always wanted to be a dog but I hesitated for I thought they lacked certain skills. Now I want to be a dog.
Esme and I are prone to rituals, particularly around dinner.
Every day about 5:30 p.m., I prepare my evening meds. Every day about 5:30 p.m., Esme watches, waiting for me to prepare her dinner.
Girl is serious about her kibble. When Teddy was the only pup in Dogtown, I could leave food heaped in a bowl. He would eat what he wanted, when he wanted, and somehow never gained a pound. Leather wallets must increase metabolism rates, because he ate a few of those, too.
But when Esme entered the scene, Teddy quickly learned that if he didn’t eat his entire dinner when it was served, his entire dinner would be eaten for him. She’s as smart as a whip, but Esme clearly believes haste makes taste: She resembles a penguin who eats her emotions.
Until she finishes her meal and get outside, where she turns into a greyhound racer for another routine, when we say good night to the day.
It goes something like this: I chuck one of her tennis balls on the roof, waiting for it to roll down shingles, clatter over the aluminum patio awning and bounce to a near-perfect height for Esme leap and fetch. We’ll do that, literally, until Esme runs out of energy and retires indoors (with the ball; I guess she presumes me too stupid to know she wants to stop otherwise).
Last week, we were in the middle of the day’s farewell routine. Roll, clatter, bounce. Roll, clatter, bounce.
Perhaps it was the California-coated dusk. Perhaps it was the song playing (“Bittersweet Symphony”). Perhaps it was the sugar high. Whatever the reason, I was so overcome by this sentiment I said it aloud:
“I wish this moment would never end.”
How often, I thought, do I say that? Not enough, that’s for sure. How often do any of us say it enough?
I don’t mean during a trip to Disneyland. Or down the aisle. Or toward the acquisition of something treasured.
I mean in the middle of the dishes. I mean during the morning commute. I mean waiting for the microwave popcorn.
Why does it take something blatantly memorable to be remembered? And even then, it is almost always in retrospect. How often have we told ourselves, ‘Man, I wish I could have that time back. If I realized how special it was, I would have enjoyed it more.’
Great news: Now is special. And it’s just waiting for someone to enjoy the fuck out of it.
Think of that minute just before dinner, perhaps mankind’s favorite moment on the spectrum of human pleasure. It is already a bounty. You may not even be hungry. You may not care for the food you’re eating — yet again. You may have a ton of errands awaiting you after the last swallow.
Even more reason to recognize the beauty of humdrum. Instead of saying grace to some invisible superhero that chose to feed you and starve others, why not collectively wish that everyday moment would never end? Mundane, yes. Dull, you bet. Repetitive, no doubt. But a day will come, sure as sunrise, that we see the beauty of banality. That the absence of hell is, to some measure, heavenly.
I’m secreted away in a bunker fortified by steel and wood. To be more specific, I’m in my home office with the door closed.
No matter. Esme still takes offense. For the dog of a writer, she seems to hate when I practice my craft. I guess that shouldn’t be surprising; she’s the first dog I’ve ever known to have a look of condescension. As if to say: Come on, simple human; you can do it.
So it goes with my writing. She hates it. Or at least she refuses to be around when I’m attempting it.
And I’m not sure why. Perhaps I used to yell at the computer when I was struggling with a story. Or cursing the keyboard when the Mac froze.
Whatever the case, she hates to be around when she senses stress. Her big brother, Teddy, used to be a notorious ruiner. He’d chew on jeans til there was a hole the size of a softball. Shoes were simply the tenderloins of rawhides. He once chewed my wallet to pieces — along with all the cash inside.
So perceptive was she that she would leave the house the moment I awakened and walked into the living room — she knew the shock and awe of Teddy’s handiwork to come.
I’ve tried everything to soothe her nerves, to keep her comfortable on the couch: music, a space heater, four blankets and a pillow (I never said I was a logical dog owner).
No matter. When the keys are a’clackin, she gets to packin.
Like right now. She must have heard you reading and headed for the door. Thanks a lot.
