Living Like Spaniels

Here's a sample of writing from five years ago. I wrote it in a memoir class. It's an "imitation" piece, an exercise in which I directly imitated the writing style of a particular author. So this is an imitation of Dillard's "Living Like Weasels". It's a bit dramatic, but it was fun to write.

An English Springer Spaniel is tame. Who doesn't know what he thinks? He would love to sleep at the feet of a loving master, curled in a nest of his own fur and feet, but he can be content with a warm doghouse. Obedient to instinct, he has been bred as a hunter, a retriever, earning his name from the characteristic way he springs out of the brush to startle the game. Obedient to masters, he has been bred as a family member, a dog worthy of children, yard, and home, coming when called, loving without bias, and trusting without question.

And on occasion, according to Hans Juergen – on occasion if a brother appears to be playing too rough with a small sister, the English Springer Spaniel will not hesitate to bark and growl and even nip in warning to the older, stronger sibling to protect the younger, delicate child. He would rather have such rough play directed at him, unless it is a stranger. The English Springer Spaniel loves everyone he meets, except for intruders and unsolicited strangers. Instinct has bred in him a territorial protection of his family. He may not be the leader of the pack, but he knows his role and serves it faithfully.

I have been reading about English Springer Spaniels because I used to be the younger sister. I was fifteen when he was sixteen, and we shared a painful memory.

For three-fourths of the year, at the far end of the tan carpeted-hallway of our one-story elongated Arizona house, to the right of the foyer whose (dessen) Sautillo tile extended into the family room, kitchen, and dining room, I would sit on my bed or at my desk, studying. My bedroom was also my sanctuary; it housed at least two bookshelves, my CD player, and of course my four-poster bed with its canopy that was only removed in the sweltering heat of the summer. The collection of Dickens on the shelf was one comfort among many, but when I retreated from the battles of my teenage years, it was to this room.

This was, mind you, suburbia. My mother would enter while I was gone to straighten the bed or to be able to quote the number of book piles on the floor beside my bed. Buster was the only brave soul who would venture into the room with me. Standing at the edge of my bed where my feet were safely under the blankets, Buster would spring onto the bed, turn the requisite three times, and plop down on my feet. It was the only piece of furniture in the house he was allowed to sit on, and it was mine.

But, when I was fifteen. It was summer. I was kneeling on the carpet with my feet underneath me laying out my gear and placing it in the duffel bag. It was camp tomorrow. I needed my bandanna, for I would have no chance to wash my hair for a week, sunglasses, cold canteen, dull pocket-knife, old, faded jeans, thick socks, clothes, toothbrush, etc. There was something missing. I stood up and walked out of my room, narrowly missing Grandmother's old Singer sewing machine as I came out at the end of the long hallway. What was now the office was directly across from my room, but I turned to walk down the hall, passing the bathroom on the left. Another hallway branched off to the right. I didn't follow it to the master bedroom, but kept walking, past the paintings of Christ, the “toy closet,” Sarah's bedroom. I barely noticed Dad's photographs of gathered wheat on a farm and the pink leaves of quaking Aspens spread on a dark, wet ground. I left the carpet was on the Sautillo tile of the foyer, but bypassing the living room in front of me, I turned right and then left to walk past the family room and into the kitchen. I kept walking past the kitchen table, past the kitchen sink into the darkness of the hall of cupboards, trying to remember, and then I heard the sound. There was a click-clacking of thick nails on slick Sautillo-tile and then a sudden, whooshing thud followed by a soft but penetrating whimper. I quickly rounded the sharp corner to the back door, and there I was looking down at my English Springer Spaniel, who was looking up at me.

Buster! I had never seen him so before. I ran the two feet to him, dropped to my knees, and held his head between my hands. He was many pounds lighter than the fifty he used to be. The rich, liver brown of his back, face, and long, tear-shaped ears had grayed in the circles around his clouded eyes. For a long moment his cataracts lifted and our eyes locked, and I didn't want to find the key.

Our look was one of pain and passion, our souls connected as they had always wanted to and I knew his heart and he knew mine. His eyes were like a knife stabbing my bloody heart, and his life flashed before my eyes. He had lived a full life, he had fought the good fight, he had raged against the dying light for long enough. His painful round eyes were pleading, loving, and trusting. I couldn't stand it anymore, took out the key, and hugged him tightly, stroking his ever-soft coat, tears falling on his neck. I lifted his weak hips to a standing position, not letting go until I could feel an ounce of strength returning to them. He let me lead him outside to his own bed where he left my life.

I would like to learn, or remember, how to live. I don't believe I have missed my chance to live like Buster. Wouldn't it be wonderful to spring at your life and passions, springing with all your energy for love and need. Live life to the fullest and trust that God will have mercy on those that endure to the end.