Animals are definitely onto something. Pure and simple, they just know how to live. You never see a dog or cat with a book in its paw. They don't cook, watch TV, go shopping, or engage in any of the frivolous pursuits we do, yet somehow they endure, and in relatively good spirits. There are no pet suicides, or at least none that you hear about. A lot of them actually seem quite happy to just lay about, or wait patiently while their master is in the supermarket or the bank. How do they do it, and why can't we, I wonder.
It seems that humans need to be busy to justify being alive. I, for one, am always looking for something to do. Reading, writing, meditating, painting, exercising, cooking, playing games, filing my nails, almost anything will suffice besides just sitting and staring into space, like I saw a golden retriever doing today at the post office when I went to pick up my mail. He was in the passenger seat of a Volvo station wagon, and he seemed to have the patience of a saint. He didn't bark or even yawn, he just sat there, with the radio off, barely moving, and when I greeted him as I passed by his open window, he turned his head and looked at me for a split second and then went back to staring straight ahead.
I can't do that. When I have nothing to do, I find something: clean the rugs, wash the gunky condiment bottles in the fridge, alphabetize the bookshelves. Maybe that's why I have high blood pressure. From now on I will try staring into space.
No comments:
Post a Comment