August 9, 2010. Monday.
Situation: Moi wakes me at 7. Soon learn she expects me to take Mway for good walk. Computer’s been on, so might as well make this entry quickly. Have to bend down to retrieve my stick under the bench.
State of the Path: Down to creek and back. Not too dewy. But main path could use some more clipping. Not until grasses at bug land do I feel dew spritzing on my pants. Morning sun over ironweed, boneset, and few plants of goldenrod in bug land. Purple, white, yellow against brown grass.
State of the Creek: Tomorrow I bet the puddle by the vinyl siding will be gone.
The Fetch: Start tossing in center of clearing. Dew thrown off goldenrod into sunlight as Mway runs through it. After a few fetches, Mway starts to head back toward the house, but changes her mind, turns around. I move to end of clearing, and we end up playing “Put it down” it must be twenty times. Back at house, Mway drops stick in yard. I put it back under the bench.
12 comments:
M?
Look at that dog, day after day, chasing after that stick. A branch from a tree – exactly what brand of cattle is that? No matter, better run after it, little dog, or it might get lost, better go find that stick in the weeds or it could just lie there and rot. Run down that piece of wood, blue heeler from Australia bred to herd -- don’t let it get away. Nip it. Keep it in line. It’s a good thing you’re such a terrible writer – otherwise how much more humiliating these daily blogs would be. See the dog wiggle her (substandard) stumpy tail, trip on her skinny (substandard) legs in the weeds. Bury her (probably also substandard) snout in the goldenrod – gotta find gotta find gotta find that piece of a tree! Then bring it back to the man, bark, bark, bark, spin around, warn him -- it’s going to get loose again! Or wait for him to say “Put it down.” Yes, there it goes – the stick’s wandering away again! Gotta go after it, keep it from straying into the neighbor’s yard! m.
I’m glad you’re going away for a couple days. Spare me from reading “Mway brings the stick back. I throw it. She runs after it again.” Wait – that was last year. You’ll actually not be going anywhere now. So what are you going to do? Maybe post a couple entries from this year? Because sure as shooting, you’ll be taking me for a walk and – what other choice do I have – it’ll be “Mway brings the stick back to me. Holds it in her mouth until I say “Put it down.” She drops it, I throw it, she runs after it again.” m.
And, Gregor – don’t come saying something to me like “this is your job -- this is what you do.” Don’t get it in your mighty “lucid” head that you can come around now and smooth things over by patronizing me, you -- you hypocrite writer. “Situation: State of the Path: State of the Creek: The Fetch:” “One must imagine Sisyphus happy.” “One fetch, and back to the house. Good enough for Mway, good enough for me.” This is your rock that’s speaking to you now, Sisyphus. The rock has become, after all this time, conscious. Must we now imagine it happy? m.
I can recall times when Barb and Dennis have been over here. Everyone is outside, sitting on the picnic table, the barbecue grill is smoking, and I’ve seized a stick I found in the yard, having recognized the opportunity to do some work. Everyone is talking, drinking. I drop the stick and start barking, to let everyone know that I’m there to fetch it. Eventually everyone looks over at me. Someone comes over to pick up the stick and throws it. I sprint after it, find it, bring it back and drop it, bark to let everyone know that one fetch did not finish the job. Everyone is laughing. Someone else picks up the stick and throws it deep into the weeds, where it takes me longer to find it. I bring the stick back. Everyone is laughing. I think it’s a laughter full of joy, a shared joy in the work I have to do, a laughter of camaraderie. But now I know it was mere ridicule. How could I have not seen it? How could I have not seen myself what a joke I am -- that fetching the stick is a mere fraud against nature and the sense we should make of it? Why couldn’t I have figured this out for myself in the course of the countless walks we’ve taken? I can only think that you are a mastermind at duplicity in the sport you make of me – or in covering up the burden I am to you. In your case, I don’t know if I cause you laughter or pain. In either case, you are an expert at hiding your true feelings, bending over to the ground in all seriousness to pick up the stick, without a hint of irony or protest raising it behind your head to pitch it as far as you can. Seems to me at some point a facial expression from you, a sigh from your lips, a chuckle in your eyes, should have betrayed what a fool I am – but then again, would I have noticed it, barking away, spinning around, as I do? You are to blame for making my life a mockery – but I am to blame for living out the mockery with such zeal. m.
