She Dreams
As I read, my arm is draped across Bluebelle, who snores.
Just now, while scanning some lines by Ezra Pound, I felt her muscles beneath my forearm bunch and twitch. Her breathing quickened like an engine starting to rev.
Her breath funnels down into groans, then tiny yips, and a tide rushes across the surface of her warm body just beneath the brindled fur; she dreams now.
And I, pater lacking perception, cannot tell. I cannot tell if her dream is a bad one or joyous. Is she fleeing some foe, or chasing a rabbit…or her own multihued tail?
And even if I could stroke her small arena of a head and tell by touch what phantoms are racing in there, even if I knew that her dream is a fright to her, what should I do?
Have I the right to rouse her from the sleep in which she’s bound, to pull her from dreams real enough to cause her to throw a bark into the wakened world?
Many is the time I have labored in terror in the chains of a nightmare and prayed in my fragmented mind that someone would tug me back into wakefulness and end the torment.
But —
Is it my place to flood my dog’s sleeping soul with reality, to sever the play being performed on her dog-brain’s stage? Is it my prerogative to quench that which makes her twitch?
I do not know. But I do know that for now, for tonight, I will let her run, either chousing or being choused, and to let the full script be run out, and to let her awaken under her own power.
The thing is, she is with me, warm beneath my limb, and she is trusting the weight on her flank, and this moment will never again be repeated.
She dreams, she runs, she burfs, she snips, she whirps. She has earned the right to perform these winternight acts. She dreams, and I will let her.
And my wife, in the chair over there, does the same, though without my comforting arm or her own self-soothing sounds.
Wealth accrues, and it can be counted in so many ways. My storehouses are full to bursting. Do you see?
~ S.K. Orr
6 Comments
James
“…my strong desire to poke someone’s eyes out of their smug head.”
Probably wouldn’t have done any good.
Smug is smug; sighted or not.
I get the idea though. Sometimes you come across people that you Just want to just slap silly.
James
“Wealth accrues, and it can be counted in so many ways. My storehouses are full to bursting. Do you see?”
What a great way to close this S.K.
I may have mentoned before something my dad reminded me of more than a few times.
“You will never have everything you want, but as long you have everything you need, you are way ahead of a lot of people.”
Here in the high desert of Oregon; the roof is tight, the house is warm, and the pantry is full. Karen and I are blessed.
admin
Thank you, James, as always. You’re a great encouragement to me. I’m so glad you and Karen are safely ensconced. These days, family is THE central important thing. And your dad was a wise man.
NLR
Have you listened to a recording of Ezra Pound speaking?
He had a very interesting old-fashioned American accent. I don’t think anyone has that kind of accent anymore.
I guess dogs might mind being woken up less than people since they seem to be fairly light sleepers in general.
admin
Yes, NLR, I have heard Pound read some of his stuff via old recordings. His accent is indeed interesting. It sounds to me like a combination of a Scots burr, an Irish brogue, and a tidewater Virginia (aristocratic) accent, all blended in a lovely, lyrical tone. Television has done a remarkable job of flattening out regional accents. Everyone sounds, as Don Williams observed, like the man on the six o’clock news. I hear young Southerners regularly say, “I hate my accent. I want to lose this hick twang.” Several years ago, I was in the room with a young mother and her sister, and the sister (who is a certified Bitch on Two Legs), said, “Whatever you do, don’t let your children grow up speaking with a Southern accent.” I am sometimes proud of my self-control and my ability to squelch my strong desire to poke someone’s eyes out of their smug head.
James
Sorry SK, my last comment should have been down here.