It was a blissful day in the dog park, until another dog
owner decided to strike up a conversation. ‘How old is your dog?’ he asked. Twelve, I said. He raised
his eyebrows. ‘Twelve! An old guy!
How long do those types of dogs live?’
I looked at his big friendly pie face, and pictured myself
ramming a steel rod through his eye. My imaginary vision of his big cranium crashing onto the frozen earth with a piece of metal sticking out of it was so
much more satisfying than any conversation I could ever have. But I couldn’t
even talk. I couldn’t have this conversation.
Of course I think about how old my dog is. I think about it
a million times a day. The thought is small dark cloud that is constantly
seeking access to my brain, but I immediately make it disappear. Gratitude is a much
stronger force than fear, and I use it to nudge the cloud away. Why think about
the unknown when you have this day?
Somewhere in the last five years, and due to spending much time in the hospital, my thought process has changed. There is a long
story (which boring to everyone but me), but the short one is that I am much
more able to live in the present, and much less likely to get swept up in the anticipatory
anxiety of the unknown. It’s working quite well as long as I stay in my own
head, but I haven’t evolved to the point of incorporating it into stupid
conversation.
My throat was closed and my mind was racing. Now I was
picturing the same guy sitting on a park bench with his granny. He with his
round jolly head, and she, a little apple face doll in a pink hat that slightly
resembled a tea cozy. They are in a ‘Granny Park’ and someone walks up to him and
says, ‘She’s a cutie. How long do you think she’ll live?’
 |
| Now, about your Granny..... |
Now it’s back to real life. He’s still looking at me,
waiting for an answer and his smile had started to fade. I’d been staring at
him for at least ten second without blinking. ‘I’m sorry’, I said, ‘Did you
say something?’
‘Um,’ he said, with a lot less jocularity, ‘Your dog. The
basset hound. How long do they usually live?’
I summoned all the little tricks I’ve learned over the last
few years. Clearing my mind. Filling my heart with a smile. Acceptance.
Understanding. And arranging my face into a pleasant expression until it starts
to feel real. Sometimes this
works, but sometimes people are still assholes that you want to jab in the head
with a stick. So I answered his question.
‘Forever’, I said. And walked away.