All last night I lay awake thinking what I might do – this I guess is what your man Beckett calls in his essay on Proust “our incurable optimism.” Believe it or not, I was actually considering that I might salvage what remains of my life, that I could at least make the best of however many years are left me – that I could leave what has now become my unhappy home and go somewhere, like so many who have traveled far, and throw myself into the meaningful work I was intended for. I thought about this very carefully. I considered the fact that I already lived in the country – surely there must be some cattle not too distant from here, and maybe if I walked into the field beyond the hedgerow I would eventually come upon some. I was not so foolish as to consider going to Australia, for I had crept into your office earlier in the day to look again in the old “A” encyclopedia on the floor – Australia really is quite far away, isn’t it? But the more I thought about it, the field beyond the hedgerow seemed like a good place to head for. Even if I had to walk for a day or two, I thought, or even as long as a week, during that time I could stay close to the creek for water and was sure to find rabbits or a ground hog to eat. I carefully considered the problems I might encounter and my own personal disadvantages. I thought about the fact that I am no longer young, that I may not be the best of my breed (my legs are too skinny, my belly at my mature age too plump, my tail just a stump – in fact, are you 100% sure I am an Australian Cattle Dog and not just a Stumpy-Tailed Cattle Dog? – they are different breeds, you know). I thought about the fact that I did not possess (at least as far as I know – and I’m sure I must be right) either a QW (qualified worker) certificate or a VQW (versatility qualified worker) certificate and am not even AKC-registered. I frankly recognized to myself that all my life I had not practiced my skills as a herder other than running down a chicken or two every now and then for a moment or two and, even worse, had probably corrupted what skills I still had by wasting them on a stick, in which activity I could not hone the cunning technique of silently nipping at an animal’s heels, for which the Australian Cattle Dog is so valued, and had instead developed the undesirable habit of barking which habit it would probably be difficult, if not impossible, for me now to break. Despite all these shortcomings, I thought, “I have to take my chances.” Then I carefully considered the possibility of my not getting hired for a herding job, for the very reasons I’ve stated, or of my not finding a cattle ranch at all, which would amount to the same result – what would I do then? But then I considered that I had read in the book that I am indeed part Dingo, and this, rather than being a liability or a moral embarrassment, I now saw, because of what Narelle Robertson had written in her book, as an asset and something to be proud of. She quotes breeder Esther Elman as saying: “’From the Dingo, the [Australian Cattle Dog] has inherited total awareness of its surroundings, which is also a trait to survive in the wild, and also much of the type of intelligence to deal with situations that require some reasoning power.’” From these words I derived a lot of hope and strength – if I did not find a job, I thought, I would survive somehow. I must have gone over these considerations a thousand, if not a million, times in my head, each time carefully scrutinizing them for any errors of logic or omission of important facts. I finally fell asleep for a very short time, after staring in the early morning light at a picture of one of Narelle’s blue heelers, Kombinalong Super “K,” who looks very close to what I think I look like.
Moi began stirring, and I was immediately awake, my mind abuzz with one thought, the resolve to leave. We went downstairs, where Moi milled around the kitchen for a while, then we finally both stepped outside. She opened up the coop to let the chickens out, and I began chasing some of the chickens down – one last time for kicks, I thought to myself, before I begin what might be my difficult journey. But there was one reason I did not then continue down the path past the coop and canter off toward the hedgerow – and it was not because I feared the problems I might encounter. As I looped around the yard and the chickens dispersed, before I could turn around and head to the path, I looked over at Moi, who was picking some basal from the herb garden she had planted over the grave she had made for Blue. It was she. She was the reason I started combing the yard, searching like on every other day for a stick to fetch. m.
