My dog, Chili, watches me constantly, as most dogs do the source of all their comforts. I am producer of organic salmon kibble, the bit of high-fat cheddar, and cool water in a hip stainless bowl. I have even procured a memory-foam bed that she insists, through her stony posture, now move with her as she shifts from sleeping underfoot in the entry way to blocking the fire exit of my bedroom door. And yet, her attention on me is not only suspended, but rendered utterly irrelevant on our walks to what we humans call the park, but which she clearly views as the regular coming of the Rapture.
These long walks began with the goal of finding our way back to Chili's hips, as they had been disguised beneath the seal-shape she'd taken on from her preferred state of sloth--interrupted only by trips to the food or UPS man. I did not expect what I got, which has happened before, though usually I'm on a blind date at the time. Every morning and evening, Chili becomes completely herself--no one's pet, no one's companion. She stands at our elevator and waits, knowing it is this conveyance that will bring her what she seeks, those perfect nervous objects of desire: squirrels.
Trying to keep Chili from squirrels has been yet another lesson that nature has presented me, that rough and tumble class time at the foot of a furry Gandalf that has no interest in teaching anything. No. Chili's only interest is on the gray creatures she was born to chase. And I have learned in this mossy green classroom all I need to know from her, and wonder now who exactly rescued who in this relationship.
Chili is not distracted from her squirrel hunt by human laughter at her bald display of passion, nor their commentary on the futility of her chase. In fact, she does not think of them at all. Genetic muscle moves her up, scratching at tree bark, moaning like a lover, her tail wagging with simple perfect pleasure. Some stop to watch her: the artists, library-book toters, or weary workmen. They then go on to where they've promised to be, buoyed by the rare sight of that much common sense.
My job, so far as I understand it, is to keep her from those metal objects with gas pedals on the right, as the game goes afoot the next street over. And I do. I keep her safe enough to live the life she's meant to have, and just that much, not a single caution more. That, too, I have learned from tugging too hard and finding she would rather choke. She's made me cry twice in my life: once when she abandoned her Zen bark-less nature to defend me from a psycho schnauzer, and the day she gagged on my pull and pulled against me toward a so-close squirrel, rooting for herself more than me, until I picked the right side to be on.
I've stopped hoping that she catches one someday. Instead, I smile and watch her, and let her show me again. And I remember, again, the necessary joy of the chase.
