This Thing Called Courage

Saturday, July 28, 2007

Scanning/Interesting Pics

I'VE BEEN PLAYING WITH THE SCANNER AGAIN. I try to do a few every week out of the hundreds of pics hanging around. There are three here, one of Fionn (this was actually a pic taken with my phone, but I really like the Camera Obscura effect of it. As usual, Fionn was moving, so it's somewhat blurred-- how is it that abstract art really does abstract the meaning of something? There's something about Fionn in this photo that captures a part of his personality that I don't think would come out in straight representation. His sensitivity and vulnerability, perhaps, his yearning to be utterly loved and with his people at all times-- a side of him few others see, in his exuberance at meeting new people or seeing old friends.)

The second is an artsy photo of myself, taken down in Florida a couple of years ago.

The third is a picture of Precious Angel Biscuit (his official name), who always kept a good eye on me while I was gardening, as he is doing in this photo from a few years back. It's still amazing to me how varied dogs' personalities are, one from the other. It's like there is one great personality in the universe, and everything ever born is a small piece of that greater 'everything-ness.' Biscuit was so multi-faceted-- an old soul one moment, a frisky puppy the next, despite his age (he came to me when he was 8 or 9 or 10, they estimated, after a very abusive past in New York City, where he was found wandering the streets of Manhattan, and subsequently rescued at the eleventh hour from the Center for Animal Care and Control, a kill shelter for dogs picked off the streets of Gotham. My feeling is that Biscuit was very well taken care of for a good part of his life, and then he somehow became separated from his human-- either through death or getting lost or something. Quite placid and stoic at times, at others he absolutely refused to budge when one crossed some inner line-- for example, when we tried to put him in a crate for the ride home from the shelter on the first day I got him. It got so bad he was injuring himself inside the crate, going absolutely balistic. Other times (when my step-father John picked him up once from the Vet's) he walked right into a crate-- as he did overnight in Maine when Bobby and Missy were minding him and their dogs went to bed in their crates at night. In trying to mail Biscuit down wigth mere words, I feel like Karen Blixen writing about Finch-Hutton ("I am writing about him last, because he was the hardest, the most difficult, to understand...") in that there was so much to Biscuit. He was my fourth dog, but the first one who really made me appreciate his existence as a separate being, another nation of being, separate and utterly unknowable, and yet connected utterly connected to my own-- for a time. And yet, I still dream about him, at least once a week. There was more to him, and more to our relationship, than I could ever express. I feel I could write about him forever, and yet never hit the mark. He was a piece of God, a piece of the universe, and blind me gropping out with my hands to touch him, to know him, and yet never really knowing the all of him-- only loving him, and missing him still. It's not quite like that with Fionn-- though I love Fionn no less. Biscuit was deeper somehow, as if he'd been here many times before, and knew things I could never hope to. Despite his affection for me, there was an aloofness that only the wild creatures have-- how he had that, I don't know. Perhaps it was somehting he developed in his time on the streets.


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