Ramblings from the Contemplative Canine: Mt. Beacon

We've never formally met, not surprisingly since I don't have opposable thumbs, if I tried to type it would look like complete jibberish. You'd think Liz had passed beyond the tipping point of crazy (which to be honest she was already quite close to) and was frantically typing out her last thoughts before checking into a mental institution. I have a lot to say, though, and am too infrequently listened to. You may think my species is simple-minded, but stop and think about all the secrets we are told in confidence, the sinful acts to which we silently turn a blind eye, and, most significantly, the camaraderie among our species and with the human species. If we aren't too distracted by that greasy spot on the kitchen floor or the new bunny rabbit whose stuffing needs to be littered across the living room floor, we can synthesize all that information into conclusions I believe are beyond the human rational.

That's why, on our hike up Mt. Beacon in Beacon, NY Liz and I devised a method by which I can articulate my thoughts to her so she can act as my scribe. They may seem minute and socially restricted, but if scaled to a local, regional, national or even global proportion, I know they could mitigate the violence and fighting I see humans agonizing over day after day. With that, here are my ramblings.

I guess I should introduce myself. My name is Brewster, and I am a German Shepard with a small bit of beagle mixed in there. Don't ask me how. I'm just happy I don't weigh 90 pounds nor have hips prone to failure like most Shepards. I've lived with Liz and her parents for almost ten years and treated every visitor, even the UPS and mailmen like family. She and her family take me hiking and mountain biking almost every week which is when I get to run up, down and around trails without that invisible, shock border I never listen to anyway. Although I love to weave through trees exploring every nook, cranny, scent and pile of some mysterious solid, my favorite part of these adventures is the joy I bring strangers when I trot up to them, ears tall and open, and tongue hanging flaccidly between my bottom canine teeth. I can tell that at first, they wince away in fear. Liz says it's because many German Shepards are trained to resort to intimidation or even violence in order to protect their owners. As much as I love my family, I could never hurt anyone. 

I fell victim to neglect and abuse by humans when I was a puppy but was soon blessed with caring family and a house full toys, furniture and food all for me (well, at least I like to think it's all for me). I believe we are all victims of something, whether of physical abuse, mental instability, death of loved ones, environmental disaster, or whatever. When my parents are working out listening to the news or Liz is talking with her best friend, Jordan, about the seemingly endless cycle of both anthropocentric and ecocentric violence and disaster, I listen. I question the purpose of humans hoarding their victimization in a vengeful matter rather than a progressive one. In doing so, they become the culprit in yet another case of victimization, thus fueling this seemingly endless cycle.

This place, Ferguson, I keep hearing commentary about followed by a slew of yells, gunshots, and bodies pounding against each other, is a perfect example. Both sides seem to have some sort of viable justification behind their anger, whether equally so or not. But as soon as the dagger of victimization plunged too deep on one side, the means of retaliation tipped towards irrational violence. Now, police forces are arresting, using near-lethal weapons against, and in some cases killing its neighbors. On the other hand, certain protestors are exploiting this political and social unrest to simply wreck havoc and destroy their community.

As someone who has experienced near-lethal abuse, I cannot even begin to empathize with such responses. If I and the hundreds of other animals who are treated horrifically every day did, there were be daily reports of dog bites and euthanization. What I can empathize with is the people who unravel the vine of emotions twisted around the tree of injustice in a forgiving and peacefully confrontational matter. I know, it's somewhat utopian; a world without war, public hatred or petty violence. Why, though, should we quell the pursuit of a utopia? Who would not want to live in such a world? Plenty of individuals do. I am one of them.

I'll admit I am a bit clingy at times. In the house, I follow around Liz and Carina until their hands are so wet from my drippy nose prying against it that they grant me with the belly rub for which I was pleading. Sometimes, my charm does not quite enchant them for whatever reason. They shoo me away, an action analogous to much of the violence of today. I have three main options: keep prodding, bite, or heel. The first risks a more stern "no," which on a scale larger than a belly rub, could shake a stable relationship but in most cases the risk is necessary to gain access to certain desires. The risk is unjustifiable though with too much poking despite constant negative response. On a political scale (not in my house), that as well as the bite would inevitably lead to violence and the cycle aforementioned. But the act of momentary restraint and eventual peaceful consultation. Consultation includes apologies (and the subtext underlying), submission to or denial of certain requests, and progress.

I think about all this nonsense as many of my friendly attempts at greeting the other hikers on the steep switchbacks of Mt. Beacon are denied with almost rudely inhumane indifference. The outdoors is supposed to be a communal place that fosters interaction between all classes of living beings. So, I set my path just to the right of theirs so as to not appear overly assertive. I make eye contact and raise my ears, though, as my invitation. Normally people at least smile back, most pat my head and many stop to ask my name. I walk more upright with pride protruding from my chest every time a stranger comments on my personable demeanor. But here, I struggled to not pound on the ground with every step, for many times when Liz or I initiated a greeting, we wouldn't even receive so much as a quiet nod in response. For a while, it seemed as though the world was against me. I had again become a victim, a victim of indifference.
I see not how the humbling challenge of 1,300 feet in 2.4 miles to the overlook and the additional 2 miles to the fire tower fails to bind together humans as brothers, sisters and friends in their mutual pursuit of better day. I see not how the green caps of mountains rolling endlessly to the north, split only by the gentle meander of the Hudson River. And I see not how the inception of a verbal (or in my case handshake, a symbol that has bound together enemies and allies on individual as well as global levels since the beginning of man, could ever go unreciprocated.

I could sink drearily and lose faith in a humanity I believe (despite the root of the word) includes all living organisms. Never again would I offer my head for children or adults to pat on the trail. I would interact solely with myself, Liz and the rest of my family and friends. But then I think, would I ever want to walk up mountains or through a web of trees in the woods? It would morph into a futile exercise equivalent to sitting on my chair in the living room. I would become angry inside, and begin to bite. I don't even want to imagine nevertheless articulate the changes I would undergo.

But I don't have to. I don't have to because we hear and read about it on the news every hour of every day. More and more of us witness it first hand and even experience it. We say so often, "What a shame, all of this violence and hatred," and think we can do nothing about it. Maybe on a global scale, we cannot. But we can start small, right? We can choose link arms with the people around us, establishing a network rooted in the simple fact that we are creatures trying to survive on this earth. That network will begin with two people, maybe Liz and I, maybe the 'CEO's' of the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge Chris Kennedy and Jon Bullas. But one day, it could expand across borders and seas creating that utopia we have for so long confined to lines in a book.

Just start by saying hi to Liz and me.

Until next time,

Brewster