We Little Dogs

When the great bolt arches the leaden sky,

We start and turn to find a warm leg, a secure place.

For Snowdiver and Roxie, I am that place.

For me, where is that place?

Is it in my mind, transformed (they say) by education and understanding — a scientist’s mind that perceives, categorizes, analyzes, “understands” much, but rarely has to confront cold, raw fear, real desperation.?

Or is it deeply cuddled in that same brain, now comfortably laced with ethanol and fluoxetine – removed a comfortable, safe distance from all that is frightening, so that it can be awesomely entertaining and amazing? 

Or is it in a willed, crafted faith – My God is The Rock and no matter what evil He lets befall me (or lets me inflict on others or on His creation), He will never stop loving me. (He will surely mourn me even in Hell, won’t He?)

Never mind.

The other dogs lie low and easy now and listen to the gentle pattering rain.

For them, surely, it has been a simpler and easier time.

BTF

5/30/2004