My woes on Wednesday come from an excess build-up of words that have no place to unleash themselves. So many words have built up in my head that they have started to leak out. I can’t stop talking. No one is safe. I want to communicate and communicate I am. Apparently, all those built-up words have layered themselves on my tongue and are finding an outlet.
This need to communicate is why I write. There is no real sense or reason behind. I write because I can but since I can’t always write (Life has a way of interrupting.) I talk to myself in my head or any one who happens to wander into my “field of conversation.” (Some times, this is a pretty big field.)
Maybe, I should start talking to the dog.
She can be an amazing listener. Although, right now she has some insane idea that there is something out side that she must bark at. It’s probably a squirrel or the wind. She barks at both.
When she isn’t barking and isn’t sleeping soundly underneath her blankets, she listens.
Her comprehension is questionable. The average dog is said to be as intelligent as the average two-year-old child. Ruby, our mini-dachshund, does display an advanced degree of toddler cunning. She’ll never understand the meaning of all my words or begin to comprehend the subtle nuances some of the carry but she is an excellent listener. She could be teaching a seminar in listening. I think I’ll sign up the husband and the kids. They should sit in the front row. . . and take notes. . . careful notes.
Maybe she is such a good listener because she is trying to understand. Maybe, she is trying to learn something new. Dogs can learn new tricks.
Maybe she listens because I am that important to her.
The “why” of her listening matters not. The fact that she listens to me with her ears at attention, her eyes searching my face with eager expectation, that matters a lot. Her listening is therapy, free and sweet. It calms me. The clouds of emotion that have obscured rational thought are gently lifted away beneath the gift of her attention. Listening is this valuable.
Her lack of comprehension doesn’t matter. Her immature, solitary desire focused on the possibility of a food reward doesn’t matter either.
What matters is that my words have found release. There is no critic, only dumb, lovely acceptance and hope. Maybe, just maybe, this is why ‘dog’ spelled backwards is “God.” In her listening, the genius of dumb coincidence meets the knowledge that in a world filled with words, there is one creature who listens to me as if I were the only one.