positive pointing #41: I'm thankful for my dog

thesatorialist.blogspot.com

okay, i am not a dog person.

I think that they are at worst, deserving of death (picture skirt , wet nose and absolutely NO respect for personal boundaries)and at best, hairy, in the way and sucking up precious attention that should be given to hurting humans.

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i do, however, have total confidence in finding MY dog.

Because, here's the thing: I've never seen my childhood dog, Jember, as a dog.

I remember looking her in the eye as a kid and thinking something like: "I know people call you a dog, but you couldn't possibly actually be one. I know better. and I'm sorry they call you that." Sometimes I'd just forget altogether that she was anywhere near the realm of being called something as horribly degrading as "dog". It would be quiet, just me and Jember and, call me crazy, I felt like we were having a conversation with no words and that there was just this peaceful, harmonious exchange of agreement happening. She would ponder. I would think. And there was nothing resembling doubt in those honest brown eyes. I gave her the same courtesy.

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My house would be bursting at the brim with people and noise and, if summertime, insufferable heat. I, thinking only of sweet escape, would rush to the door yelling "outside? outside?" sweeping the leash off it's hook on my way. A few seconds later, a faint jingling would become a crystal-clear one as Jember arrived at my feet and dutifully sit and wait for the clipping of the leash, which we both knew was just a formality. Off we would go into the peacful world beyond my house: our river, our rocks, our piers, our field, and the emptying sidewalks of our little town. We'd walk, again, along our rows of sycamore trees that lined Hambrookes Boulevard and when she'd turn her head to me, I'd unclip that bothersome leash, watch her dash off, always gratefully, to a ridiculous gaggle of geese who were in need of some excitment anyway. I'd just sit in a sprawling ocean of grass and a sea of life-giving breeze.

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Every dog is just a dog: a muzzle, some fur, four paws and, honestly, incredibly dull-witted. Jember is not a dog. My dog will not be a dog.

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I am not, nor will I ever be, a dog person.