I more or less floated through my day yesterday in anticipation of my evening with Sam at Quidam, the Cirque du Soleil show I impulsively bought tickets for last week. When it last came around in 1998, my parents, Linda, and I caught it under Cirque's custom-designed blue and yellow tent in the parking lot of the San Jose Water Company, and it immediately became one of my favorite traveling Cirque shows--a story of imagination, faceless strangers on the street, and the specialness within all of us.
The individual acts were enough to take my breath away, but it was this central message of Quidam that moved me most. Throughout the show, stagehands dressed completely in white from head to toe, including a white face mask, would assist with prop pieces, serve as spotters, and perform otherwise ancillary (and necessary) chores, but they were never given their moment to shine. At the very end, all the stagehands marched out, took off their masks, and revealed to the audience who they really were underneath: the jugglers, the contortionist, the gymnasts, all the ones who did something truly amazing in the show.
As a teenager struggling with self-esteem and identity and worth and feeling, on most days, like a stagehand, I almost cried at the revelation Quidam showed me.
There was no crying last night. Sam and I walked into the Cow Palace, a large arena mostly devoted nowadays to trade shows and flea markets. It was a different experience than walking through Cirque's 'Grand Chapiteau' and actually feeling the very presence of the circus in the air. A lesser experience, truthfully.
While waiting for the show to begin, I remembered all I could from my first Quidam experience: the excitement, the awe, the culmination of months of anticipation. I even recalled the seat I had 15 years ago and the angle from which I viewed the stage. I was 17 at the time, I think, and I could barely contain myself when the soprano sang through a lilting lullabye, heralding the beginning of a haunting opening sequence. Thinking about this made me smile, and I turned to Sam and told him about how excited I used to be before Cirque shows.
Then our iteration of Quidam began with the same soprano, the same opening. And then something happened. Or maybe nothing happened. Either way, my mind started wandering. I wondered if Grr was asleep or causing trouble, what I should do for lunch the next day. I noticed the exit signs across from me and wished they could disappear, how if I moved ever so slightly, my chair would creak like in a horror movie. I thought of some friends, soon-to-be flying off to Paris for a week, and how Sam and I had also planned for a vacation around this time, how I could really use one soon.
It's not that the show wasn't good. It was good, more or less what I remembered from years ago, but something was missing. I spent the next hour or so trying to figure out what it was.
And then the show was over. I clapped, turned to Sam and said, "We have a pup at home. Let's cheese it!"
And we did. In the car, I didn't want to admit to him that I was disappointed, couldn't even explain why, so instead, I told him how I wish I could go back to that time in my life when I would leave shows completely amazed, where I could not have clapped hard enough, where I felt sad afterwards, knowing that I had just played a finite role in witnessing an infinite miracle. Something like that. How I felt lost afterwards, not knowing what to look forward to when a Cirque show was over.
"Maybe you've just outgrown it," he said. "No rule saying you have to love something for the rest of your life."
Maybe not, but I think I like loving things for the rest of my life. Seeing Quidam made me wonder what ever happened to that Cirque du Soleil from years ago, the one who produced CDs I bought the day they were released, the one I spent hours listening to, thinking about, wanting to see. Just like an old friend. Last night felt a bit like getting back in touch with this old friend, arranging to meet up and hang out like we used to, only to find that he is not who I remember anymore, and me a different person as well. It was kind of sad, really.
But still, like a good friend should, Quidam reminded of all the good times Cirque du Soleil and I have had together, even if we were not able to replicate them for each other. They were still some great times.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
4/12/2011 - Chinese drama. . .
Sam first watched The Joy Luck Club a few years ago, before he and I had ever met. It is a sprawling movie based on Amy Tan's book of the same name, an homage to Chinese-American daughters, their mothers, and often, their mothers' mothers, and how the histories of all these women shape the friendships they developed over a lifetime. Oh, and mah jong.
