Nothing else can cheer me up the way unexpectedly meeting a dog can. The good thing about being on campus again is that there’s constantly a lot of dogs around, way more than back at home. It’s provided a good sample size for me to thoroughly study my own reactions to them. And I’ve found it’s actually a bit strange how it works so systematically every time.
Step 1: The Pit
Fake Ratty eggs. 9 AMs. The fact that the sun is out and shining while I’m dead and cranky inside. And I’m not wearing pajamas, and I’m not in bed. It’s a recipe for disaster, and after a couple days of this in a row, we’ve reached an ultimatum. Either I find a way to fix this, or I explode like dynamite, leaving suffering and disaster in my wake. The world needs a hero.
Step 2: A Surprise
I’m walking down Thayer after class, with my special Sad McTired Face on, probably an inch away from tossing my textbooks into the nearest paper shredder or kicking a kid. And then my eyes wander, and I see it waddling along just ahead of me, and red crosshairs form in my vision. Big paws and fluff and ears and OH MY GOD OH MY GOD IT’S A DOG.
Step 3: World Stop
A few seconds ago, I was forcing my feet forward with every trudge. Now, they move out of their own accord, and before I know it, I’m patting the dog on the head and its owner is giving me a strange sort of look. Like they can’t decide if I’m an evil dognapper or just a sad, sad wacko with a lot of problems.
Step 4: Always Goodbye
It’s a bit like that scene in Titanic, where Rose whispers, “I won’t let you go,” and then fucking lets go. I do have to let go of the dog, because it’s like a high, and if I don’t stop now, I know I never will. So I peel myself away and tell the dog that I won’t let him go, and tuck the memory of him into my heart forever. I apologize to the owner. I spend the next hour wandering around with a dumb smile on my face, still tripping on the Dog High and thinking that sunshine is beautiful and the world is good and freaking dogs, man.
Step 5: Withdrawal
The cycle stumbles forward. It takes a while, maybe a few days, but the dog is gone, and it occurs to me that I will probably never see said dog again. The high gently congeals back into crankiness. What goes up must come down.
I am blank again, with only the memories of that dog’s face, and the faces of the dogs before him. Sometimes I sit, stare out the window, and rifle through them in my mind.
And then I go out to prowl Thayer Street again, Professional Dog Petter Hat turned 47 degrees to the right, ready to hug another dog. Let’s do this.
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