Henry’s made our house messier.
There, I’ve said it. He’s perfect in every way, naturally – as perfect as dogs come -- his personal hygiene is scrupulous and assiduous (especially compared to humans’), but our neat and pretty house isn’t as neat or pretty as it was, strewn now with toys, shoes, socks, bones, sticks, its upholstery smudged and carpets gnawed. Henry objects to this report; for the first time he’s challenging me to occupy this missive (“These humans,” he snorts, “I mean really!”). I may concede him the equal time he’s demanding, depending on his decorum. (Tyrants favor free speech which flatters them.) I’ll even resist the urge to anticipate Henry’s arguments, then flatten them in his absence, a familiar declamatory trick. I am not unreasonable; my preferences conduce toward the welfare of all. (All tyrants claim this.) I’m tolerant and beneficent in my way, ungrudging, unstinting, even prodigal when prodigality is called for, the very model of an enlightened despot, but face it, facts are facts, and our carefully arranged accommodations (Jane’s a whiz at decorating) are coming to resemble a blankety-blank kennel!
Which fervent eruption leads naturally to a meditation on the meaning of “neat,” “pretty,” clean, flattering, propriety, taste.
Descriptors reflect their users: defining them we define ourselves. One man’s pretty is another’s – oh, that rhyme’s too easy. We’re all snobs, in our way. I wouldn’t be surprised if vagrants compared hovels, kvelling in the evident superiority of their own. Are humans’ the only centripetal intellects, reorienting all our facts to slant toward ourselves? An Englishman decreed (as a foundational principle of English law), a man’s “home is his castle”. I’m guessing the rest of creation is more hospitable, more along the lines of “Mi casa es su casa” (to the extent feasible).
When Jane and I bought our house almost twenty years ago, Jane made it “the way we like it.” She knew – and I came to know – what that meant. But the calculus is not uncomplicated. Décor announces one’s attitude toward mankind, commencing with one’s intimates and widening in concentric rings. We wanted a home not boastful, garish, aggressive, that welcomed visitors but also alerted them that we cared about appearances and were not unmindful of our neighbors’ regard. Humans no more decorate than speak for ourselves – why bother? Our every expression is directed toward an Other whom we seek to please. I am not writing to myself but you, straining to anticipate your desires.
Neat in this epoch of self-driving vacuum cleaners and astringent detergents means really neat compared to earlier. We tend not to wear fabrics out if we can afford to replace them; no more do we darn socks. (Will our grandchildren know what “darn” means, used verbally?) Neat does not mean splotched, gnawed, scattered, treacherous underfoot. Our home has, face it, slid from an apex of perfection. While maybe not a mess by troglodytic standards, it falls short of ours.
And do we mind the change? Relax, Henry – not all that much. Would we favor more cleanliness, fewer stains, less hazardous footing? Sure – we’re not slobs. But do we smile to consider Henry’s widening presence in our lives? That, too, emphatically.
Every living thing occupies its space, which it claims from the totality and must defend against encroachment. Monarch or mosquito, each owns its footprint. As Henry grows, his ambit widens – physically and emotionally: he commandeers more of our space and regard. Affection is invasive. It’s not just weariness that keeps me from picking up and stowing my tattered sneaker for the umpteenth time, it’s clandestine delight. What luck to love!