Our social history is one of
imperial colonialism lording it
over less socially, economically
advanced cultures, even cultures
of ancient heritage that the hubris
of ours found wanting, and now
those times are less hallowed, the
spirit of domination and oppression
that zeitgeist acknowledged
with the penance of shame as
we humbly teach ourselves
the virtues of tolerance and
respectful understanding, to make
amends so we may like ourselves
spurning our past. Now we are
tolerant of those who in history
felt somewhat as we did
sublimely entitled to crude
and bloody conquest in a
surging scimitar-led campaign
to forcibly enlist those not of the
faith to surrender ignominiously
and penitently to Islam. Now, we
fatuously empathize with their
campaigns of murderous raging
jihad murmuring sympathetically
past one atrocity after another
that we have, after all, offended
their theistic sensibilities.
Just as well it is winter
and miserably frigid, one
supposes. Puppies have to
become accustomed to all kinds
of weather, after all, and while
duty not yet calls them, we
take up the challenge
as befits their human
companions since time
beyond memory to ease them
into the backyard ritual
of relieving themselves there
not in the house. They shiver
in the cold as we do, their
tender little paws abused
by snow and ice, but our
gratitude at performance
and our loudly effusive praise
delights them and us, both.
Just as well, then, it's winter
no neighbours out in their
backyards to hear our lunatic
whoops and yelps of
celebratory commendation.
This house of ours, so
ordinarily immaculate
has become a piquantly hellish
place since inviting two
sibling puppies to share a
home with us. Some trade-off
that is, for the ordered neatness
and predictability of a house
lacking the substance and
vigour of youthful joy and
exuberance, a pair of
devilishly wild puppies'
presence replete with laughter
and amazing acrobatic
cheekiness, feats of silly
courage and loving excess
weighed against staid, elderly
boredom, and a tidy home.
On the other hand, of course
they are action-omnivorous
curious and adventurous little
monsters and we may
not yet survive this frantic
paradisaical exposure.
 |
| Button -- 1993-2012 |
There exists a mysterious
element of inheritance surely
as though creatures are
programmed in a strategy to
seamlessly repeat and replace
one another, bred to complement
the emotional needs of people
who see in their beloved canine
companions the arcane spirit and
acquired habits of those that
preceded them. It is as though
grief for the one lost to age's
inevitable descent into death
moves Nature to provide
another, gifted with like
qualities and the precocious
sense of identifying clues
leading to the inspiration of
repeated mannerisms and
sensitivities of the original.
Their presence a consolation.
It truly is a wickedly
icy winter day, wind
whipped to a frenzy of
chill, underfoot treacherous
icy conditions, but the sky
bright with golden sun.
On the woodland trail
suddenly galumphing
toward us, the spectacle
of a pink-jacketed
Irish Setter pup, gleeful
with the freedom from
constraint, wallowing
joyfully in the snow
then headed straight
toward us, its long
puppy tail swooping
like a pendulum in greeting
leaping on our chests
offering its free affection
to affable strangers and
frantic owner alike, this
young creature infused with
the delirium of discovery.
The early morning sun
gleams, glistens and
glitters on the handiwork
of yesterday's elements
choreographed by nature
to perform their roles
to flawless perfection.
On cue, the darkly dense
sky of pewter released
snow and the wind
blew it into every
interstice, cranny and
crack, until the world
was white and bright
and new again. Then the
icy atmosphere relented
to freezing rain, generously
coating and enfolding
trees with the brilliant
burden of sparkling ice.
A scene of ravishing beauty
transforming the landscape
to a winter wonder, sun
adding the diamond touch.
There are those who will
never understand your
grief the loss of a
presence dear to you
has caused, others for
whom your loss is
expressed in personal
relief that it is you
not they who have
been bereaved, and
yet others who tell you
to brace up and
recall the good things
and just accept the sad
reality of the inevitable.
And then there are those
whose uncompromised
compassion is a soothing
calm dispensing with words
in favour of a deep gaze
leading to the brief but
lasting harbour from
haunting pain deep
within the firm warmth
of an empathetic embrace.
