Something That Will Not Rest

I have been a foolish, greedy, and ignorant man;
Yet I have had my time beneath the sun and stars;
I have known the returning strength and sweetness of the seasons,
Blossom on the branch and the ripening of fruit,
The deep rest of the grass, the salt of the sea,
The frozen ecstasy of mountains.
The earth is nobler than the world we have built upon it;
The earth is long-suffering, solid, fruitful;
The world is still shifting, dark, half-evil.
But what have I done that I should have a better world,
Even though there is in me something that will not rest
Until it sees Paradise…?

Johnson in Johnson Over Jordan, by J.B. Priestly

Before we left for our Texas trip, Jinx developed some ear problems. Poor feller was shaking his head and scratching at his ears quite a bit, so we asked the vet at the animal hospital where the dogs were boarded to take a look at him. Turns out that his ears were so infected they were nearly swollen shut. We were horrified and a bit embarrassed…we had no idea. The vet treated and flushed his ears after cleaning them, and started Jinx on a regimen of antibiotics and steroids. By the time we returned, he was much improved, but the vet cautioned us that the steroids would make Jinx want to urinate a lot. His prediction was quite accurate. The spotted menace has always had a formidable bladder capacity and can pee for a solid minute when he goes outside. Now that he’s on the steroids, he has to go frequently, but the volume is still very high as usual, undiminished by the frequency. He did have one accident in the house, the first he’s ever had, on the first night we were back. This was my fault, because I didn’t pay attention to the fact that he was pacing a lot. He finally went over to one of the rugs outside the kitchen and let fly. Poor feller.

So now we let him out anytime he’s doing anything besides resting or playing with Bluebelle. He always produces. Problem is, he gets up at least once in the middle of the night and needs to go water the grass. So my wife and I have been taking turns sleeping on the couch so we can hear him when he stirs, since his claws clack on the hardwood floors out there. Last night was my turn, and he awakened me at 0230 for his bidness. Bluebelle got up with him, naturally, and they went out and did their duty and then came back in. I had just gotten settled back onto the couch and was drowsing when Dixee started whimpering from her bed, copycat that she is. So I got up and let her out, too. When she was done, she decided to go all Biden on me and became confused when I was trying to get her to come back inside. Every time I tried to call her or coax her, she ran back out into the yard, then back up onto the porch, and the process repeated, over and over. I finally lost patience, since I was standing on the porch wearing shorts and a t shirt while snow flurries pinged against my face and legs. I slid my boots on, chased the little creep out into the yard, nabbed her, and took her back inside to her bed. Once I got her into the bed, I spatted her butt and growled, Now LAY DOWN in the most menacing whisper I could.

Once I got back to the couch, it took me a while to get over my annoyance and return to sleep. While I was waiting, a parade of thoughts passed through my head. The sorts of things I always think of when I’m awake in the wee hours. One of those thoughts was a frequent speculation of mine, that my life is like that of a plant. I mean this in the sense that my current existence is like the roots of a plant, down in the dark dirt among the tangles of roots and bugs and worms and nematodes and rocks, while the real and vital and ultimate part of my existence is somewhere above me, budding and blooming and catching the Son’s rays and bringing beauty to the space around me. The feeling is that my life, my spirit, is or will be the same, in different places, with a different manifestation in the other place(s). Someday I will leave the soil and go up to the place where I will see the purpose of the long years beneath the crust of earth. This is my speculation and my hope, in its fragmented and ungelled form.

But then sometimes, in the light of day and in the presence of jostling, superficial people, I doubt all of it. Thus it has always been, and perhaps will be until I leave this life.

I was also thinking that while almost everyone I know believes in an afterlife, almost none of them even entertain the possibility of a life before this one.

If we watch ourselves honestly, we shall often find that we have begun to argue against a new idea even before it has been completely stated.

Wilfred Trotter, “Instincts of the Herd in Peace and War”

And once the splintered thoughts faded, I fell back into a deep sleep, so deep in fact that I didn’t hear the alarm when it went off. I heard Mrs. Orr’s feet on the floor as she came out of the bedroom and I looked at the clock to see that my alarm had been sounding for two minutes already. Doggone that little dog. But she is elderly and going blind and deaf, and I am impatient with her, and I repent of that impatience even now, aware that it is petty and unworthy, and also aware that someone will likely be impatient with me when I am losing my faculties with age, me with rolled trousers and coffee spoon in my age-spotted hand.  Spare me the spat on the hind end, though, pray God.

~ S. K. Orr