The Coffee Table

Dogs are superior beings.

When they have to pee, they do. Wherever is convenient. (Unless thwarted by a human).

When I’m out with my dog, if I’m the one who has to pee, I have to hold it. Wait until I find the appropriate little cubicle. Can’t do it outside. Can’t even do it inside if the cubicle isn’t available.

And when I eat, I have to put food on plates, and use cutlery to get the food from my plate to my mouth. And then I have to wash the plate and cutlery. My dog never has to wash dishes. Nightly, she sits on the sofa likely wondering why I indulge in these drudgeries.

I have to worry about appointments. And bank accounts. And what to wear.  

My dog is so unconcerned with fashion it  ain’t funny. She doesn’t comb her hair or put on deodorant or worry about which shoes match her outfit.  

When she’s tired, she sleeps. She doesn’t have a schedule that dictates time to lay down, time to get up, time to eat, visit, work or play.

Goodness, what people have done to themselves—and called it civilization.

Dogs don’t worry about what’s on sale, insurance, the electricity bill, or who has clear title to the acreage across the road.

It’s true that without our help, dogs would not get to the doctor when they are ill. But perhaps, at least some of the time, they would find their own cure for what ails them. And if the ailment is incurable, they wouldn’t ponder whether or not it is a good idea to have surgery—they would just play the hand they’ve been dealt.

We don’t think like that. We cling to life and want more. As much as we are able to squeeze out. To buy, if necessary. And sometimes this works well. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes humans are kept alive way past their “use by” date. 

My guess is that dogs don’t even think about “life.” They just live it. They do what they do in the moment and don’t invest a great deal in the future. They do live communally. They can be loving. Respectful. Warm. Cuddly. Brave. Protective. Joyful. All without plates or cups or stocks and bonds or rooms marked “women” and “men.”

I have gotten to a stage in my life that I theoretically have worked hard to get to. I went to school to get letters to post after my name. Had a career. Bought land. And stuff to put on the land. And now I want to get off the land, but have to deal with the stuff. And it takes all my waking hours to sort through stuff, pack stuff, decide whether to give stuff away or sell it. Decide where I will go when I finally get to leave my land—and I must choose somewhere. I cannot easily just go without a destination. Without a plan. Without a vehicle, insurance, money, clothes, and a mirror to make sure I look okay when I need to secure food, drink, or healthcare.

I am at the apex of life, and cannot see the real benefit of dishes and dresses.

And if I am to keep my dog as my partner, I must put constraints on her to conform to the rules of the “civilized.”   Collars and leashes and commands to sit and stay. As if humans are in control.

But we aren’t, really. In the end, all that we have earned, saved, and planned for is the stuff we can’t take with us. 

Not even our dogs.