animal attraction -- the long way around

I’m going to borrow a trait from my mother here, who could get me to hide as a child just by rattling her car keys. Why? Because, God love her, she is a terrible driver. More specifically, she is terrible with directions. She is incapable of making any trip, anywhere, in a straightforward manner. When I was four, she asked me if I’d like to go to the hardware store with her. The hardware store, mind you, was less than two miles away. They had strawberry Twizzlers there, so of course I was in. What followed was a three-hour vehicular odyssey consisting of four separate trips back and forth to the airport. The airport? Yes. Because my mother kept missing the same highway exit, sending us past the same elderly toll-booth attendant four times. When he finally asked my mother where she was trying to go, and whether she’d like a state trooper escort, it prompted my mother to pull over and burst into hysterical sobs of frustration. As you might imagine, after that trip I had the same reaction whenever my mother tried to take me anywhere.

So today I’m going to explain why I like dogs. But as you can see, I'm doing so by way of a roundabout little detour. A somewhat less traumatizing detour than the airport excursion of my youth, yes -- but a detour nonetheless.

My husband’s favorite casual restaurant is Moe’s, and we usually go there about once a week. He likes the bottomless tortilla chips; I go for the free salsa bar. We normally take our dogs with us, and they wait less-than-patiently in the car. Pondering my basket of food last week, it struck me that so many of us are like a Moe’s burrito. Held together on the outside, falling apart on the inside. Melting, cheesy, full of beans, pick your favorite Tex-Mex analogy. My point is, the outer part, the wrapper, masks some degree of insecurity, anxiety, fear, shame, or outright despair. And we work so hard to perfect that wrapper. Why is it in place? Most people would say we’re afraid to let the insides spill out where others can see. But I actually suspect we’re afraid to show our inner selves to ourselves –- because in truth, the sheer depth of those feelings can be frightening. It’s easier to deal with loose ends here or there, tuck them back in where we can. I think behaviorists call this “selective perception." And I understand that it may be a self-preservation instinct, but I don't think we're doing ourselves any favors.

Now here’s the contrast that occurred to me as we snuck some tortilla chips out to the car last week: My dogs are on full tilt, every minute, all the time. There is absolutely no mute button, and they seem incapable of self-editing. Take fear, for example. My cockapoo mix is afraid of –- among other things –- motorcycles, egg timers, and Swiffer dust-mops. Should one of these objects (or God forbid, all three at once) ever cross his field of vision, he either barks frantically, has an accident, and/or wraps himself around my throat. You can imagine the mayhem that ensues when we pass a scooter in the car. Meanwhile, his sister the beagle is less effervescent, but no less straightforward: she growls menacingly, hides, growls, then hides some more. In either case, they wear their fears out loud.

I sometimes wonder what the world would be like if more of us had the courage –- or possibly just the big, dopey, blissful ignorance –- to be more like my dogs. If we weren’t so afraid to let everyone in on our faults. To display the imperfections and insecurities that mix with and mask our most lovable parts. To experience every moment all-out, with brave, defiant, thrumming feeling, despite the fear of what lies ahead.

Cold feet, warm hearts. I suppose it's a trait only a mother could love. Pass the guacamole.