It just kills Joan that she didn’t know me as a puppy and that she doesn’t know what happened to me to make me end up in the care of the Little Shelter in Huntington. Someone brought me to the Little Shelter from Queens, they fixed all my injuries, and then Joan walked in and said, “I need that dog!” and she took me home.
Isn’t that enough of a story?
I guess humans feel more secure when they have a solid and detailed rundown of every aspect of life. Not dogs. We’re very good at feeling and smelling all the tiny and big things around us; we’re excellent at sniffing all the corners and crannies of every moment and every hour—even the sleeping hours. If we ever react to a past moment, it’s only a reflex. Then, we shake ourselves back into the present and life goes on. I think we’re that way because we don’t live very long. What a waste of hours it would be to think about past injuries.
The only thing I reflect on is Joan’s morning cappuccino. But, I reflect on it only in anticipation—never in retrospect. When it’s gone, it’s gone; and I look forward to the next morning knowing I’ll have another whiff of coffee flavor and another lick of cappuccino foam. Now, that’s living in the present.
Best wishes, Juno
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