But first, Simon, the adventures continue. It was about ten o'clock two days ago. Having gone to bed around five, I was still sleeping soundly, more or less, when I heard the dachshund bark. Bleary eyed, I looked over the side of the bed and there was little Simon, sitting in the doorway down at the foot of the bed, giving me his intense dachshund look. My first thought was that Mary was outside and he had urgent bathroom needs, never to be ignored in a dachshund, as they are just as likely to find a spot in the master bath and let fly, consequences be damned!
Thus you will understand my haste in rolling out of bed and following him down the hall. However, Simon, little brother that he is, did not turn left toward the kitchen and the back door. He continued on to the living room and the sofa, and there at the end of the sofa were obstructions of pillows and blankets that prevented him from ascending. While I considered his ascension from a different perspective involving my foot, I nevertheless rearranged matters so that he could hop up, which he did. After all, a dachshund needs his fourteen hours regardless, and we wouldn't want to deprive the little monster of his rest!
I should explain too that my wife has purchased a lovely, long coffee table that sits before the sofa and that pleases her mightily. Therefore, Simon must jump up from either end of the sofa. Thus the many problems for the little dog. But he got me out of bed this time to come and fix it for him! Having just read a "Mutts" comic from last Sunday, yesterday, I guess, instead of being upset about the unreasonable (so it seemed at the time) demand he made on me, it just occurred to me that what was revealed in this situation was the intense nature of the bond between us. He trusted me to want to help, and he doesn't really understand anything about manipulation and use. I am his good buddy. Why wouldn't I want to help? When we come back from a walk, for example, he waits for me before he dashes into the house, and before we leave, he waits for me to go downstairs before he will go. The other three dogs just run around hysterically, barking and yelling, "We're going for a walk, we're going for a walk!" Simon stays with me. I will get out of bed for such a bond any time.
In yesterday's "Mutts," Earl, the dog, and his good friend, Mooch the cat, are sitting with their backs against a tree. Earl lets out a sad little sigh. Mooch, like a good friend, asks what is wrong. Earl, it seems is upset that all the birds have "gone" south for the winter, and he says, "I miss them so." In the next panel we see the two friends again with their backs to the tree. Earl's eyes are closed and he emits another profound sigh exactly like the first, though now we understand the real nature of the problem and the depth of his despair, so to speak. Mooch's eyes though are open, and we understand from his expression that he is thinking. McDonnell is very good using small details to convey complex emotions in his characters.
In the next panel Earl is alone, eyes closed, down in the depths, perhaps, or perhaps asleep. In the following panel Earl has been awakened by the sound of music from above, five notes, though all we see is Earl's startled expression as he is now wide awake with all his feet in the air as he hears the music. In the final panel we see that the source of the music is Mooch who is standing on a high branch of the tree, cheeks puffed out, front legs away from his body, tail straight up, whistling vigorously. Everything in this comic contributes to expressing the deep bond of friendship that exists between them.
Of course, Pookie, our silver dappled dachshund, would stay at my side in my chair for the entire evening. Simon stays in my chair for most of the evening, though in the late hours he will jump down, go to the sofa (davenport) and bury himself under his/the blanket. Still, I know deep down he is my dog and I am his good buddy; or deep down I am his person as well as his good buddy. The real test is the look he gives me when we are out walking. He turns his head just enough to look back to see that I am still there and still coming, even though I am holding the lead. After all, he is always out in front, and mostly I let him do as he wishes. Yet when he looks over his shoulder, he always looks at my face and eyes.
I seem to remember a place in Moby Dick where the crew are cutting out ambergris, perhaps, or perhaps it was blubber, and the person on the whale is tied to the person on the deck so that their fates are literally intertwined. Ishmael sees the literal line as an expression of the metaphysical bond that exists between each of us, invisible though it is, whether we see it or not. How then will we understand the terrible terrible evil that is rampant among us that allows people to behave toward one another as people are behaving in the world now? It is as if we are being boiled down to one of two realities (what is that word I want, clarified?): will you choose love and forgiveness like the people in Charleston, South Carolina or hate and murder like the people in Paris.
I like to think sometimes that the world I grew up in was a kinder gentler world than the world I inhabit now, but I know that really is not true, for just as I grow nostalgic for my past I see the gates of the concentration camps slam shut or the bombs fall on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I guess the real question may be, what do you see in the face of the person who knocks on your door, even if he or she is holding an automatic weapon: life or death? An otherness that mirrors your own otherness or simply an object that has no connection to you at all?
While I was pondering the mysteries and thinking about our connections to one another, I hea d a very loud thud against the window in the farther room, followed by a thud as the bird dropped to the ground. I jumped up, well, got up slowly and hurried to the door, just above where the action just took place. I stepped out onto the balcony and saw the "outdoor cat" coming up the stairs with a very alive male cardinal in its mouth. I yelled at her to drop it, and she did. I am always astonished when something behaves as I want it too. In any case she dropped it on the stairs; it was still alive but suffering somewhat. I picked him up carefully. His little chest was pumping vigorously, but he didn't try to peck me. The cat was on the ground meowing piteously, as though it had just been robbed of a treasure. I took the bird around back to show Mary. She took it and placed it on top of a firewood holder, and there it sat as I left, it's bright red head following my departure. It's wings didn't seem broken though one of its legs was not working too well. Well, come evening it will either have flown away or become something's supper. The cardinals apparently do not go south for the winter.
Somehow the damaged cardinal has thrown everything off kilter, as my mother used to say. All the while I was thinking about the above, I kept remembering Prufrock's "time to murder or create"; whichever it was, Prufrock was of course wrong, for the only time is now, as he will shortly discover if I can ever get back to the poem and my "literary ruminations." Sigh.