I Own a House
by: Mary Oliver
I own a house, small but comfortable. In it is a bed, a desk, a kitchen, a closet, a telephone. And so forth--you know how it is: things collect.
Outside the summer clouds are drifting by, all of them with vague and beautiful faces. And there are the pines that bush out spicy and ambitious, although they do not even know their names. And there is the mockingbird; over and over he rises from his thorn-tree and dances--he actually dances, in the air. And there are days I wish I owned nothing, like the grass.
Ownership ties you down. That's what Mary Oliver is saying here. If you own a lot of "things," you will spend a lot of time worrying about caring for, breaking, or losing them. Things can weigh you down, not allow you to dance in the air like the mockingbird in Oliver's poem.
It has been a while since I wrote a blog post. I apologize for that. As most of you know, I've been struggling with sadness a great deal. Most days, my energies are monopolized by work and teaching. By the time I get home, I don't have much fuel left in my tank. I just want to sleep.
This past weekend, however, something happened that reminded me of my preoccupation with things that, for the most part, don't mean a whole lot. Most of my life is a rush from one obligation to another--from the library to the classroom to the library to meetings to events. In order to survive on a day-to-day basis, I have developed a tunnel vision. I move forward, eyes on the prize all the time. It's how I have been able to function for about a year.
So, this past Saturday morning, my wife texted me. She'd forgotten her computer glasses, and she needed them for work. About 9 a.m., I packed up our little puppy, Juno, and drove the 20 miles to deliver my wife's glasses. When I arrived, I called my wife to let her know I was at the back door of the business, and she should come out.
As my wife opened the door, our puppy did what she normally does when she sees someone she loves: butt wagging, she pulled on her leash to get to my wife. Just as Juno got to my wife, another dog came charging out of the door. A very big, 80-pound Black Mouth Cur.
To be honest, things happened so fast, it's difficult for me to remember the order of events. The other dog grabbed Juno by the neck and began shaking her violently. Juno started making sounds that were terrible to hear--part howl, part cry of pain and shock. I threw myself on the dog and grabbed at its jaws, trying to free Juno. I knew that if I didn't get Juno away, the dog was going to shake her to death. I jammed my hands in the dog's mouth and pulled.
Juno fell from the dog's mouth. She started running away, but then rolled on her belly to show submission. The other dog started mauling and chewing at Juno's abdomen. Juno kept making those sounds--pain, fear, desperation. I was pulling on the dog, trying to put myself in front of Juno to protect her. The dog was huge, muscular, and impossible to stop.
Eventually, someone somehow pulled the dog off and back into the building. I didn't see who it was. And Juno just lay on the ground, bleeding, whimpering, white-eyed. There was so much blood. My hands were covered in it. I reached down to try to pick Juno up, but she snarled when I touched her leg, which was at a strange angle to her body.
My wife called our vet's office, told them about the attack. Juno started going into shock, so I wrapped her in a towel, got her in the car, and drove the 20 miles to the vet in about ten minutes. On the way, Juno started to lose consciousness, and we kept talking to her, keeping her awake.
When we arrived, the vet went into action quickly. Juno was bleeding from her belly and neck, couldn't stand on her back leg. X-rays were taken. Her leg was out of joint at the hip. Her belly wound was large, but it didn't look like the other dog had punctured the stomach. Lots of muscles and ligaments were torn. She needed surgery.
While Juno went to surgery, I went to the ER. My hands were really chewed up. Deep punctures in both of my palms. The dog bit through one of my nails, as well. The doctor cleaned up the wounds, gave me a tetanus shot, and a prescription for antibiotics. My hands were throbbing. (They still are sometimes, and it's been almost four days since the attack.)
Juno was in surgery for a couple hours. The vet was able to manipulate her hip back into place and sew up her muscles, ligaments, belly, and neck. By the evening, Juno was able to walk for a short distance outside to pee. But she was in a lot of pain.
Juno spent the night at the vet's office. We picked her up late the following morning. She has drains in her wounds, to relieve swelling and bleeding. Juno has always been a very active little dog, fearless in climbing snowbanks, jumping on the back of the couch to bark at passing cars. She can't do that right now. She wants to, but can't. The most walking she does is short strolls around the house to go to the bathroom.
Before, you ask--yes, we filed a police report. Yes, we have made it very clear to the owner of the other dog that she is responsible for the vet bills. Yes, we are talking to an attorney.
The other dog was supposedly and emotional support animal. That is why she was allowed to be in the office where my wife works. However, the dog hasn't gone through the classes or training to be an emotional support animal. The owner was planning to have her properly trained later.
Am I mad? Yes. The owner of the other dog was irresponsible, to say the least. Another of my wife's coworkers told my wife that someone is blaming my wife for what happened, that my wife "shouldn't have opened the door." That makes me even angrier. Juno was under control, leashed, and simply greeting my wife with kisses and butt wags. However, we live in a society that loves to blame victims for things that happen to them. Women who dress provocatively are "asking for it." And, I guess, dogs that are happy to see their family members deserve to be almost eviscerated by uncontrolled emotional support animals.
These last days, I've had a hard time sleeping. More than once, I've woken up with the sound of Juno's cries in my head. I've had dreams of that dog attacking Juno and me. I'm tired and sore.
What does all this have to do with the Mary Oliver poem for today? That poem reinforces a lesson I've learned over the last five or so days. All the things that clutter our days--houses, cars, jobs, lost keys, diets, bad drivers, bad grades, whatever--are pretty insignificant. In the midst of that dog attack, as I was fighting to get Juno free and safe, all that went through my mind was this: "Please, don't let her die. Please, don't let her die. Please don't let her die."
"Things" aren't important.
For Saint Marty, tonight, what is important is this little dog, lying on her pillow on the floor, staring up at him with eyes full or trust and love.
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