The Signs Along the Way

So I was listening to some music the other day. Not the kind that gets my tail wagging and my creakyjoints in motion (however gradually or painfully), but the kind that makes a dog contemplate life. The poet who provoked this retrospective journey was Bob Dylan; the song, "The Groom's Still Waiting at the Altar," and the particular lyric,

Got a message this mornin'
The one that was sent to me
About the madness of becomin'
What one was never meant to be.

The words made me stop and cringe because they are so firmly rooted in reality--and also in my own neuroses. It is wholly possible in this world to become "what one was never meant to be," whether for reasons of dominant social constructs or serious financial need or simple fear of breaking out of familiar daily routine. How many dogs do we know that are unhappy with their metaphorical doghouses (their relationships, their friendships, their bones, their jobs)? Even the Iditarod stars must feel like howling some times. Even the Seeing Eye dogs must feel blind once in a while.

The lyric also made me stop and think because of its relevance to the whole Protestant ethic and spirit of capitalism quandary. Are we meant to have callings in life? While we may find satisfaction in certain career paths, or even a particular partner, it's somewhat vexing to acknowledge that there will always be paths that appealed to us, that were desired, but never explored (recall the Frost poem "The Road Not Taken?"). On the other hand, I'm not a Calvinist. I'm not a Puritan. Jonathan Edwards' "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God" never appealed to me. But Anne Bradstreet's poetry regarding the conflict between the flesh and the spirit poses an age old, legitimate question, one of how to balance the everyday with the transcendent, as well as the universal. Ultimately, I subscribe to predestination neither from a religious perspective, nor a personal one--a mentality that I suppose enables freedom from "the madness of becomin' what one was never meant to be."

As I write this from the comfort of my doghouse, my creaky limbs cozily tucked next to those of my partner, I wonder about this "madness." After all, it can be a dog-eat-dog world out there. I consider all of my aspirations (to check out the doghouse situation in Europe, to teach younger dogs and teach them well, to have a nice house, a sailboat (ever read "Scuppers the Sailor Dog?"), and a fun car. To travel and explore the world. To run a race with Creak Sr. and not feel too creaky. There are also the really significant goals, which weigh more heavily on this dog's soul: to have love that comforts but also challenges, to always be learning, and most importantly, to help others, to always be compassionate and benevolent.

With these goals in mind, I consider my current engagements. I dutifully go to obedience school to learn some new tricks (arthritis notwithstanding). I teach some puppies the joys of great literature. As the sun sets each night, I must assert that I'm a fairly content dog, albeit one with concerns, both personal and far-flung, about the future.

Ultimately, I have to ask myself the question: as my joints get more and more creaky, as I mature, what sort of path am I navigating? Will I somehow inadvertently become someone I was "never meant to be?" We have Ivan the Terrible and Alexander the Great...will I be known in the future as "Creak the Existentialist?" I am always in awe of older dogs that have fulfilled their dreams and contributed to the canine legacy; dogs with Experience and Wisdom; dogs that communicate security with their chosen paths and identities. But until that gargantuan achievement, I shall persevere and mush on, stopping to read (and write) important "message[s]" along the way. In the meantime, I still recommend listening to the Dylan song.