Yet I'm pretty sure out of all this, Sam really only took away two things:
However, I was reminded of it by a friend's post on Facebook, so Sam and I decided to rewatch it. Yes, the drama factor was still high, and I still cringe at some of the characters' mannerisms--so accurate that I'd swear my mom was brought in as a creative consultant. But otherwise, I couldn't remember why I disliked it so much back in high school. It was actually pretty great and so much more nuanced than I remember it being. When June, the main character who struggled in her relationship with her mother, finally receives the validation she craves when her mother tells her that she sees her "best-quality heart," I imagine countless daughters out there who ever had complicated relationships with their mothers simultaneously feel their hearts break at this scene.
I felt almost embarassed by how much I saw myself in all those Joy Luck daughters: the submissive one, the bitchy and competitive one, the one who, after years in adulthood, still wants to make her parents proud. Amazing how universal some experiences can be, like growing up Chinese in America, as if led by a cultural DNA that grabs a hold of us shortly after birth and takes us through our own rites of passage.
And the more I thought about it, the more I suspected that a major reason for my dislike of this movie, and my change of heart watching it as an adult, was because it reminded me so much of home and myself. Here is a story of parents wanting the best for their children and learning how to adapt as best they can when those children, so carefully raised with the highest hopes and expectations, turn out to be defiantly different. Throw my mom and dad in front of a mah jong table and they could have been in this movie.
But also, a theme that eluded me as a teenager was the idea of parents who found themselves caught between cultures: one of Chinese tradition, and another of American progression. As a child, I was taught to speak Mandarin at home, go to Chinese school on Saturdays, grow up and marry a Chinese girl. I now speak a mish-mash of Ch-English, didn't learn a thing during all those Saturdays, and regularly bring home my white boyfriend on the weekends. My parents took these developments and rolled with it, as best they could.
And really, that's what The Joy Luck Club was all about, I think--taking what is available to you and making the best of it. Not passive-aggression, not suffering. Just optimism, selflessness, and stoicism in the face of adversity. What's not to like about that?
Yet I'm pretty sure out of all this, Sam really only took away two things:
- He learned to put his hand on my shoulder, look me square in the eyes and say, "Yes, sweetheart, I see you," when I annoy him while he sits enraptured by the latest made-for-TV masterpiece on the Syfy Channel. For dramatic effect, he'd often repeat it in a whisper: "I see you."
- Also, he discovered what he thinks is the epitome of Chinese drama: committing suicide by overdosing on opium-filled sticky buns, but leaving a half-eaten one on the bedside table just like one of the characters did in order to give a better life to her daughter. If he feels like I am overreacting to something (which, for the record, I would never), he'd say, "Could you please tone it down a notch? I'm out of sticky buns."
However, I was reminded of it by a friend's post on Facebook, so Sam and I decided to rewatch it. Yes, the drama factor was still high, and I still cringe at some of the characters' mannerisms--so accurate that I'd swear my mom was brought in as a creative consultant. But otherwise, I couldn't remember why I disliked it so much back in high school. It was actually pretty great and so much more nuanced than I remember it being. When June, the main character who struggled in her relationship with her mother, finally receives the validation she craves when her mother tells her that she sees her "best-quality heart," I imagine countless daughters out there who ever had complicated relationships with their mothers simultaneously feel their hearts break at this scene.
I felt almost embarassed by how much I saw myself in all those Joy Luck daughters: the submissive one, the bitchy and competitive one, the one who, after years in adulthood, still wants to make her parents proud. Amazing how universal some experiences can be, like growing up Chinese in America, as if led by a cultural DNA that grabs a hold of us shortly after birth and takes us through our own rites of passage.
And the more I thought about it, the more I suspected that a major reason for my dislike of this movie, and my change of heart watching it as an adult, was because it reminded me so much of home and myself. Here is a story of parents wanting the best for their children and learning how to adapt as best they can when those children, so carefully raised with the highest hopes and expectations, turn out to be defiantly different. Throw my mom and dad in front of a mah jong table and they could have been in this movie.
But also, a theme that eluded me as a teenager was the idea of parents who found themselves caught between cultures: one of Chinese tradition, and another of American progression. As a child, I was taught to speak Mandarin at home, go to Chinese school on Saturdays, grow up and marry a Chinese girl. I now speak a mish-mash of Ch-English, didn't learn a thing during all those Saturdays, and regularly bring home my white boyfriend on the weekends. My parents took these developments and rolled with it, as best they could.
