What's Montague?

Bela is not my dog.

She's a dog. One that, as of 9:09 pm on July 7, 2013, I have the honor of taking care of.

The labeling game has taken us too far, confused us and convinced us too much. Made us blind to bigger truths. Our labels make 'sense' and make us feel 'safe' -- but they're just that -- labels. They don't have any meaning but the meaning we give them.

I could wax on all day long about Bela being mine and mine and oh-so-mine...
But present-day scenery shakes me, as I'm a mere 10 minutes from the state line of Bela's former home. Bela was shipped in van with god-knows-how-many-other country dogs a couple of years back. Tennessee to Chicago was their route. Greener pastures, in the poetic sense of the phrase. (And really...likely not for all of them. Some may have accidentally plucked themselves from a really sweet situation by running off and not finding their way back before apprehension.)

She has transitioned, from one human host to another. So she's this amazing just-shy of 40 lbs. brown supposed-lab mix that was once shipped from TN to IL. I don't know more than that. I don't know who taught her to sit and put out her paw. (They may still refer to her as 'their' dog. ) I don't know what she looked like as a baby and if she had brothers or sisters. She's her ma's dog, for sure. That's the only soul that can really lay claim to her.

A few months ago, my niece Olivia's cat named for her favorite food ("Butter") ran off. We spent many teary nights trying to make her accept/be cool with the situation. We urged her to consider that death was not the most likely scenario; that Butter was likely hanging out with another family somewhere, probably not even terribly far away. To try to imagine her shrouded in love. To allllllmost.....be happy for her. (There are middle-aged adults that aren't capable of this. We tried to convince a 7-yr old to see the beauty in letting her dove go. And you know what? Though the tears streamed, I have the feeling that as a child, she was much more capable -- of freeing Butter from the chains of her love.)

I've been struggling with anxiety lately. The kind that, well, to be honest, makes it hard to breathe.  Talking to my mom the other night, she threw out a little wisdom pearl. She suggested I try to do more like dogs and children. Live in the moment. They don't dwell in the past or think about the future. Don't have the attention span for such undertakings....tending to eradicate anxieties of the adult kind.

She's right. I don't need  to have such a deathgrip on all things. What I think will happen vs. what I hope will. I have today. Today, Bela is in my care, so I'll take care of her. I'll walk her, feed her, and take her to the park. I don't know shiiiit about tomorrow. She may be here, I may be there, or she and I may both be elsewhere.

I took a solo trip to DQ a few days after my arrival here in Murray. I bought a small vanilla cone. The teenage boy in front of me bought an even smaller vanilla cone. It was so small, in fact, that I had to ask about it. "What is that you got?", I inquired. "It's a baby cone", he replied, and then headed to his black SUV. When I walked past his vehicle on my way to a bench, I saw a tiny face peeking out of the back seat, gently licking the baby cone. I had to get closer. The image was delightful. It was a dachshund, sized like the cone, coyly working on its treat. "Oh, HOW cute!", I squealed! His country drawl came back. "Yeah. She's our new dog. I mean, she's not a new dog but she's new-to-us. She just came to us. And we feel so blessed that she came." And then, "She's a puppy. And her name is Lucy."
"Happiness to you and Lucy," I said, planting a pat on her little head.

I sat near the wooded area in the back and slowly consumed my cone. About 20 minutes later, an older man in a golf cart came speeding into the parking lot and approached a table, hurriedly asking something of them. He had started to speed off when I overhead a customer saying, "No, we haven't seen no dog."

My eyes and my heart fluttered. I clasped my hand to my chest and ran after the man, saying, "Sir!!?? Were you talking about a dog??"

"I'm looking for my little brown dog. She's a dachshund and her name is Hazel and she's just run off and......" His voice trailed, in angst, knowing that the longer the explanation time, the less time on the search.   Oh God. Oh God, I thought. Oh my god. The dachshund named Hazel, that belong[s/ed] to this man, now operates under the alias of Lucy and just ate a cone in the back of a black SUV and is being referred to as a teenager's 'new puppy'.   oh      god.

I tried to explain to him the scene I'd come upon moments earlier, and to relay that I think I'd seen her and that she was with a young boy and that he called her 'Lucy'...................... in angst, this too....

He listened, he did. But then he reared his head back and SPAT OUT AT ME, "MY DAWG'S NAME IS HAZEL!!!"

Then he sped off on his golf cart.

Two days later, I was walking 'my' dog when I saw the gentleman cruise by in his golf cart again, combing the streets. Eyes focused, body upright, tuning out irrelevant sights and sounds, in the quest for his Hazel.

Later, I wondered,
with his loss so lucid and drive so very focused
that
if he were to cruise right past Lucy,
if he would even know it was Hazel.

But then again, Hazel may just now BE Lucy. And would he want to rob her of that chance? To be a puppy again?



"The way to love anything is to realize that it may be lost."
G.K. Chesterton




*(this post has been in the works for WEEKS now. as you can see from the timestamp I inserted in it above, I sat down to it at 9:09pm this night.

at 9:36pm, my sister called.             Butter has been FOUND.)