Monday, October 15, 2007

project 365 #286: trail dogs

People ask me how I can stand having everything I own (most recently, my favorite quilted Chinese fall & spring cotton jacket) eaten by the dogs. They seem to have trouble with the concept, but really, once you understand, it's quite simple: don't get attached, because eventually, everything will be eaten by dogs. Yes. It's a clean, easy and beautiful philosophy that sums up the transient nature of life on this planet: sooner or later, everything will be eaten by dogs. There are no exceptions. It's just the way it is, and I thank my great gurus, pictured here, for showing me the way. Resistance is futile. All you can do is go with the flow, even though the flow is occasionally really fucking depressing, because now I don't have a black quilted Chinese jacket with a pink lining that was just the perfect weight for spring and fall and that I wore for years.

Actually, the great gurus staged a rebellion this morning at the park and I am furious with them. It was Theo who was so bad but it goes against the grain to be mad at him, since usually, except for his underwear fetish, he's the Good Dog. Or he was the Good Dog, until this morning, when he decided to take off literally into Hominy Creek and he would. not. come. back. For anything. Meanwhile, I had Django locked in the car, which he was trying to drive (why will dogs always try to drive? Don't they understand that it takes thumbs?) which consequently soaked every inch of the front seat with muddy river water and sand, as I discovered when I got into the car in a flaming temper and started to drive off, revving noisily to let Theo know that he was being abandoned and I was hoping that he would be eaten by the Hominy Creek Creature. Given that Hominy Creek is only, in this drought blighted October, about 18" deep at it's deepest spots, the Hominy Creek Creature is probably kind of small and wistful, but I was wishing him on Theo hard anyway. The revving did the trick and Theo remembered that my driving away without him made his chances of receiving breakfast exponentially slimmer, and he came up out of the creek and jumped his sodden self into the car. Which Django promptly jumped out of so he could go see the creek for himself, since he was nice and dry now. That's when I started screaming, I think, which wasn't really helpful, since Django is conditioned to hide under beds whenever Mom starts screaming and, when there are no beds available, his small brain becomes confused and he runs in freaked out circles very fast.

So I'd already gotten my freakout of the day over with by 8:15 am and I suppose there's something to be said for that, even if it mostly just makes me feel tired. Very tired.

1 comment:

Edgy Mama said...

I imagine the Hominy Creek Creature as a small, brown troll-like beastie with sharply pointed teeth.

Thanks for the reassurances about my kitty. Only you would have a cat named Andy Warhol!