And really, that's what The Joy Luck Club was all about, I think--taking what is available to you and making the best of it. Not passive-aggression, not suffering. Just optimism, selflessness, and stoicism in the face of adversity. What's not to like about that?
Monday, April 11, 2011
4/11/2011 - a beautiful day. . .
Yesterday morning, after I finished posting to the blog and Sam finished watching Run Fat Boy Run, we decided to take Grr out to Fort Funston, which, according to our neighbors and other dog parents we've met, is like the Cadillac of dog parks. How can we deny Grr the experience of the Cadillac of anything?
So we set out on a windy Sunday morning and headed westward to the ocean.
(An interesting "encounter" on our way: we drove past a funeral procession, a cavalcade of stony-faced men rolling down the freeway in matching SUVs. Similarly somber women and children sat in the passenger and back seats, all of their eyes shaded by sunglasses. We passed countless cars, one after the other with the same FUNERAL sticker on the back and the same grief-stricken faces inside. Their leader, a pristine, ebony hearse, followed two police escorts on motorcycles. They all charged down Highway 280 like soldiers toward their next assignment. I don't know why, but I was particularly moved by the sight of them, all those cars. In their multitude, I saw bravery, even though I had no idea who any of them were, whose body led the way in that hearse.)
When we got to Fort Funston, the wind had died down, a surprising treat given San Francisco's blustery coastline. We faced a beautiful day of blue skies and clear horizons. I opened the back door and, as is our usual routine, carried Grr out of the car. (Yes, we had become one of those Best in Show, embarassing dog parents who insist on carrying their dogs no matter how ridiculous it looks. My excuse, though, is that I usually have to, as Grr takes a few minutes to warm up to new situations. He also likes it, I swear.)
But when I picked him up and closed the car door, he was so eager to explore that he wriggled like an earthworm to get free. Dogs of all kinds littered the landscape, and I imagined Grr was thinking, "Dad! Let me down, you're embarassing me!"
Turns out that Fort Funston was less of a dog park and more of an intricate maze of walking trails abutted against a cliffside, overlooking the ocean. Hanggliders floated above, but Grr was already too busy to pay them any attention. Between all the dogs, the open field, and the myriad of new smells that greeted him in the air, he could hardly tear his nose away from the sand and ice vines to even look at us, much less lift his head to watch what looked like giant, prehistoric birds looming overhead.
It felt good to get some sun on my face, breathe in the sharp sea air, but the best part was seeing Grr adjust so well to the outdoors. Though it may just be a factor of his youth and puppyhood, I have come to learn that he is quite the skittish pup, scared of everything from an umbrella in the hallway to a leaf in the wind. Fort Funston, however, seemed to have brought out his courage. Sam and I walked wordlessly as Grr traipsed a few steps ahead, turning back every so often to make sure he had not lost us.
For a while, I have been afraid that Sam and I were falling into a rut of sorts and running out of things to say to each other. So many of our conversations are about Grr nowadays, and we rarely get time alone. True, Grr is a dog, not a person, but a presence is a presence, an easy conversation topic if there are few others to be found.
I began to wonder if we have become one of those couples with nothing to talk about, and in the great expanse of Fort Funston's paths and fields, it became all I could think about. I felt sand begin to seep into my shoes, my socks, between my toes. Sam was never great with conversation, and I can only be as good as the people I converse with, not like some I've known in my life who can work with anyone to create a rich and meaningful dialogue. They are the Macgyvers of repartée, and we are no Macgyvers. Sam was a few paces behind me now, and Grr a few paces ahead. It really was a beautiful day, and though I could say just that, in those words, what would Sam say in response? What could he? "Yup." "Totally." What was there to converse about?
Then Sam caught up with me and quietly took my hand, interlocked his fingers with mine for a few seconds as we walked along. Then he let go, called for Grr, and did a little football shuffle as Grr pinned his ears back and ran towards us. They walked further along as I hung back. The ocean's faint percussion played off in the distance in step with the singing of various insects in the bushes. The sun assumed its high noon position. It really was a beautiful day.
So we set out on a windy Sunday morning and headed westward to the ocean.