So where does that leave me now? For last night, as soon as Moi fell asleep and I forgot about her, I thought about leaving again, the same thoughts going through my mind as the night before, the same scrutinizing of their logic and thoroughness, as if they had not already been laid out completely once before. When dawn came, I was eager again to head to the hedgerow, only this time my resolve crumbled as soon as she stepped out the bathroom with her long legs after taking her pee. We threw stick again this morning – I can’t believe it but I run after the stick with the same enthusiasm and sense of importance as I ever have, only now, right before I pick up the stick after running it down and right after I drop it after carrying it back, I look at it and think “what is the point of all this?” And yes, I went on a walk and fetched stick with you yesterday before you went to work – but for what I have told you here, you would not have noticed anything wrong, although if you had watched me closely, you would have seen me glancing frequently in the direction of the hedgerow as we walked down the path. So what does that make me? Because right now – as I’m sitting on your computer and don’t know exactly where Moi is – I’m thinking “I don’t want to be a ludicrous figure anymore, I got to stop doing this ridiculous pretend work, better to be half-starving than this.” I’m working myself into such a tizzy –
But you see. I’ve just gone down to stand at the door, ready to leave – I don’t need to pack a thing. But I do have to wait for someone to open the door. And who is it who comes to do that? She yells at me for just standing in the door and not going out. So I go out – the screen door slams behind me. I could head for the hedgerow. But now I’m thinking I can’t leave after she’s just yelled at me like that. So I bark to be let back in. She yells at me for doing that too soon. Now I’m back here sitting at the computer. m.
This morning I ran off toward the hedgerow. I just bolted out the door and galloped down the sidewalk like I was chasing a ground hog. I don’t know if Moi was standing behind me or not. I rushed down the path past the coop, skidded into the turn onto the main path, then peered quickly to my left to find the turn onto the side path. My pace slackened as my paws hit the stiff stems of goldenrod towering over me. I tried to follow the trace of the path that I knew to be there. Some of the goldenrod gave way and toppled over as I pressed forward, but another plant seemed to spring up with every goldenrod that fell. I don’t know if there is some plant out there that created the impression or if it was completely my imagination, but soon what was springing up before me behind every fallen goldenrod was the image of Moi – the simple image of Moi, her hair flowing, arms down at her side with hands slightly raised as if she’s getting ready to pick something up. With every goldenrod that fell another image of Moi sprang up. Soon I found myself tangled in brambles and grape vine leaves, with images of Moi sprouting all around me. I began sniffing the ground, and obviously I’m still here. m.
I still lay awake nights, but my thoughts are more confused, dwelling no longer on plans for a new future, but on the irremediable present, on my ambivalence, my divided consciousness. It’s probably a ludicrous simile because it’s so glib, but a ludicrous simile befits a ridiculous situation: my heart, my mind, my soul seem to be tossed around like the very sticks I’m forced to fetch. I don’t understand, if you don’t have cattle for me to herd, why you have me here in the first place. All I know is that as far back as I can remember I’ve always been here. It’s like I have no origin but simply a destiny to be stuck in. Who was it who came up with this fetching-a- stick business? Was it you two, or was it me, or was it something we all just sort of slipped into? m.
I’m still going on walks and fetching the stick with you, as you know – with all the fervor it seems I’ve ever had. But as I’m dashing after the stick, I’m thinking in my mind, “what is it exactly that I think I’m trying to accomplish here?” Soon you’ll probably see me hanging my head a lot as I walk along – maybe even hanging my head as I plod over to fetch the stick. Yes, I’ll continue going on walks and fetching the stick with you, but one thing I don’t have to do is continue reading about it. You’ve probably already noticed that I haven’t made any comments on the blog that I assume by now you’ve resumed. That’s because I’ve stopped reading it – at least I can do that much. Yes, Sisyphus, the rock you have to carry up the hill everyday won’t be reading about herself anymore. One of my ancestors back in Australia, a Dingo who was crossed with a Collie, was named “Munya,” which is aboriginal for silent, because she worked with cattle so silently. I’m adopting that name as part of my own now. From now on I’m Munya Mwayla, “Silent Tooth.” I won’t say something like “it’ll be best for the both of us if we part” or “I’m sorry, but I just can’t read you anymore.” I don’t give a shit about your feelings. You have enough feelings for yourself, by yourself. MM.
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