RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,185
(agree to disagree : a double lament)
My beloved dog, Sam, who
had so much travel with us,
died about 10 months ago
already. It hardly seems like
a day, and never a day goes
by that I don't think of her or
put her into my current scene.
It was a very difficult moment
for me, even as I saw it to be
approaching months before
it happened. Few believed the
fitful signs I was noticing, but
it was a death foretold; in dog
terms. And it sucked, and nothing
made it easier to deal with. The
parting was hasty, and very
painful for me. People said
'Get another one, right away,'
and things of that nature. But
I felt it would have been a
betrayal of our memory. Now,
these months later, I realize I
don't wish another dog; she was
the only one I'd care to have dealt
with, and I did - for a long and
happy time. Dogs' lives are unfair,
and the time span of their days,
not in conjunction with ours in
terms of span and longevity, is
a lousy bargain. I find myself now
at the stage of not even 'liking' dogs
that much any longer - all those
problems, pills, vet visits, fleas,
ticks, skin bumps, anxiety, and all
the rest. In the end, too, the plain
old expense is impractical and
heavy. So, I guess it can be said,
I've moved on - that one-time
niche has been filled and repaired.
Dentistry should be so easy?
-
The human heart - it seems -
always has a great, growling
yearning for something only it
sees and which can only partially
be relayed to others. It's a solitary
enclave of self-understanding. Which
is probably why, in fact, I find myself
here on these pages, dropping all
this glorious self-drivel and notation
to no one really except myself. If
'Readers' get a kick from this, I feel
honored, but I'd be doing it anyway.
I had a friend, Aleck, dead now, who
was always berating my vanity and
self-absorption, as he saw it. I did
not ever see it that way, and basically
pushed back at his mostly foul rudeness
at every chance. Fortunately, a continent
separated us, or I'd have bopped him
good once or twice. And once or twice
I was ready to board a plane west to
find out what was really at any of his
expensive and exclusive addresses,
famous friends, and high-finance
stature. His defenses of himself were
always facetious and mostly ended
up malicious, seemingly based on an
oddly concocted lack of, or surfeit of,
medication. I could, frankly, never
figure it out : one day it was his yacht,
another day his America's Cup
participation; the next day it was him
with Martin Sheen, or some famous
chef, from whom he dined, expensively,
each day; or his barber-to-the-stars,
with whom he was best friends and
who groomed all the famous folk he
knew. He'd made millions in the
movie and finance industries, worked
with Saudi Arabia in solving the
world's financial problems; he had The
New York Times paying him princely
sums in this last election (Trump/Biden)
for perfect polling data and trend-based
opinions turns and popular moods. The
list, believe me, was never-ending. To
him, my life and habits, attitudes and
ways of living were a dead-man's black
hole. I was useless, knew nothing, spoke
only blather. I guess we were equals?
Anger, fortunately, recedes. His claims
of riches and fame in California, as I
figured, have all fallen flat since his
death. But, you know, much in the
same manner of dog, I miss him;
the going and the getting; those
oddball tiffs and faux adventure
tales. The froth and the fun - and
we had both. Cars, yachts, suits,
tailored shirts and slacks, and
exquisitely manufactured fine
things. His last venture was of
telling me of his new-found perfection
and his aims of living to 'cent-an' -
which was some form of saying
100 years. Apparently his diet was
rich and heavy, and (in both respects
respects here I pay). He was running
three miles a day, he claimed, and
sometimes twice a day. Alas, for all
that, I was notified that he dropped
dead on the street, where he fell,
during his daily walk. Whatever; no
more said, no more found. Matter
closed.
-
Matter closed? Though I droop at loss,
I revered the guy, and my dog as well.
What good is this crummy life anyway
if joy and fantasy cannot commingle.
(Tell that to the late Hugh Hefner, I
guess, or to any one of those million
L.A. porno geniuses). There are at
least a million ways of satisfying
oneself, and if the dream by fame
and riches, achieved without work
or attainment, so be it, The whole
world is a story anyway - good
chapters and bad. In my own case,
every other page is bad, torn, or
just a black smudge, though I'm
way used to that by now. I can't
speak for my late dog, for whom
the canine attainment of time on
Early was, a highly hope, one of
pleasure and comfort, and adventure
and joy. As for Big Al, alas, for
him I reach me hand, wishing for
the last grasp we never had, that
moment to square things up, share
the better points, and maybe just
agree to disagree. Arf. Arf.
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