Tuesday, March 13, 2012
What We Talk About When We Talk About Our Pets
The shape of my dog is one reason why I love her. She is so sleek. Her body slices through the air. When she runs, the wind rushes through my ears, a yeow sound created by her speed. The sound buzzes around my ears, tantalizing the inner hairs that send messages to my brain. I can also feel it outside as an aftermath, tingling my scalp.
I know it. But does she know it? I don’t think so. She is so enrapt in her world. She is embracing the ritual of animal scouting, conducted in her best canine style. She cannot be interrupted. She is so very mindful of the sights, sounds, and smells of her world. She is also so lovely to behold. I try not to over estimate the power of her world on me, but it’s hard. Her impact on me is so concentrated—like frozen grape juice, its dark juice a brick of flavor that zings the senses and freezes my tongue and my world seems to stop for a moment.
Her shape allows her to slip among shadows and light, as easily as if she is dancing, as if she is a moon beam finding its way through the tangled canopy of a gnarled tree. The light of the moon is the source, and the power, yet the shape of the tree’s web holds the liquid light of the moon like a vessel holding silver. It only takes a moment to see its magnificence. You can see it along the far side of the branches, where the darkness highlights the lightness. You see its mystical power to enchant. Like an aolian harp, it channels the wind for the poet’s muse.
Moving with such grace, I think of the light of the moon and the aolian harp. She should not have such power over my emotions, just as the moon’s light should not stir up such thoughts and feelings. But they do. And she does.
Ah, but let’s not neglect Dakota for his charms. He sits like a soft warm hedgehog on the bathroom counter, sniffing the early spring air from the opened window. His eyes remind me of late afternoon shadows casting their bluish light before the sun slips below the horizon. His fur is still soft like cattail fluff. He is shaped like a pear, but he is also starting to show his age. He turns his head slowly from the window, and gives me one languid blink, a feline kiss. I cannot help but to kiss him back, although my human form of affection feels so clumsy in comparison.