Lambiedog

A different approach to the dog walk

When you come down to it, each dog has his own definition of la dolce vita.

 

Guidance

 

Source of strength

 

When I'm at a loss I sometimes seek guidance at the sacred fire pit.  

  Even if there's no fire going, I absorb calm and wisdom as I circle around the pit. 

 It centers me.

 

Resolutions

 

    In the coming year:

-I will try not to poop in the living room.

-I will try to be more friendly to other dogs.

-I will support universal health coverage.

-Exercise, exercise, exercise!

Year-end wrap-up

        I spent last night at the bar with my drinking buddy, reviewing the past year's ups and downs.

 It was a good year overall.  I solidified friendships, controlled my seizure disorder, and honed my connection to the bluffs.  We got a new president, and he got a new dog.

 Yes, there were some disappointments, notably in the squirrel department.  But, as my friend reminded me, in toto it was a banner Year of Lambie.

 No one can know what the coming year will bring, but tomorrow I may come up with some resolutions to guide me going forward.  

So, until next year...have a safe and happy New Year's Eve, dear Readers!

Coexisting with the crows

When I went out this morning I noticed some crows active nearby.

        

That didn't faze me.  Nor did I feel the need to run after them (even though I have heard it suggested that crows are the new squirrels).

As the me-generation guru Fritz Perls put it:

I do my thing and you do your thing / I am not in this world to live up to your expectations / And you are not in this world to live up to mine / You are you / And am I / And if by chance we find each other / It's beautiful.

 

Lessons of the tree

The tree stands short and proud.  Kind of like me.

Also like me, it has witnessed violence -- in its case, the scurrilous attack by vandals upon the neighboring garbage can.

I decided to sniff around to try to understand how the tree could put up with such violence and still keep serving bravely in its post.  

 

At first I thought that the cigarette butts littered across the grass -- perhaps left by the   perpetrators as they wrapped the garbage can in pink paint that symbolized something or other that mattered at the time -- were the important clues.

But when I stepped back, I saw that in the big picture the cigarette butts were too small to be seen.  And even the graffiti on the garbage can blended into the tranquil overall picture.

 

Everything* --the tree, the bench, the ocean, the garbage can, the sky, the bushes, and even insignificant me -- is all part of the tapestry of the bluff.

*Almost everything, that is:  Rest in peace, my squirrel comrades.  You are not forgotten.

Perspective

Sometimes the world can seem so cruel.

When I arrived at the bluffs last night I saw Dolce and Max playing together. Black and white, ebony and ivory, perfect harmony.

 

I looked at their owners.  Dressed in black and white, they matched Max and Dolce, and incidentally coordinated with one another as well.  

 

Then I looked at my owner.  Pink and olive.   A terrible match for my fur.  And obviously not coordinated with the other owners either.

  It's hard enough being a dog who's not great at playing wrestling games or running after balls.  Why do I also have to have the misfit parent?

 

Sure, it's all in my own head.  But it's still hard to be the dog who doesn't fit in.

I turned away and walked over to the edge of the bluffs, away from the pink and olive, black and white.  

 

I drank deeply of the ocean breeze and thought of my dinner waiting for me at home.  

 

I thought of all the dogs who don't have dinner waiting, and of all the dogs whose owners are worse-dressed than mine. 

I thought about how much my owner loves me, and I decided that maybe it was time for us to go home together and investigate the dinner situation.   

Species confusion

A member of my entourage has just brought up an intriguing possibility:  What if I am in fact a miniature lamb rather than a dog?  Since I was abandoned as a young animal I know no one who actually recalls my mother.  

If it quacks like a duck and walks like a duck, it's a duck.  But if it looks like a lamb and walks like a dog, which is it?

We've assumed that I'm a dog because I was rescued by a dog rescuer. What if my rescuer took a few categorization liberties in a generous effort to save a young lamb lost in a dangerous neighborhood? 

Here's my position:  I am not interested in species reassignment at this point.  I have identified as a dog for quite a while now, and I prefer to retain that identity.  

Back to work

I'm back in business after the Great Squirrel Disappointment.

I could be going into an existential funk and asking myself, 'What is the point?'

But I don't want to go the way of bitterness and despair.  'Get a grip, Lambie,' I tell myself.

I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of one little dog don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.