Going to the Dogs
When we were young, we would sometimes be forced to tell our friends that we had to go because our mothers were expecting us for some reason or other. Then as we got more independent and older, but were still mostly dependent on others, we used our schoolwork or perhaps our new work situation to create an excuse for why we all needed to run off before the festivities were completed. All of these excuses were dealt with severely by friends who were quick to call names of anyone succumbing to any pressures that curtailed good times in favor of responsibilities. But then we all became adults and masters of our own fates at some point, neither subject to the direction of parents or teachers nor the more subtle approbations of our peers. But rather than things easing up, there is no taskmaster more draconian than oneself, and the list of reasons to cut short pleasure in favor of obligation multiplies and carries with it the penance of extreme self-awareness and a need to be prudent.
I think some people are apt to treat adulthood as a time when they must atone for their sins and excesses of youth. While I certainly had my indulgences of youth, I don’t think anyone who knew me, would accuse me of arrested development. Not being a party person meant that I never felt I had used up my allotment of party time and needed to be one of the early to leave crowd. I did generally leave early, but I like to think it was on my own terms and for my own reasons, not because someone or something was calling. And when we truly settle down and have kids, some higher power kicks in for many of us and we become Uber-cautious about getting home to the kids. It’s not about the babysitting costs, its about the importance of following the natural order to procreate responsibly and care for our young. Part of that is to leave the party early and go home to be sure the kids are OK.
We had an impromptu gathering here the other night where three couples from the neighborhood came over. There was Mike and Melissa, who are a few years younger than us, but more or less in the same stage of retired life, with kids grown and gone. There was Sam and Chris, who while very vital (Sam still plays lots of tennis and throws joint-related caution to the wind on a regular basis) declared themselves to be a decade older than us and their kids are scattered to the western winds. But then, a decade that means so much when we are young, seems to mean much less at this age (one of my best friends is turning 85 this year and one of my great motorcycle pals, Arthur-Living-Legend-Einstein turns 90 this Fall). And then there was Robert and Joanna, who live next door and are putting in a pool this summer. You don’t put in a pool at any old age, you gotta be young enough to want to cannonball and given the age of their youngest son (who is still 16), I’m guessing these two are early to mid 50’s, so the youngest of the group by far. But let’s face it, their nest is near empty.
We started the BBQ at 5pm and by 8pm we had had our kebabs and all the strawberry shortcake we could handle. The conversation got lively and yet avoided the common 2022 pitfalls of politics and the morality of abortion, just to name a few of the great dividers of our age. Sam, in particular, was taking note of our global antiquities and artwork, which is decidedly exotic and eclectic, and only slightly important by either archeological or artistic standards. And then the conversation turned to local wildlife, with a bent towards coyotes. Sam and Chris get and see few where they live down in the hidden meadow. Mike and Melissa have a pack of five that playfully romp all over their front property, they say. Robert and Joanna were introduced to the neighborhood last year by the stark reality of having one of their three little pups get snatched during their first week, never to be seen again, and presumably a part of the food chain of the local fauna. We are somewhere in the middle of all this and see the coyotes, but neither welcome them nor seek to banish them. We have chosen to be wary and coexist. That is almost a metaphor these days of how we handle the varied political and morality divides that inhabit our everyday social order.
Suddenly, while still at table and with the coyotes having been discussed and dismissed, the canine card was on the table. The party was suddenly over and we all got simultaneously serious for a Saturday night. Mike and Melissa have Bravo, a friendly but old German Sheppard waiting for them at home, living in fear of losing his weakened bladder (he has a sad case of hip dysplasia). One look between them reminded them of their obligation to Bravo and they declared that it was time to leave the party. Sam and Chris have their pup at home, who, while not probably as aged as Bravo, was probably getting lonely enough to overcome Sam’s intrigue in our artifacts and antiquities, so they said they should probably go as well. Robert and Joanna live fifty yards south through the Cecil Garden, that memorial to Kim’s beloved Bichon who passed away two years ago, and while they have two pups still at home, Joanna’s mother and their young high schooler made their return a bit less urgent. Meanwhile, our Betty, who is perhaps fifteen years old now, wandered aimlessly around the dining room, looking for scraps for a reason that has less to do with hunger and more to do with a lifetime of scrounging that is hard-wired into her psyche.
Here we were, eight adults on a warm summer Saturday night. There was no school the next day. There were no kids at home that needed our guidance or our help to survive. But we had all taken on dogs to care for. Why do we do that? When we should be somewhere between canonballing our pools and drifting aimlessly off for our naps without a care in the world, we choose to struggle against the natural world just a bit more and take on dogs that need us to help them have a future free of the coyote food chain. We seem to have a need as a species to continue to prove to ourselves that we are stronger than the natural order as much as we like saying that we respect it. Keeping our dogs safe and well-fed is our way of saying that there is a future out there that looks bright enough for us to preserve and to which we need to aspire.
I read a NY Times Op/Ed today about the importance of longtermism (yes, that seems to be a word). It argued that now, more than ever in human history, we need to keep our eyes forward and to convince ourselves that the world has a future worth looking forward to. I also got a text from Sam, who is still pondering antiquities and archeology, and told me I must go to the dinosaur museum in Bozeman, Montana (where they had just been while visiting their son). The morning mist suddenly lifted for me. Stay with me, because this one is a stretch of my Monday morning imagination. Dogs may be the link for us between the past and the future. They bury the bones of the past, but they also give us something to leave the party for and to care about into the future.
I once heard Dustin Hoffman at a movie preview say that he defines his life in dogs. He was 70 at the time (he is now 85) and said that he figured he had two more dogs in him, referencing his likely lifespan in the lifespans of his beloved dogs. Presumably he is close to being on his last dog now, but I’ll bet if you asked him, he would have his eyes forward and on the future, saying that he still has another dog or two to go. We are all, sooner or later, going to the dogs.