lessons in paw and fur

As the day of being employed draws ever closer, I feel my anxiety level rising. Like Eve, I have tasted the forbidden fruit, and I want second helpings. Adam tasted it too, but, being a man, he was too preoccupied with the comprehension of nudity to be aware of what he had bitten into. I have experienced how life is meant to be lived, partially. If grad school were out of the pictures, the scene would be complete. I know the story of the grasshopper and the ants (if you don’t know it, I am not gonna tell you—pick up a book). I know I should desire to be an ant and be productive and responsible. Well, I don’t. I don’t want to be an ant. I don’t do well in lines. Neither do I want to be a grasshopper. Have you seen their skin tone? Even Noxzema isn’t going to clear that up. Just because it looks good on Elphaba, doesn’t mean it will be appealing on me (again, pick up a book—or attend the theatre [please note the fancy and pretentious spelling of theater—yeah, you wish you could pull that off with such ease and culturability]). I want to be human. I want to be a man. I want to simply be alive and enjoy that most basic of truths. Of course, I want nice clothes, phenomenal food, a gorgeous house, limitless music on my iPod and DVDs on my shelves, and boundaryless (please note the fancy and pretentious invention of words [yeah, you wish you could pull that off with such ease and culturability]) flight miles. It is a flaw of the world’s economic structure that those items are dependant on money, which is (in most cases) dependent on hours worked. See, I really don’t want that much or ask for the unrealistic.
As the day of being employed draws ever closer, I see the trappings of the universe clearer and less diluted than previously. As is typical, God chooses to reveal His most enlightened truth through the living example of one of his children, Dolan. Dunkyn, Dolan, and I (often accompanied by Chad, as of late) take at least one rather lengthy walk each day—sometimes two or three. Dunkyn enjoys these, waddling along in a rather adorable manner, stopping to sniff every putrid scent along the way—sometimes happening along one that is delectable enough in which to wallow about blissfully (you have not seen Heaven on Earth until you have witnessed Dunkyn in such a state). Dolan, too, loves his walks. He enjoys many a delightful sniffs as well, but he is much more visually stimulated. He trots here and there, up and down, in and out, taking in every sight for consumption. Between the two, Dolan enjoys his walk time the most. Dunkyn would be fine watching TV and snuggling with his Daddy and never leaving his home. Dolan’s sanity, on the other hand, is dependant upon his walking adventures.
As mentioned in other blogs, Dolan and I have started a tradition of racing the last quarter block to the front door. This race is rather difficult and dangerous for all involved. He doesn’t grasp the entire point of racing. All he knows is that he should be in front. To him the vast measurement of that advancement is inconsequential. Instead of running beside me, Dolan runs sideways, about two inches, directly in front of my feet. He darts back and forth, tongue lolling, eyes cast up watching my face in anticipation—worried that if he runs too far in advance he will miss some part of the experience. As a result, it is a rarity that the racing extravaganza ends sans paw squishing, owner tripping, puppy yelping, daddy squealing, or some combination thereof.
As the tradition has become more and more firmly engrained in his psyche, his expectations have been ever raised. It started several weeks ago. We would be three or four blocks away from the house and Dolan, caught up in anticipation, would begin to traipse back and forth in front of me, eyes rolling up to mine, bouncing in excitement, waiting to break into a limited run. Currently, it has reached the point of this example of delighted impatience begining about halfway through our walks. All scents loose their potency, all sounds fade into murmurs, all sights blur to impressionistic watercolors, only the pounding of heart, quickness of breath, and tingling expectancy remain. At first (after overcoming my annoyance at the hindering of my walking ability) I thought his exuberance one more expression of his adorableness. However, I begun to see myself (and most of humanity) through his eyes. What used to be a nearly euphoric experience from beginning to end for my little one has now only half as joyous. Regardless of where he starts his race preparations, the race will only start once we have thrown the poop bag away a little distance from the door. In an effort to not miss a minutia of the race, Dolan has lost half of what is one of the largest highlights of his existence. Instead of allowing himself to enjoy every nuance that lends pleasure, his entire sensibility is overwhelmed by the brief seconds spent in a race where he analyzes each moment so that he will not miss a second.
I love my little man. I hope dearly that he will learn to enjoy each moment, the calm, repetitive, and soothing, as well as the thrilling, heart-stopping, and anticipated. I hope the same thing for his daddy.