I didn’t come crashing down, exactly. I did, however, fall off my perch. And, although I might deny it, there have been a few residual self-esteem issues in the aftermath.
What happened is that my most favorite dog in this spiral of this galaxy, the one whose disheveled head I affectionately muss far more than any other, confided to a pet psychic recently that he does not “feel close” to me.
Admittedly, this is not my first rodeo. I have experienced rejection in its varied forms previous to this particular bombshell. One might say that in some ways I am its poster child deservedly so, you might add. No argument there!
It’s just that I wasn’t prepared for the emotional trauma that accompanied this right hook to the jaw of my perception. I never saw it coming. I was blindsided. One day he’s doing back-over flips just to close the gap between us, and the next he’s copping a plea that he knows me only in passing.
Another thing is, I’ve always considered myself to be no less intuitive than most others in my environment. Let the data processors wrangle over left-brain domination. I have long considered myself, if not a “dog whisperer,” at least a dog listener which, of course, is somewhat lower on the food chain than “pet psychic.”
You don’t think it’s karma, now, do you? I suppose it could be payback for snide comments in past columns concerning most things “new age?” But, except for the music, or lack thereof, I think I’ve retracted most all of my “ignorant” rants.
I wonder if the psychic could prescribe a penance for me that would clear me of this “aloofness” charge I currently have pending in the court of doggie opinion. Maybe a good old-fashioned “aura scrubbing” might put me in good stead. Or how ’bout if I were to read “The Idiot’s Guide to Past Life Regression” and submit a book report.
Obviously I’m “mind, body, and spirit” challenged again, old news. What’s it going to take to return me to balance, to harmony, to what the Navajos call “hozjo?” What can I do to modify the distance that this once-loveable pooch now feels exists between us?
I don’t have problems like this at home. And it’s not like I live alone I have roommates. For example, there are the two tumbleweeds, Hemingway and Hayduke.
“Hem,” as you might well imagine, is rather full of himself and flaunts a canopy as complex as anything you would find in a rain forest. “Duke,” however, splattered with a large and ominous-looking collection of trout flies, serves as a year-around totem to whatever needs deconstructing around these parts.
Oftentimes, as far as I can tell, they go for days without speaking to one another. On other occasions, you can walk into the room and catch them both attempting to hide a smirk as if, maybe, they’d been sharing anecdotal humor at my expense. Now, if that isn’t an example of “feeling close,” I don’t know what is.
And why shouldn’t we feel close? It wasn’t like I hunted them down and field dressed them on the spot. They just tumbled on in, lookin’ for new digs. It works for them and not one tumbleweed psychic could convince me otherwise.
In fact, if you don’t believe me, ask others of their persuasion. There must be at least a hundred of them lined up outside the window as if it were a casting call for a John Ford movie. Just possibly, it’s because they’ve heard that I’m easy to get close to. That’s the prevailing wind that brought them here.
Culturally, the tail-wagger, the tumbleweeds, and I are quite diverse, but that’s not the problem. We are all immigrants to the alluvial plain that is the Heber Valley and, as far as I know, have always, up to now, “felt close.”
Hem’s and Duke’s forefathers were Russians who came west by train imbedded in burlap bags. I’ve always done my best to make them feel at home by loading the bookcase in their direct field of vision with Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Chekhov, and the like.
It’s far more likely, however, that Hemingway and Hayduke, both in namesake and in fact, would have preferred vodka.
The bow-wow has French-Canadian roots and, although my Acadian music stash is rather scant, the qualitative aspect of my Cajun collection is off the charts. Maybe if we’d spent more time together diggin’ the Balfa Brothers, Doug Kershaw, Beausoleil, Mark Savoy, or even Daniel Lanois, the dog would feel a closer kinship with me.
Possibly I should take him down to the French Quarter and the two of us could stay up all night at Wanda’s over on Ste. Phillipe before grabbing a cup of chicory and a Beignet or two in the Café Du Monde at dawn. Then I could drag him on over to St. Martin Parish to try his paw at some crawfish and a Zydeco two-step. Believe it, this dog can eat and dance!
Or, maybe instead of just bribing the dog to undergo a change of heart, a better way to resolve this matter might well be to try and buy off all three of us. Bring the psychic a pint of “magnetized water” in a glass featuring a Sedona logo. An Islay Scotch and a pre-embargo Cuban cigar will do me just fine. And while you’re up, get the dog a bone. We all have our own cultish behaviors.
Jay Meehan is a culture junkie and a free-lance writer with a background in commercial and community radio, among other pursuits. He has been a columnist and feature writer for various Park City publications going back to 1973.