There is boutique shop dog near my work. This dog is aloof to all who pass by - doesn't wag it's tail, doesn't move to greet anyone, yet I've seen it come to life with it's owner. And who wouldn't come to life in the presence of this young, attractive, wispish, fashionably dressed and stylish woman who is at the ready with a warm smile? I spent many mornings trying to greet this dog, only to be disappointed. I named the dog "Wag-less" in my mind, and got to the point where I didn't expect or want any greeting, not even slowing my walk as I passed. I cultivated just the slightest scorn for a dog who would reject me.
The other day I was killing time and entered the boutique, slowly strolling through and looking at the artisan jewelry, hand-made soaps, expensive lotions, and chatting with the young proprietor. The dog came over to me, nuzzled my leg, and proceeded to stand at the ready for ear scratches, two-handed rubs, and the general cooing and petting response it expected (and that I couldn't resist giving). Four years it took for this creature to deem me approachable and worthy. "She's always been like that," said the beautiful woman in the shop of beautiful items. "She holds back but once you're in, you're in for good."
At the same time that Dahlia (Wag-less' real name) has acknowledged my existence, a neighborhood cat has begun to spend odd hours at our house. This time, I began as the aloof one, although fearful is probably a more accurate word, as I am allergic to cat dander, and have strong reactions when I encounter cats. But the cat has chosen me, will sit on my lap (while I refrain from petting or touching it, and even turn my head away from it to breathe in non-cat air), walk figure-eights around my legs, greet me when I come in or when I wake up. There was even a night that I heard her distinctive collar bell at 4:00 in the morning outside the bathroom window - how she knew I was going to be awake just then is part of her allure. Everyone in my household is now attuned to the sound of her approaching, we all greet her warmly, and occasionally she even manages to find her way into the house through an open door. She's slept in my car when I left my windows open.
My son talks to her like she's a dog (or one of his classmates), bossing her around and telling her what to do. My husband feels slight pangs of rejection that the cat would choose a cat-allergic dog-person like me over him.
There is something slightly embarrassing about the way that the hard-won attentions of someone else's dog and cat provide verification that I am worthy, and that this actually matters to me. I am filled with such a young, tender, and embarrassing emotion: They like me; they really like me!
Sally Field uttered this most primitive, private feeling back in the '80s, during an Oscar acceptance speech. She publicly outed the importance she placed on being liked. I don't recall anyone since then saying anything simlar. As if her admitting how important it is to be liked makes our own longings more apt to be found out. We must ridicule the person who admits this, to save us from acknowledging our own vulnerability. Wanting to be liked - that's a kid feeling; we're supposed to be beyond it by adulthood. We're supposed to have attained the inner peace and self-liking that come with living multiple decades on the planet. It's not supposed to matter if others like us.
But a local cat and dog know something else about me, and I'm delighted they don't hold it against me.
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