He used to bark at me. But he has grown accustomed to my passing twice a day, the dog behind the gate up the road. He sports an aged coat of overgrown gray and white. Perhaps he once ran tall in his breed, but now he lays sacked in his indiscriminate being, his head peeking through the rungs.
It was a long time before I saw him out on the road. Perhaps he lumbered out behind the slow return of the gate as his owner went off to work. As I approached, he cocked his head to the left and looked up at me. He knew me, perhaps by scent or by the sound of my steps. So he didn’t bark. But as I got closer, I realized that this was probably the first time he actually saw me. His left eye was just a gray, milky ball. Watching me through the gate all these years, not being able to turn his head, I’m sure he never actually saw me with his good eye.
His back hips swayed to a soundtrack that only he could hear. I skipped along to the milky French in my earbuds. Each of us, making our way. Both a little more understanding of the other’s path.
I painted a dog in a similar position many years ago. The original sold almost immediately, but I still get requests for the prints even today. It’s titled, “Unconditional.” (I suppose we all want this.) I smile and think, maybe, even with all of our blurred limitations, we could see each other. Be a little kinder. Be a little more understanding. Make a little more room for each other on the path.
