Compassion Beyond Humanity

I got my first dog, a little beagle, when I was 5 years old. I named him Pepsi, after my favorite beverage. When I think back, Pepsi was probably my first friend, notwithstanding family and my Kindergarten teacher, Miss Fox, who was about 60, pleasantly plumpish with gray hair and a bosom like a shelf. My mother told me later that I referred to Miss Fox as my friend. But I was in my 30s before it dawned on me that the tune I often could not get out of my head was to a song she taught my class called, "Cotton Needs a Pickin'." Remembering that I was one of two African American children in the class, I began to wonder if Miss Fox was really my friend. To this day, I'm not sure. But that's another post.

In the mornings, my mother would walk me to school, and Pepsi would customarily follow us a few blocks down the street, until my mother would say, "Pepsi, you can't go to school," and he would turn around and trot back to my grandmother, who sat on the porch waiting for him. On one particularly sunny-but-cold day, Pepsi turned to go home and behind me, I heard car tires screech and a "thump" sound. This is one of my earliest and most painful memories. After a few days, Pepsi was in such pain that the grown folks decided he should be put to sleep.

Growing up, there was Bunky, Charlie, and Jazz. With each death, I was less invested in the next dog, knowing that it, too, would eventually die. As an adult, I decided that dogs were simply too much trouble--they pooped on the carpet; you had to get up early in the morning to walk them, even when you didn't want to; you had to be home at a certain time to feed them and leave a fun party earlier if you hadn't been home in awhile. Pets were trouble. And on top of trouble, they'd go and die on you just when you started to get used to them being around. I made a decision to take that "open-your-heart, attach, then grieve" thing in very small doses.

As life would have it (and usually upon making closed-heart-type decisions), the future love of my life had two dogs when we met. Sigh. Two beautiful and regal standard poodles (the extra large ones). I forgot to add that when I did have dogs, my preference was the small variety. Sigh again.

When I first met Quincy (black) and Milele (brown, and pronounced ME-LAY-LAY), I had very little to do with them, which lasted for about the first two years. If I happened to be home, I'd do feeding duty. I was pleasant and polite but aloof. It is clear to me now that my heart, though opened wide for a new relationship, was less open for the pets. Gradually, however, I began to see them and pay attention to how they lived.

Number one, they are always happy. They don't seem to do much worrying, unless they can't be near us for an extended period of time. Every morning, they wake up excited, seemingly forgetting any worrying that happened the day before. They are so excited to see me, even when I leave and come back after 10 minutes. They wag their tails so hard I think they might break. On the morning walk, they seem just as excited to see the same old trees--trees with funny-shaped leaves I would hardly notice if not for them. They look at me constantly to get my attention and approval, and, upon receiving it, whine with delight and squeal with pleasure. I have come to regard them as my teachers. I have come to wish I could always be happy and squeal with delight without shame or embarrassment. I have come to regret not having a tail to wag.

I know they will die one day, maybe before I do. And I know I will miss, mourn and remember them. But I also know I will feel, in the place of me that they touched, happy I was able to let them be there and happy for my own evolving capacity for compassion for sentient beings that need love and care, and who love me back.

They have taught me a lot about open hearts. I have taught them a lot about tricks.

Recently, I've noticed myself tearing up when I think about Pepsi, who just wanted to go to school...with me.