The Potential of a Day

Chapter 4: Cold Nose

Cold Nose

          When I come back to myself, out of my wistful memory, I feel a cold nose in the palm of my hand. I look down; a dog, a golden retriever if I am not mistaken, one with the white visage of an aged creature, is standing at my feet, panting; looking up at me through those expecting, ever-loving eyes that all dogs seem to have. His seem tired though, weary, as if he has complacently made his way through many a dreary day, and here he is, as ready to move on as I am. But there is something else in his eyes, or maybe the way he wags his tail slightly as I give him my attention. A hopefulness.

          But maybe I am reading too much into the expression of this canine.

          As I start to pat him, his tongue comes out, licking my hands, throwing his furry body enthusiastically against my legs.  A happy dog. I kind of regret never having had one of my own. “Sorry!” someone calls, a young woman’s voice. I see the voice’s proprietor moving towards me, at that awkward gait somewhere between a walk and a loose jog. She’s pretty, with long brown hair pulled up into a ponytail, and gray eyes; long, long legs, a sharp nose and bright pink lipstick. Probably somewhere in her twenties and thirties. “He doesn’t usually bother anyone, he just got away from me as soon as I took his leash off. Came right over to you.”

          “Oh that’s fine,” I smile.

          “You look like you’re on your way somewhere nice, wouldn’t want dog hair on your skirt or anything,” the woman takes her dog by the collar, clipping on a leash. He doesn’t seem to mind. “No harm done,” I insist, petting the dog once again, “he’s a lovely dog.”

          “Yeah…we’ve had him for years. Van and I got him when we just first started seeing each other. He’s getting on in years. It’s a shame, he really is a good dog. Doesn’t have much life left in him. It’s strange, we usually walk him without a leash now, he has no energy to be getting himself into trouble, but when he saw you, he just took off running. You know, before we adopted him, he was therapy dog; I guess maybe he still feels it, when people need help. Having a bad day, honey?”

          “No, not a bad day at all,” just a bad life, “it’s lovely out.”

          “Well, maybe he just smelled something on you or something.”

          “Maybe. What’s his name?” I question, squatting. The woman seems to scrutinize my choice of letting my skirt hang in the dirt. The dog licks my face, I let out a laugh. When was the last time I laughed so spontaneously? “It’s Rufus,” the woman says.

          “Hey Rufus, how-ya-doin?” I say, in that sugary voice reserved only for animals and infants. The dog seems to enjoy my goofy tone.

          “Well, me and my boyfriend are working on a project, I just took a quick walk for a break.” Then, looking at her dog, “come on, Ruf, let’s go,” the dark haired woman says, tugging on the old dog’s leash. But the dog remains rooted; refusing to move. I stand, realizing I am probably a contributing factor to that issue. “Have a nice walk,” I smile.

          “You too,” she says.

          I turn, about to start away. But as I go, and hesitate as I choose where I ought to take myself next, I let my hands drop to my sides, I feel a furry head butt into the palm of my hand. I glance down, to see Rufus, his eyes closed, with his face in my hand. His leash is completely taut, I look up to his owner, she gives me that I-have-no-idea-what’s-up-with-him expression, shaking her head. I grin, a smile that reaches my eyes, telling her I don’t mind.

          The woman tries once again to move the dog, to get him going, but despite the visible tension on his neck, the old, feeble animal appears to put all his strength into not moving an inch, bent on keeping his head in my hand.

          Rufus looks up at me then, his eyes meeting mine. I’ve looked at animal’s eyes before, and I’ve seen them looking at me. But this is different, very different. It is as if this dog is making honest to goodness eye contact with me.

          Perhaps I’m delusional, but I swear I see a message in those weary old eyes of his. A silent plea. A desperate hand reaching between the invisible barrier between man and beast. He has a voice which can do nothing but bay and howl, not form syllables. And not a mind that can understand them. I have been told all my life, that dogs understand tone, not words, but I have not said anything. This dog simply looks at me, looks deep into my eyes, as if telling me: ‘I understand.’ His expression is so calm, so expectant. It is an expectancy that I hate, for I feel the most powerful compulsion to conform to that expectancy.

          This animal, it does not convey any words, for it does not think in a series of words that make up lies and truths. But it conveys a message in his passionate gaze. He doesn’t know how to speak. He simply knows. Knows the pain and suffering that comes with life. And the joy. This is a happy dog, a very happy dog.

          I am not sure what this golden old dog is asking for, can’t put it into words. Because it isn’t asking me anything, it isn’t asking in words. It is asking in a simple glance that transcends the walls of species. I cannot say what this dog wants for me, what change it wants to see in my eyes. But I know; I understand.

          I am definitely reading too much into the gaze of this dog. But hey, I’ve been looking into its eyes for a long moment now, and it still doesn’t seem ready to move. I decide I have to give it something. A nod. I give it a nod, the slightest inclination of my head.

          I’m sure his owner thinks I’m loopy.

          But despite that, with my nod, the dog loosens up on its leash, dropping its head, and letting a floppy tongue hang out from between his teeth. And just like that, he turns, and starts sauntering away, happy, wagging his tail. As if to say his work here is done.

          I’m probably just loopy.