Dogs & Stuff
I have long admired dogs. And have declared, on more than one occasion, that they’re preferable to humans.
When dogs become friends with humans, they cease to judge us. There’s little arguing or posturing. A relationship can endure, providing emotional support for both parties with no hidden agenda. No agonizing about having said the wrong thing.
And dogs are generally more civil about settling disputes than people. Yes, they fight, but usually one gives in, assumes a position of surrender, and that’s the end of it. Both dogs can then go about their business.
But I have a new fascination with dogs. One that has always been right in front of me, but I never consciously considered it: Dogs don’t need stuff. A sign of superior intelligence.
I have been cleaning out my giant storage shed, getting rid of stuff. Stuff my husband collected until he died. Stuff that was so important I couldn’t part with it, so I stored it in a shed for a decade so I could part with it now. And I am moving—so even the stuff that I thought I needed close at hand looks less important.
We can’t take it with us when we leave the planet. And we know that. Still, we keep amassing piles of stuff. Some of it we can leave to our loved ones, but a lot of it is nothing they want. Believe me—I’ve asked.
Dogs apparently know all this. They don’t bother to collect stuff. Oh, people try to humanize their dog friends by buying them toys, blankets, beds, special bowls and leashes and sometimes even sweaters and boots. And those same people tend to feel their dogs can’t live without these things. That they would miss their stuff if it were gone.
But I think otherwise. Tootsie the Wonder Dog, my best friend, is not attached to any stuff at all. She doesn’t need a bed—she’s happy to lay wherever I lay. On the floor. In the grass. On the couch. On my mattress. I have given her large rawhide “chewies” thinking she might be bored. She waits for me to turn my attention away, carries them outside and buries them. Apparently not for safe keeping, but to get rid of them. She never digs them up. She’d rather chase squirrels, armadillos, or deer. Man-made toys hold no fascination for her.
I have been sorting and packing my husband’s stuff, my own stuff, and now my mother’s stuff—as she has fallen into ill health and is hospice bound. My house is jumbled with bags, boxes, beds, and bookcases. I must leave a path for Tootsie—who minds the ever-changing route without complaint. If she were a person, she might harshly judge me for not keeping the house neater. Or feel superior because she doesn’t create a walking hazard with her personal belongings. But Tootsie’s canine sensibilities allow her to honor our friendship no matter what kind of housekeeper I am.
Perhaps it is precisely her lack of stuff that allows her the freedom to love me for who I am. Her goal is not skewed by a need to acquire or protect stuff. She just loves and lives in the moment. While I, on the other hand, can’t always be frolicking in the park, or rolling on the floor. I am distracted by stuff.
Some folks believe in reincarnation. If they are correct, I hope my husband and my mother meet in a field of feisty squirrels, tails wagging and ready for sport, in a life free from stuff.