(An interesting "encounter" on our way: we drove past a funeral procession, a cavalcade of stony-faced men rolling down the freeway in matching SUVs. Similarly somber women and children sat in the passenger and back seats, all of their eyes shaded by sunglasses. We passed countless cars, one after the other with the same FUNERAL sticker on the back and the same grief-stricken faces inside. Their leader, a pristine, ebony hearse, followed two police escorts on motorcycles. They all charged down Highway 280 like soldiers toward their next assignment. I don't know why, but I was particularly moved by the sight of them, all those cars. In their multitude, I saw bravery, even though I had no idea who any of them were, whose body led the way in that hearse.)
When we got to Fort Funston, the wind had died down, a surprising treat given San Francisco's blustery coastline. We faced a beautiful day of blue skies and clear horizons. I opened the back door and, as is our usual routine, carried Grr out of the car. (Yes, we had become one of those Best in Show, embarassing dog parents who insist on carrying their dogs no matter how ridiculous it looks. My excuse, though, is that I usually have to, as Grr takes a few minutes to warm up to new situations. He also likes it, I swear.)
But when I picked him up and closed the car door, he was so eager to explore that he wriggled like an earthworm to get free. Dogs of all kinds littered the landscape, and I imagined Grr was thinking, "Dad! Let me down, you're embarassing me!"
Turns out that Fort Funston was less of a dog park and more of an intricate maze of walking trails abutted against a cliffside, overlooking the ocean. Hanggliders floated above, but Grr was already too busy to pay them any attention. Between all the dogs, the open field, and the myriad of new smells that greeted him in the air, he could hardly tear his nose away from the sand and ice vines to even look at us, much less lift his head to watch what looked like giant, prehistoric birds looming overhead.
It felt good to get some sun on my face, breathe in the sharp sea air, but the best part was seeing Grr adjust so well to the outdoors. Though it may just be a factor of his youth and puppyhood, I have come to learn that he is quite the skittish pup, scared of everything from an umbrella in the hallway to a leaf in the wind. Fort Funston, however, seemed to have brought out his courage. Sam and I walked wordlessly as Grr traipsed a few steps ahead, turning back every so often to make sure he had not lost us.
For a while, I have been afraid that Sam and I were falling into a rut of sorts and running out of things to say to each other. So many of our conversations are about Grr nowadays, and we rarely get time alone. True, Grr is a dog, not a person, but a presence is a presence, an easy conversation topic if there are few others to be found.
I began to wonder if we have become one of those couples with nothing to talk about, and in the great expanse of Fort Funston's paths and fields, it became all I could think about. I felt sand begin to seep into my shoes, my socks, between my toes. Sam was never great with conversation, and I can only be as good as the people I converse with, not like some I've known in my life who can work with anyone to create a rich and meaningful dialogue. They are the Macgyvers of repartée, and we are no Macgyvers. Sam was a few paces behind me now, and Grr a few paces ahead. It really was a beautiful day, and though I could say just that, in those words, what would Sam say in response? What could he? "Yup." "Totally." What was there to converse about?
Then Sam caught up with me and quietly took my hand, interlocked his fingers with mine for a few seconds as we walked along. Then he let go, called for Grr, and did a little football shuffle as Grr pinned his ears back and ran towards us. They walked further along as I hung back. The ocean's faint percussion played off in the distance in step with the singing of various insects in the bushes. The sun assumed its high noon position. It really was a beautiful day.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
4/10/2011 - positive thinking and such. . .
Today is Sunday, which means I begin dreading the work week to come. This cycle of mourning happens every Sunday at the passing of every weekend. This morning, I woke up with the tragic realization that I have worked nine five-day workweeks in a row without a vacation day, and I have seven more to go before Memorial Day.
What a way to wake up. I don't know why I do this to myself.
But, as I laid there contemplating life and shunning the call of day, I tried to reroute the train of thought I was on. You know, in the spirit of gratitude and positive thinking and such. . . So I compiled a list of the things I have to look forward in the next week, which would include:
In talking to Gordon about her the other night, he said that he has high hopes for "Judas." While he certainly can appreciate the spirit in which the song "Born This Way" was delivered, he didn't feel like it was Gaga enough. I'm not sure if I agree, as I do like the song, but I also know that hearing it for the first time did not make me feel the same way I did when I first heard "Bad Romance," the opening chant of, "Rah-rah ah-ah-ah, roma rama-ma . ." It felt like a call to action, even if I had no idea how I was supposed to act.
