THE OLD DOG
Once an old dog decided there wasn’t much point in learning new tricks. This conclusion came to it the day the old dog first noticed a trace of gray around its muzzle. How long had the gray been there, it wondered? Such a change likely hadn’t happened overnight, so how did it escape the dog’s attention until now? On closer inspection, a light graying could be detected on its temples as well. And now that it studied the dome between its ears, didn’t the hair seem to have thinned a bit, leaving patches of pale skin visible where none had shown before? How had these too escaped the dog’s notice? As it sat in the park during the noon hour and tried to prepare itself mentally for an afternoon of multitasking demands, the uneasy feeling it might also have missed other life changes proved a distraction the old dog couldn’t shake. Had its stride slowed or become less assured? Was its hearing, always reliable before, beginning to fail, so that it was spoken to more loudly and more slowly now, as if others assumed it had entered its dotage already? Had it missed the scent and wandered off track in a single pursuit it could recall? The dog certainly didn’t think any of these were true. And yet it still sat there in the sun and brooded over how it hadn’t spotted the gray sooner. Who could think of new tricks at a moment like this, when a lifetime of old and familiar ones might be slipping away from you along with everything else? Not to have a future was a depressing notion; not to have a past any longer must be worse, though. The dog tried to count off all the tricks it had learned over the years but gave up when it became apparent not that it had forgotten a few but that it remembered every one. It did have a past and a past that returned to it as fully as Proustian recollections over a madeleine soaked in tea. Sitting in the park lost in the resurrected proofs it had been alive, the old dog missed its afternoon tasks, missed the hour to return home, even missed its evening meal, something that hadn’t happened in years. All the way back to its days as a pup, when everything seemed fresh and unexplored, the dog’s life was there in its entirety, proof against the slights of time that something worth remembering had in fact occurred. That all was not flung aside in an unseemly rush for new tricks. It was natural when young, the dog knew, to look to the future as an ever-expanding range of lessons to be learned and limits to be tested. The past at that age was always the past of others, and its weight the burden of custom. New tricks promised an escape from those constraints that only the most timid of breeds shied from. But with advancing years and a future that grew shorter with each breath, the past of others became one’s own past as well. No longer did it feel like a short leash in the hands of the dead. Communal memory became personal as the events of one’s own life stretched back into the lives of others and shared experiences multiplied the years. Being alone wasn’t the same now as it had been when the dog was young and spry. When making your own way was all that counted and the loneliness of old age would never arrive. Now, the old dog reckoned, knowing you’d mastered the tricks of a lifetime meant far more than panting for a few new ones to learn.
Copyright © 2007 by Geoffrey Grosshans