Doggy Lessons

I took the train home from work the other night. It wasn't too late, about 9:00 p.m. or so. I pulled out a Time Magazine, the latest one with Obama on the cover, and was reading about his campaign, how he won, why McCain lost, what we can expect from the new administration, why the last one failed. At the Essex Street stop, a woman get on. She was white, in her 30s, and well-dressed. Just your average New York woman. She carried this small, black package in her arms and sat down right across from me.

A minute later, from my peripheral vision, I saw her lean over and give the black package a kiss. I looked up, and it was then that I realized that she wasn't holding a package at all, but a small, furry dog. A pug. I thought to myself, here's another person who treats her dog like it's her baby, a substitute for the child she never had. I'll bet she takes that thing home and dresses it up for walks in the park. I'll bet she coordinates Halloween costumes with it. I'll bet she carries it on airplanes and lets it piss and whine in a crate below the seat in front of her.

I'm not a pet guy. I'm not into having animals stink up my place or cleaning up after them. I like cats, because they're independent and meticulously clean. They rub up against you for affection and when they're done, they leave. You don't have to walk them or potty train them too long. All you really need to do is feed them and clean the litter box every once in awhile. Problem is, I'm seriously allergic to cats, so I could never own one. Dogs, on the other hand, are cuter and more affectionate. I have a thing for small dogs, especially Chihuahuas and French Bulldogs. And Pugs. I like them. It's something about their eyes. They're always so expressive and emotional. But dogs are way more work than cats, between the walking and the cleaning and the training and the psychology. Even though I sometimes toy with the idea of getting a dog, it just wouldn't work with the way my life is currently structured. I'm too set in my ways and I work too much. And if I'm going to pay someone else to take care of it, what's the point of having it in the first place? That said, I enjoy playing with other people's dogs, as long as they don't jump all over me and nose around my crotch.

As the J train exited the Essex Station and began its ascent to the Williamsburg Bridge, I couldn't help but throw an occasional glance at the pug across the aisle. He was black as midnight and had buried his head in the woman's lap. His eyes were closed. Then the train slowed down for the ride over the bridge, and, sensing the change in speed, he lifted his scrunchy head to see what was going on. He turned to the right, and his eye, an enormous orb that took up nearly half of his head, flitted back and forth as he surveyed the scene. Then he turned back to the left. I looked at his face and saw that where his other eye should have been, there was just an empty black indentation.

I'm embarrassed to confess the next thing that floated into my head: Why would anyone go out and buy a one-eyed dog? Why would someone want a pet with a deformity? Then I thought, maybe something happened to the dog after she bought it. Or maybe, out of the goodness of her heart, she decided that she wanted this particular dog; maybe she saw him and fell in love with him. Maybe I shouldn't be questioning why. Perhaps it wasn't the dog who was defective, perhaps it was my way of thinking that was defective. Why assume that someone wouldn't want a dog who had only one eye, or that only fully functioning animals are wanted as pets?

I looked at him again. His head lolled back and forth in her lap. Even with his head resting, his single eye kept going back and forth, back and forth. It was bulging out of his head and seemed overworked, like it was doing the job of two eyes. Against all that dark, the thin band of whiteness around his pupil shined as bright as a candle. It struck me that this dog seemed aware of his impairment. He wasn't self-conscious, but he seemed to know that he was missing something that he once had. Then I started to wonder what could have happened to him to make him lose his eye? Did he get into a nasty fight with another dog or some other animal? Did he suffer at the hands of an abusive owner, one he had before this woman? Did he have an accident? Maybe he was chasing a car on the street and ran into something? Was he born this way? Whatever it was, he seemed grateful that someone had decided to love him in spite of it all. He seemed happy that this woman was taking care of him. He'd come to terms with what life had handed him -- a future with only one eye and certain blindness should anything happen to the one he had left -- and he'd made the most of his situation. Though scarred, both physically and, no doubt, psychologically, he was muddling through it, he was getting by and dealing with the bullshit that life had thrown at him. He didn't complain or whine or say "Why me?" Dogs don't get to do that. They don't talk. They can't tell you how they feel. They don't get to mope or pop a Xanax or Zoloft when bad shit happens to them. They just accept their fate and do their best to get through it. And that's what this one-eyed pug was doing. He was persevering.

That's when I teared up and almost cried on Obama's face. A few minutes before, I'd given him so little value. All I saw was his deformity. Now, in his quiet acceptance, I saw strength and courage. Qualities I wanted for myself. Lately, I've been reminded of the brevity of life, of how our bodies and minds are not immortal and will not go on forever. Eventually, they will fail. Eventually we will die. It's true for you, and it's true for me. We don't ponder such things until we're forced to, until we, or someone we care about gets sick or dies. Regardless of what one believes comes after, we all have to deal with the prospect of the now, of handling adversity and pain while we still live. It's not easy. Sometimes, it doesn't even seem possible. So we put all of it -- the fear, the pain, the emotions -- in a box and stack it on the shelf where it collects dust until a certain song or memory sparks its way into our consciousness, and then we remember everything that's in that box. Courage lies in facing it head-on, with patience, strength, and honesty. Courage lies in persevering through all that fear and anguish and muddling through, just like that one-eyed pug I saw the other night.

There's a lot you can learn from a dog.