I, too, have high hopes for "Judas." And it may seem strange, even a little sad, I know, but as we get closer to next week, all I will be able to think about is how I can't wait to hear what Lady Gaga has done.
At the very least, it will make the drone of my workweek seem that much more bearable.
What a way to wake up. I don't know why I do this to myself.
But, as I laid there contemplating life and shunning the call of day, I tried to reroute the train of thought I was on. You know, in the spirit of gratitude and positive thinking and such. . . So I compiled a list of the things I have to look forward in the next week, which would include:
- Sam and I are going to see Quidam, one of my favorite travelling Cirque du Soleil shows, which is making an appearance here in the City. I know I spent a post here berating Cirque's fall from grace some time ago, but I think they gave birth to this show near the apex of their creative output. The individual acts challenge the realm of possibility while the theme of the entire show highlights the commonality we all share with each other, yet simultaneously celebrates our individuality, the rare and necessary pieces of our humanity.
- My Rapid Transit a cappella rehearsal is in San Francisco this Monday. After last week's, which was held in Oakland (or about an hour away by BART and bike), I have much to be thankful for when I only have to bike 10 minutes to get there this week.
- Tax day is coming, which, despite its negative connotations, actually is something of a windfall this year for us, if we could just get our act together and file.
- The sun is forecast to be out all week, which means pleasant biking weather for me and great park-going weather for Grr.
In talking to Gordon about her the other night, he said that he has high hopes for "Judas." While he certainly can appreciate the spirit in which the song "Born This Way" was delivered, he didn't feel like it was Gaga enough. I'm not sure if I agree, as I do like the song, but I also know that hearing it for the first time did not make me feel the same way I did when I first heard "Bad Romance," the opening chant of, "Rah-rah ah-ah-ah, roma rama-ma . ." It felt like a call to action, even if I had no idea how I was supposed to act.
I, too, have high hopes for "Judas." And it may seem strange, even a little sad, I know, but as we get closer to next week, all I will be able to think about is how I can't wait to hear what Lady Gaga has done.
At the very least, it will make the drone of my workweek seem that much more bearable.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
4/9/2011 - Isle of Misfit Paragraphs. . .
In grad school, a classmate introduced me to the phrase, "Kill your darlings." Vaguely attributed to William Faulkner, this general guideline for writing is akin to Coco Chanel's famous advice to take one thing off before you leave the house. In other words, edit.
I have this problem when it comes to writing. I want to keep everything. I sometimes write over a thousand words for a post before paring it down to half that, but I still save the bits and pieces I discard, compiling them in a Word document, kind of like an Isle of Misfit Paragraphs. While this eases the pain of editing, I always wonder if these would ever be read.
Well, today is their lucky day. Dave Eggers, in his manic but brilliant A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, devoted an entire section of the book to passages that he ultimately removed from the body of the book. I guess this sort of nullifies the whole editing process, but if Dave Eggers can do it, I can too. I promise that this will not be nearly as interesting as his, but I wasn't sure what I wanted to write about today, so I am thankful that these scraps were here, begging for an audience.
Won't you indulge them?
1/22/2011
I have had one particular number from Hair stuck in my head for the last week or so: the closing song of the first act where the main character has something of an existential crisis and sings, “Where is the something / where is the someone / that tells me why I live and die?” Its repetition in my head is not unusual, as I operate a mental revolving door that leads to brainspace reserved exclusively for musicals. But this line in particular got me thinking.
Which, actually, is also not unusual, as I find that I am often paralyzed by being too thoughtful. And not even in that selfless, looking-out-for-others kind of way, either, which would actually be a worthwhile result of my efforts. Instead, I concoct imaginary worlds to live in, ones that would have emerged had I made a different decision, turned down a different street, or worlds that no longer exist, or worlds that never existed at all. Sometimes, the pathway leading out into actual reality, the real world, can be overgrown.
