The Wisdom of Innocence: Lessons from Krimpet

Krimpet and me. 

My dog, Krimpet, is not well. While I might write a reflection about her one day (I love her way more than I've loved most humans), this is not that reflection. It's a meditation on wisdom and innocence.

Sick though she is, she is still after table scraps and she is still addicted to affection in the form of ear-scratches and cuddles. She still perks up when any of the family enter the room. In short, for her, it is business as usual; her focus is still on "the important things" that people put on static-cling plastic wall decorations in their kitchens: "Live, love, eat." That kind of thing.

My son, fourteen, observed this as she lay her long poodle/retriever nose on the dinner table last night. He pointed out that she just keeps carrying on with her life, sickness or not. I started to say that this is because dogs realize what is important; that they don't feel sorry for themselves despite their misfortunes and that we could learn a lot from them. Then, after a long pause and a few bites, I said, "Or, it can be because she is too stupid to know the difference." Everyone laughed.

But, as with most family conversations, this one rings like an infinity bell in the back of my mind.

A dog, I think we can all agree, is, if nothing else, a truly innocent being. Usually, we draw a line between innocence and wisdom; we assume we need to leave the former to approach the latter. But, could it be that innocence is wisdom itself? Could it be, even still, that our sometime regression, in old age, back to a late-life infancy, is God's way of telling us that while ignorance may not be bliss, innocence is? Can it possibly be that even something that looks as awful as regression is the pathway to heaven?

Maybe that is too optimistic. As I know, first-hand, dementia is horrible, for all of us on the outside, and we can see that it can be a profound kind of suffering for those who fork to the unhappy path of it. (Some with dementia are silly-happy, some miserable...)

Still, the fact remains that no matter how deeply we dive in terms of philosophy, we can learn a lot from my dog, Krimpet. Does it matter that her wisdom comes from a lack of understanding? Is fire not fire, whether it is lit by a match or by a bolt of lightning? Either way, fire burns.

Regardless of the source of her innocent wisdom, I often find myself wanting to be more like my dog.  If nothing else, she is a testament to the wisdom of carrying on and not feeling sorry for one's self. Let's hear it for the fur-clad, philosophical imbeciles and let's profit from their innocent wisdom.

Why Dogs Are Better Than Humans

I have often said, only half-jokingly, that dogs are superior to humans. They have no egos, they love

Me and my dog-in-law,
Harley, in Cape Cod, philosophizing.
May he rest in peace. 

without condition and they are (to echo the centuries-old cliche) loyal beyond compare.

But, in the end, we find ourselves, humans, to be superior to dogs. What does this mean, though? I can only equate it to one thing: we are more complex. So, does complexity equal superiority? Does the ability to create and build more things equal superiority? Does the capacity to build financial webs and to wage wars do it?

Complexity allows us to dominate other species. Is domination equal to superiority? -- does the ability to dominate all other species actually make us better than they are?

I'd argue, unequivocally "no."

Isn't it interesting that some of the most revered philosophies from Taoism to Feng Shui to Good Housekeeping cleaning tips seem to always be about simplifying life -- boiling it down to its essence? -- to the things that really matter?

So, if dogs are made of love, companionship and loyalty, shouldn't we aspire to be more like them? And if we should aspire to be more like them, are they not superior?

Greater complexity may, as I said, allow dominion, but it does not necessarily equate to betterness, if you will allow me to invent a word.

My Stupid, Beautifully Ugly Genius of a Daughter

I hate the words "liberating" and "empowering." They drive me crazy for some reason. Probably just overuse. But it occurred to me today how "liberating" it can be to have a dog for a four-legged daughter.

I was sitting on the couch with her this morning (my fur-daughter, Krimpet) and (I'm going to come clean with  you here -- I do this a lot) I was talking to her and petting her. And I, I mean, I talk -- like, full paragraphs.

We have a lot of one-sided conversations, Krimpet and I. She seems to try hard to understand.

Actually, a better way to put it is that she looks as if she is trying, with everything she has, to convince me that it is perfectly okay that I keep talking even if she doesn't have any idea what I am saying. In fact, she encourages it with all intense sincerity: "Really, Dad -- I'm interested, even if it makes no sense. Just keep throwing words at me... I love every minute of it, especially when you scratch my ears like that. You are the most important person who ever lived. Every vocal noise you make is like another beat of my heart..."

In short, she's good for the old ego.

A Tale of Three Dogs, Minus Two

Some years ago, in my neighborhood, I began noticing a man who would walk his three dogs. They were all small, white, West Highland Terriers. Anyone who knows Westies knows they are small, but sturdy and fearless. Cute little dudes.

The man is somewhere around his late fifties, I would guess. He is sort of heavy, with a balding pate and, usually, when I picture him, I imagine a winter jacket with the collar turned up.

