A Dog's Life

"So what if no one cares?" my therapist said.
"It just seems to me that after you've logged in
a certain amount of time at a given spot,
people should care if you stop showing up."
"Oh, I see, so you signed some kind of
agreement when you started going to this
bar that other regulars should look out
for you, search for you if you suddenly go
missing?" One of those smug rhetorical
questions which can accomplish nothing
but piss a person off. Still, he must be
going somewhere with this, I assured
myself. "You know I didn't. And you
must also know that I wonder if anyone
will ever notice, or care, that after almost
five years of being a regular, I don't step
foot in there anymore." Mr. Therapist
looked like a chess player struggling to
see the move that will yield checkmate.
He came up with it. "So, what do you
you really want? For someone to call you
or ring your doorbell and say, 'Hey, man,
what happened to you? Are you OK? We
haven't seen you in weeks'?" Folks always
think they're being so tricky when they ask
you to clarify what it is you want; who has
ever been entirely clear what they really
want out of life? "Because I have a funny
feeling," the bright one went on,
"you would take that as an invasion
of your precious privacy." Oh, no need, for that,
bringing malicious editorializing into the
situation, adding that 'precious' on the end
there. A person treasuring their privacy
is overly precious, huh? I mumbled,
"Sometimes when someone imposes
themselves on you it brings you out of your
shell, you know, forces you to be real."
My guide pondered this reality momentarily.
"You want someone to force you to be real,
is that it?" I replied, "Get down to business,
roll up the sleeves, and be real _with_ me
is more like it." This statement was lacking
enough guile to warrant a smarmy retort.
Mr. Man was puzzled, clearly. "Really,"
I continued, "it just strikes me as worse than
sad that I have no expectation of anyone ever
noticing or giving a shit." "That you
don't show your face at this bar anymore."
"Right. In fact, I think there'll be some
relief for the lack of me." "Relief?" I
was given a look that said, 'Don't you
go feeling sorry for yourself on my watch.'
"I get the distinct impression folks feel
like they have to be in top form around me,
like if they showed themselves for who
they really are, I'd think less of them."
"Who they really are?" So, the conversation
had taken a very boring turn toward
the overtly Socratic. I was ready to end it.
"Yes. As if I don't enjoy kicking back,
watching TV, and having a beer like
every other guy in the world." Some sort
of light bulb went off in my soothsayer's head.
"So, you do?" I'd had enough. "Will you
just quit it with the questions already?" I
quipped. "Oh, I see: you don't." I really
hate it when my words are twisted. "No,
I mean, Yes, I do. Just stop. I'm leaving."
Thus we arrived at Mr. Therapist's desired
destination. "I see. So, you can just get up
and go any old time you want, but you
still expect people to care about you. You
can see how I might find that a little
perverse." I was just glad he hadn't asked
another question. "You think I'm a pervert."
His grin was a satisfied one. "You know
I don't, but can we agree that the subject
is not so black and white as you'd like to
make it out?" I just wanted to leave; I
wasn't trying to make anything out, or up.
All I could conjure to say was, "Amazing
to think that dogs see in black-and-white, and in
two dimensions, and they're some of the happiest
people I know."

(2007)