3/13/2011
The debate began as soon as my alarm went off. By the third time I hit the snooze button, I had already calculated how many hours must elapse before I could find myself back asleep, how comfortable it felt to sprawl across the bed with Sam gone, how cold the world must be outside. I regretted telling Kevin that I'd see him at the gym this morning. Still, I summoned all of my willpower, threw my legs off of the bed with a groan, and got dressed. Even then, as I brushed my teeth, I knew there was still time to change my mind. All I needed to do was tuck myself back under the covers, close my eyes, and remember to send Kevin a text message later, something along the lines of, "Argh! Overslept!" thus implying the choice was never mine to make. No one would ever know.
1/7/2011
The other day while brushing my teeth, I noticed that there is not as much hair between my scalp and the world as there used to be. I’ve had stray gray hairs here and there ever since I was in my early 20s. I have yet to make my peace with that, but this was a curveball I did not see coming. As quickly as I discovered the thinning, I began sprinting through my Kubler-Ross stages:
I’ll be OK if I don’t lose any more hair.
I’ll be OK if it still looks like I have a full head of hair.
I’ll be OK if I go completely gray, but just let me keep it, dear God.
3/10/2011
Everything Grr did began to annoy me tenfold. I even yelled at him one night in my big-boy voice (turns out that I actually one) to stop biting at the shag rug. I could tell I scared him because he jumped, yet he still nipped at it one more time before laying on his side and sighing. Attitude. Where does he pick this up?? My head wanted to explode.
2/18/2011
I once had a theory about dating and relationships: all we ever really do is make the other person a better partner for someone else. I don't know if I came up with it or if I stole it from someone else. Mostly likely the latter since it carries with it a certain amount of cleverness, but I do have my moments, so who knows?
Friday, April 8, 2011
4/8/2011 - a deeply philosophical musing. . .
I originally had this whole post planned out for today, a deeply philosophical musing on time, birthdays, the difference in distance between 11:59 to midnight versus 12:01 to midnight. It was going to be great stuff; you would have loved it, thought I was a genius. Some book publisher would have stumbled upon this blog, read my dissertation, and offered me a book deal right on the spot. The post was going to be that good.
Instead, I had lunch with my friend Oliver yesterday, and our conversation drifted toward his relationship with an ex-boyfriend he still sees and fights with regularly. The phrase, "I wish I knew how to quit you," never seemed more applicable. I asked him how long they were together before they broke up.
"I couldn't say," he said. "If you ask him, he would say that we were brothers. We were best friends. We were fuck buddies and worthy adversaries. But no, we were never boyfriends."
I'm not even being facetious when I say this, nor am I unsubtly trying to slip in a musical theater reference, but seriously, say that soft and it's almost like praying. Maybe it's been a long time since I've read a good poem, even longer since I've written one, but hell if this weren't one of the most poetic things I've ever heard.
Instead, I had lunch with my friend Oliver yesterday, and our conversation drifted toward his relationship with an ex-boyfriend he still sees and fights with regularly. The phrase, "I wish I knew how to quit you," never seemed more applicable. I asked him how long they were together before they broke up.
"I couldn't say," he said. "If you ask him, he would say that we were brothers. We were best friends. We were fuck buddies and worthy adversaries. But no, we were never boyfriends."
I'm not even being facetious when I say this, nor am I unsubtly trying to slip in a musical theater reference, but seriously, say that soft and it's almost like praying. Maybe it's been a long time since I've read a good poem, even longer since I've written one, but hell if this weren't one of the most poetic things I've ever heard.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
4/7/2011 - this is about me. . .
It's been a few days since I've put up a post about Grr, so I figure it's OK to do so again. After a few successive posts about him some time ago (last week? It all runs together now.), Jason suggested that I just go ahead and rename this blog: "One Grr-ateful Year." Clever, that one.
So anyway, previously on "One Grr-ateful Year," Sam and I had gone ahead and committed a grave sin in the doggy-training bible: we relented to Grr's crying and just let him sleep in the bed with us. Since then, no more crying, certainly no more crate-rattling, and we've even noticed a decreased need to get up in the middle of the night. All he wanted was to sleep with his pack; it's kind of sweet if you think about it.
