For a couple of weeks in May, I was overwhelmed with grief over the Gulf oil tragedy, breaking out in tears every time I saw one of those heart-wrenching pictures of an oil-soaked bird. I spent my days poring over information on the web trying to understand the politics that led to the catastrophe and that played out in its wake. The whole thing was, and still is, unfathomably depressing. I couldn’t think of much else, so when I was invited to a party over Memorial Day weekend, I welcomed the chance to get out of the house and out of my head.
The party was great fun but on the drive home we started talking about the devastation in the Gulf, and by the time we pulled up in front of my house I was in a dark place again. But my spirits lifted slightly at the thought of Tommy greeting me in the kitchen. He didn’t disappoint.
His pit-bull tail whacked the kitchen table leg with a steady beat; he smothered my bare legs with sloppy kisses; and then, after performing the perfect downward-facing dog, he crawled back into bed.
He cracks me up.
Tommy, the lucky dog, doesn’t know anything about the tragedy in the Gulf. He just knows how good it is to be alive, to be sleeping on his dog bed in the kitchen, to see and smell his human walking through the door, to be rewarded with a a chicken jerky. Oh, what joy!
It’s a gift to see the world through his eyes, if only for a moment.