When I first noticed him, several years ago, he would walk his three dogs but he would only hold the leash of two of them -- the younger ones. As the "pack" made their way down the pavement, they would be followed by their elder, his leash dragging behind him on the concrete. I imagined this was just precaution; just in case the venerable old chap got a whiff of his youth in the scent of a passing squirrel and decided to make a dash for it.

I would see these four, day after day, and it always made me smile.

Then, maybe two years ago, he walked by, but with only two dogs. The most-honored, white-furred fellow was no longer with his family and, I imagined, no longer with the world at all. (I was struck by how much I missed the delicate sound of the dragging leash.) I let out a sigh and smiled a sad, warm concession to the cycle of life and death.

This morning, (maybe two years later) I saw the man again. This time, there was only one dog and he was slowly walking by his master's side, the leash dragging behind him, as the two took their leisurely stroll under the clouds and through the fallen leaves. The man's hair was a little whiter.

At one point, the little dog stopped to "do his business" and the man crouched down, cleaned it up, and, smiling, scratched his canine companion under the chin.

They walked off together, the man with his hands comfortably clasped behind his back, the dog dragging his leash over the beautiful, orange eventuality of the season that was littered around their six feet.

Dogolinguistics

Maybe someone who knows more about psychology can help me. I studied psycho-linguistics pretty intensely as an undergraduate, so my concept of thought and speech is driven by de Saussure and his notions of the signifier and the signified. To put it ridiculously simply, there is the thing itself and there is the word that signifies it. Our brains latch on to this in thought and in speech. To different degrees, of course, most of us see an image in our head when we read or hear, for example, the word "castle."

As a generally binary machine, when it comes to language, the brain works, linguistically, in comparison and contrast. If we see a thing run across the road in front of our car at dusk, we immediately compare it to everything we know it is not, until we reach a  conclusion: it must have been a deer, because it was not a dog or a rabbit or a ketchup bottle, based on comparisons of size and everything else. This, of course, happens in a fleeting second. (Though, I swear, one time a gorilla ran across interstate 95 in front of me as I drove in for a Phillies game.)

A Literal Kick in the Face

I just kicked my dog in the face. Hard. So hard, it hurt my foot. In fact, my heel is still throbbing. And do you know where she is? She is sitting here with her head on my knee, looking up at me with eyes brimming over with love.

Before you call in the animal cops, I need to explain that it was an accident. My wife threw a toy for her to fetch and, as the dog was speeding by my chair, after it, I tried to lift my leg out of the way. As my foot came up, I planted a karate heel right into her snout.

No blood or broken teeth, but I sure thought there would be. She seems fine. In fact, she is better off than I, because I feel horrible, even though it was purely accidental.

Which one of us is superior? Does her total lack of anger, as a dog, make her inferior, in either a scientific or a philosophical sense? Or does it make her superior?

I suppose it comes down to the difference between "can't" and "won't." She is not smart enough, being a canine creature, to conceptualize resentment. (At least, I don't think so.) That would be "can't," of course. If someone accidentally were to kick me in the face, I would be really mad. I might even lash out.

My Worthless Dog

I announced, a few nights ago, to my wife -- quite emphatically and (possibly) dramatically -- that our dog is, in every practical sense, a completely useless member of our household. She fits not one of the typically advantageous dog-profiles.

She leaves crumbs -- sometimes even whole potato chips -- on the kitchen floor. I have never known a dog to do this. I grew up with a with a lovely mutt (may Foffy rest in peace) who never would have allowed such a thing. Popcorn snacks, while watching TV, were no inconvenience to my mother and father, even with a shag rug in our family room. No dropped piece of white, corny goodness lay upon or among the yarnish flagella of the rug for long. Foffy was on the job. The nose knew, and it conquered. Not my present dog -- not Krimpet. She seems to have no interest in dropped cheese doodles. Either that, or she is so monumentally stupid, that she can't make distinctions between a fallen Lego and a forgotten chunk of pretzel and, thus, gave up on taxing her tennis ball sized brain with such grueling decision-making processes.

Krimpet: Portrait of Worthlessness

How is she as a watch dog, you ask? A tremendous failure. She barks like a rabid devil-wolf when the neighbor (who pets and plays with her on a regular basis) puts out his trash. But if a large man in a ninja suit, carrying a blood-dripping ax in one hand and someone's severed arm in the other, were to stand at the window, breathing through his teeth, she'd likely glance over her shoulder, walk around in a few lazy circles, and cuddle up for a nap with one of my old shoes.

In a thunder storm, does she climb in bed with my boys for her own solace and for theirs? No -- even when encouraged, she will not do this. Instead, she puts her front half up on my bed and shivers powerfully, causing me to dream of seedy motels with blinking red signs. Either that, or she goes off into my studio room and hides behind the workstation, tunneling into an old comforter I use for a "bass trap" -- transforming it instantly into a "cretin trap."