It actually seems like he has become a different pup altogether, and it seems to have happened quite suddenly. I'm not sure if it is directly related to sleeping with us, but the timing of it is certainly correlated. He sleeps through the night now, and no longer has accidents in the house. And the creme de la creme: he pees and poops outside (not the garage, but outside), albeit with hesitation. But he does it. No more puppy pads for him.
So it seems that I was right all along--he would eventually grow to become the dog that I want. And while he is certainly making awesome progress in doing so, this isn't really about him.
When things were bad, Sam and I had a serious conversation, one of those rare exchanges between us where we put all joking and flippancy aside, and really listened. Of all the days he decided to read the blog (which is next to never), he picked this one, which subsequently freaked him out. And of course, Sam is very much male when it comes to problem resolution, so he was far less interested in hearing about my feelings than he was in finding a solution.
So he proposed (with enough bravado as I walked through the door that I think I heard a trumpet fanfare) that we would give him back post haste. There was little fear between us that he would linger at the pound for long because, well, seriously, who can resist those satellite-dishes he uses for ears?
I certainly couldn't, but I couldn't give him back. The decision would have haunted me forever, and I knew that Sam and I would not find our way out of it. Though we could return to our lives pre-Grr, we would not be the same two people; we would always be a couple who tried and failed to own a pet, to learn how to grow outside of ourselves. But even more than that, I couldn't imagine the house without the jingling of Grr's dog tags, the annoying way he would follow us around the house. Who would play with all of his toys? And what if he thought of us, wondered what he ever did that made us disappear?
I couldn't bear that.
But then he changed, like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. He had somehow transformed overnight into a more-or-less well-behaved pup and learned how to adapt to living in a big city amongst its associated sights, sounds, and smells.
The other day, he and I walked three long South of Market blocks to get to the park he usually gets chauffeured to. Sam was working later than usual, I left work earlier than usual, so what better day could there be for Grr and I to embark on this little adventure? He struggled valiantly. I could see it in his eyes. He was reluctant, scared, constantly fighting the urge to turn back and go home. But he did it. I didn't even have to help him much. He made it to the park in spite of rushing cars and hissing busses, with his tail tucked tight and galloping at an urgent pace.
At the park, he found his friends--the little shiba inu who enjoys chasing him in short spurts and a little chihuahua mix that plays rougher. As minutes passed, Grr's tail lifted higher and higher, a testament to his bravery. It was like the raising of the victory flag at Iwo Jima, and he was my little Marine.
But again, this isn't about him; I keep forgetting. This is about me (isn't everything?).
I have learned much about myself in the last six weeks--some good, some less so, but the most important lesson has been that I might have the capacity to love after all, even when it is difficult and inconvenient.
There was some doubt.
Of course, I still have my moments, and Grr has his: the way he applies all four claws to the concrete when he does not want to continue walking, his obsession with our dirty clothes, why he insists on sleeping perpendicular to our parallel bodies in bed, thus giving me and Sam only a sliver of the bed to ourselves, one whole dog-length apart.
Last night as I prepared to take a shower, I left my dirty clothes on the floor of the bathroom. As I lathered up, I saw, through the translucent shower curtain, Grr practically tiptoe across the tile, grab my socks in his mouth, and saunter out the door. A few minutes later, he returned for my underwear, then my T-shirt.
After drying off, I went in search of my laundry and found them strewn about in the closet. Grr stared at me, frozen, with a sock dangling off of his left canine, as if stillness would make him invisible.
What a fool, I thought, as I wrestled the sock from his mouth. I knew that he knew that he should not be playing with our clothes, but he willfully defies us around every corner. And then it hit me: would I be happier with a perfect dog, one just short of behaving like a service pet? I didn't know, but as I gathered the rest of my dirty clothes while Grr circled around me nipping at any exposed fabric he could reach, I didn't even know if I would be interested in finding out.
Grr is our dog. There could be no other, whether he fetches us our slippers or chews up our shoes. I wouldn't want any other.
I think I have grown. And I do have the capacity for love.
So anyway, previously on "One Grr-ateful Year," Sam and I had gone ahead and committed a grave sin in the doggy-training bible: we relented to Grr's crying and just let him sleep in the bed with us. Since then, no more crying, certainly no more crate-rattling, and we've even noticed a decreased need to get up in the middle of the night. All he wanted was to sleep with his pack; it's kind of sweet if you think about it.
