Benblog

Scritchy Scratch

As Loki wears more and more purple, combining wisdom with wiles, I realize that on the most basic level, my role in these next few years is to remember where he likes to be scratched.

He can't make his leg move in response to the nervous impulse, nor does he have the agility to knock into me when he wants more hip rubbing, because his hips need rubbing, probably beyond his pleasure point these days.

He has been so surrounded by cuddling and warmth and people looking after him and to him for these past few years that I forget sometimes how much he likes to be around people.

On the ride back from Bloomington to Providence, he wanted to get in the front seat on the second day, which was no small feat. And he would place his snout on my lap as I drove once there.

It was the sweetest of moments for me, with this being I never conjured into my life in the beginning, and whose end I have already mourned. I have already conjured his dream space, before this time, understanding the coming back in dreams, their souls intertwined with ours.

For Loki, he will get to roam forever in a high hilled expanse of land, where the weather cycles short in the summer, with no ticks or stinging insects, and squirrels that simply explode in your mouth with flavor as soon as you hunger more than the chase.

There, every one who has ever loved him can visit, and have some good play.

For all the times I regretted that you were more apt to want to play chase and wrestle with me than other dogs, I will miss having them, chasing now just around the garage, a few times, both of us feeling slightly ragged, you, at nearly 100 human years, less than I, just shy of 40.

The Haunting

Last night, Tracy and I went to a bonfire with some naturalists, who are professionals at making the most mundane of experiences to most (a pine cone on the forest floor, the call of a bird, the shape of a cloud - all imbued with meaning and poetry) engaging.

Some of them told goose bump generating ghost stories.

One of them, an avowed atheist, who does not believe in an afterlife at all (which is itself a tricky binary, and/or gambit), worked in a nursing home where she would hear the voices of recently deceased people calling out.

She told a gripping tale of a suicide victim called up via her oiji board. Most of what she heard, she ignored. She never saw anything, like the other nurses.

Regardless, as real as everything is, reality only exists in our brain chemistry, until we resist the urge to call the brain the self.