In a few hours I’ll be taking puppy Henry to his beauty salon. We do this every six weeks. I enjoy our expedition. (Henry must speak for himself.) My enjoyment surprises me. Isn’t this a chore? Since the salon is thirty minutes distant, I spend the three hours of Henry’s appointment cramped in my car, missing lunch with Jane. Is that fun? No! So why aren’t I kvetching as I tend to at chores? Why am I looking forward to this outing as if it were a spree? Why am I smiling as I type? What lessons might I glean from my response?
Facts are inert: they are, with no adjectives attached. A fact means nothing until it becomes an idea. Among creatures, humans are the alchemists, transmuting facts to ideas. Our elixir is imagination, that is, awareness of time. Time multiplies facts into possibilities, memories, hypotheses. I compare myself now to myself yesterday to a plethora of future selves (healthy, well, happy, sad, (blank) or (blank)-plus-ten on my bathroom scale…). How am I getting on, I wonder – a speculation that never worries Henry. Comparing versions (that is, visions) of myself on the time continuum, I’m either sad or glad, satisfied or pissed, depending on my definition of “the right direction.” The more “on track” I feel, the happier; the more adrift, the more bereft. We grieve coming to “to the end of the line.”
Why does the prospect of Henry’s beauty trek make me smile? It’s not the expense – an extravagance – and I’m not, I prefer to think, extravagant. It’s not the waiting, squirming in a strip mall parking lot. It’s not that I couldn’t be spending these precious hours more productively. It’s not vanity – that Henry’s handsomer than other dogs (though he surely is). My exuberance, face it, makes no sense, but then exuberance – or gloom – or any mood – never do, for these are imaginary states. We are responding to a movie of our own making. Change the plot and we can change what we feel about it. “Turn that frown upside down!”
What delights me, I’m guessing, is the prospect of Henry’s delight. Henry is always happy, except when left alone. He’s up for anything, no questions asked. He is oh so glad to see us, cuddle, lick, bring us his toys to inspect or tug. He is happy sleeping near us if we are sleeping. He greets us after brief absences as if we were Odysseus returning to Ithaca.
Henry loves the ladies in the grooming parlor. They welcome him effusively – as I’m sure they do all their customers, only in Henry’s case their enthusiasm must be sincere. (How could it not be?) He loves being shampooed and clipped. But he really loves – and I mean really – when I return to fetch him. He bounces every which way like a Superball (remember them?). He seems eager to recount his adventure. There were so many dogs, Daddy, and the clippers tickled, and… You can hear what dogs are saying if you listen.
Where else in the world do I experience such unmitigated joy? With our grandkids, yes, sometimes, though they are far. Sometimes the sky seems to sing. But not always, not reliably. Henry’s joy is never asterisked with that all-too-human “but.” Neither does his exhilaration tumble into tears, as so often with tots. When Henry’s done exuberating, he sleeps – and that’s happy too. His response is purely affirmative: Life is good. I’m glad to see you, be with you. Aren’t we having fun! Has any day been better than today!
He makes a point.