It actually seems like he has become a different pup altogether, and it seems to have happened quite suddenly. I'm not sure if it is directly related to sleeping with us, but the timing of it is certainly correlated. He sleeps through the night now, and no longer has accidents in the house. And the creme de la creme: he pees and poops outside (not the garage, but outside), albeit with hesitation. But he does it. No more puppy pads for him.
So it seems that I was right all along--he would eventually grow to become the dog that I want. And while he is certainly making awesome progress in doing so, this isn't really about him.
When things were bad, Sam and I had a serious conversation, one of those rare exchanges between us where we put all joking and flippancy aside, and really listened. Of all the days he decided to read the blog (which is next to never), he picked this one, which subsequently freaked him out. And of course, Sam is very much male when it comes to problem resolution, so he was far less interested in hearing about my feelings than he was in finding a solution.
So he proposed (with enough bravado as I walked through the door that I think I heard a trumpet fanfare) that we would give him back post haste. There was little fear between us that he would linger at the pound for long because, well, seriously, who can resist those satellite-dishes he uses for ears?
I certainly couldn't, but I couldn't give him back. The decision would have haunted me forever, and I knew that Sam and I would not find our way out of it. Though we could return to our lives pre-Grr, we would not be the same two people; we would always be a couple who tried and failed to own a pet, to learn how to grow outside of ourselves. But even more than that, I couldn't imagine the house without the jingling of Grr's dog tags, the annoying way he would follow us around the house. Who would play with all of his toys? And what if he thought of us, wondered what he ever did that made us disappear?
I couldn't bear that.
But then he changed, like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. He had somehow transformed overnight into a more-or-less well-behaved pup and learned how to adapt to living in a big city amongst its associated sights, sounds, and smells.
The other day, he and I walked three long South of Market blocks to get to the park he usually gets chauffeured to. Sam was working later than usual, I left work earlier than usual, so what better day could there be for Grr and I to embark on this little adventure? He struggled valiantly. I could see it in his eyes. He was reluctant, scared, constantly fighting the urge to turn back and go home. But he did it. I didn't even have to help him much. He made it to the park in spite of rushing cars and hissing busses, with his tail tucked tight and galloping at an urgent pace.
At the park, he found his friends--the little shiba inu who enjoys chasing him in short spurts and a little chihuahua mix that plays rougher. As minutes passed, Grr's tail lifted higher and higher, a testament to his bravery. It was like the raising of the victory flag at Iwo Jima, and he was my little Marine.
But again, this isn't about him; I keep forgetting. This is about me (isn't everything?).
I have learned much about myself in the last six weeks--some good, some less so, but the most important lesson has been that I might have the capacity to love after all, even when it is difficult and inconvenient.
There was some doubt.
Of course, I still have my moments, and Grr has his: the way he applies all four claws to the concrete when he does not want to continue walking, his obsession with our dirty clothes, why he insists on sleeping perpendicular to our parallel bodies in bed, thus giving me and Sam only a sliver of the bed to ourselves, one whole dog-length apart.
Last night as I prepared to take a shower, I left my dirty clothes on the floor of the bathroom. As I lathered up, I saw, through the translucent shower curtain, Grr practically tiptoe across the tile, grab my socks in his mouth, and saunter out the door. A few minutes later, he returned for my underwear, then my T-shirt.
After drying off, I went in search of my laundry and found them strewn about in the closet. Grr stared at me, frozen, with a sock dangling off of his left canine, as if stillness would make him invisible.
What a fool, I thought, as I wrestled the sock from his mouth. I knew that he knew that he should not be playing with our clothes, but he willfully defies us around every corner. And then it hit me: would I be happier with a perfect dog, one just short of behaving like a service pet? I didn't know, but as I gathered the rest of my dirty clothes while Grr circled around me nipping at any exposed fabric he could reach, I didn't even know if I would be interested in finding out.
Grr is our dog. There could be no other, whether he fetches us our slippers or chews up our shoes. I wouldn't want any other.
I think I have grown. And I do have the capacity for love.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)