Sticking

Tonight I walked the dog; it was a walk I thought was the last walk for a long time, since was going to stay with someone else for a while – potentially forever. He’s not my dog…I was only caring for him for a while; still torn as to whether or not I should find a way to keep him.

Young Dylan has an oral fixation, as most young pups do. He needs to have something in his mouth constantly as we walk, and focuses primarily on sticks – although not exclusively. Tonight, something interesting occurred - this was a walk unlike any we have ever had. This night, I looked down at him to see that he had foraged and found a very large stick. (It was a stick so big that I would be tempted to call it more of a branch…but this might be an overstatement.) It was a well-formed, weighty stick – and he was instantly intrigued with it.

He looked so happy to have found it, that his little docked tail wagged vigorously, but it was large and he couldn't bounce around with it as much as he did with the other twigs. I laughed, and figured that he would soon leave it. But he didn’t. There was something about this stick that seemed content to carry for much longer than he carried others. This was a stick of substance. Usually, he was persistenly and constinuously distracted; dropping one twig for a better or just a differently shaped one, and taking each of them only a fraction of a few steps or partial blocks. Sometimes he tried to carry two sticks at the same time. This piece of wood that he was carrying was very different.

However, not only was it something that he seemed to want to take with him, but it was also very heavy. As the distance that he carried it increased, he wouldn’t let it go, but he started to whimper along the way as he held it. He wanted it; but it was very hard to hold in his mouth and walk at the same time. Blocks passed, and he persisted with it, paying little attention to the things that would normally have captured his attention; things like shiny empty pop cans, or pieces of poster. Occasionally, he would whimper, drop it for a few seconds, but curiously always pick it back up and walk on. When we were three quarters of the way home it got stuck in a fence; as it was very long, which obviously made it somewhat awkward. He refused to go further until he pulled on it with great force, freeing it, and carrying it again. When other dogs walked past, instead of running to them, he raised his head proudly – displaying this stick of great substance that he had found, and wagging his tail.

As we neared the very last corner, we came across an empty white container. He paused. He dropped the stick, and moved to the round hollow plastic. It was interesting in form, far lighter, and assuredly easier to carry. He took it in his mouth for a moment – played with it, and then stopped; returning to his long and substantial stick. He paused, and looked back at the container, in a moment of complete indecision. He was very tired at this point, as this walk in particular had been a little more arduous for him than before. For a moment he seemed torn. For some reason I felt happy that he chose the stick again.

When he finally dropped it for the last time, and moved along without going back. I felt a sharp stab of sadness. I gazed back at the sidewalk, covered in fallen leaves and left litter, and looked at the stick for what seemed like far too long to look at a piece of wood. Metaphorical moments are profoundly slow passages of time; in the giving of meaning to an otherwise innocuous occurrence, I found myself feeling like both the stick, and the dog.

Dylan is resting quietly at my feet. I couldn’t bring myself to give him away; not just yet.