Penny Post #3: Running Towards
A (wo)man's best friend.
When we first got Rosie, there was so much excitement.
A new puppy is a whole lot of responsibility, none of which I bore as an eight-year-old, but is also a whole lot of thrill, all of which I bore as an eight-year-old.
I remember being captivated by the peculiar behavior of a golden retriever puppy. She would pee as soon as anyone new rang the doorbell. She would chase her tail in an endless circle, helpless to catch it. She loved to jump and stretch to her full height yet managed to tackle a good many humans in the process. She was a child: emotions delightfully uncontrolled and hoarding a vault of infinite energy. There was much to be intrigued by. Most of all, though, I was curious to find that I didn’t have to do a single thing for her attention.
Unlike humans, with who I might have to prod or beg or will myself visible, with Rosie, I was never anything but visible. To get her to notice me, I just had to be.
Or in this case, not be.
During the warm spring days when we first got Rosie, my brothers, neighbors, and I would escape to our sprawling suburban backyard. It was a clever trick orchestrated by my mother to kill two birds with one stone: tire out both the human kids and the k-9 kid!
Regardless, we would play outside for hours. Hide & Seek. Tag. Our my brothers’ favorite: tackle Kiera to the ground completely unprovoked.
When we were playing with Rosie, we would create a sort of semi-circle around her and she would bounce excitedly from person to person.
After several Spring days spent the same, I decided to conduct an experiment. Rosie was so attentive, so manic, that I wondered how long it would take for her to notice if I snuck off.
I knew I would have to be extremely subtle to sneak away from my golden retriever pup while she wasn’t paying attention. I mastered my escape.
Once I found the perfect spot far enough away, I would sit myself down, and begin the waiting game. My heartbeat would increase: the thrill of being found and the nagging fear of being forgotten.
From 100 yards away, I could see the subtleness of her ears perking up, searching for what she had noticed was missing. The energized children surrounding her did not distract her, despite the fact that none of them had noticed me gone. She was a retriever, after all, it was in her blood to retrieve what was lost.
She began her search, scanning up and down the yard to find me. I tried to be patient, but patience has never been my strong suit. I would sit crisscrossed, silent and still, until —
There it was. Her eyes met mine. I had been found.
Not a single second later was she bounding toward me. She never trotted or jogged or canted: she would move full speed ahead. The speed with which she pursued me was the depth at which she valued me. With her pace, I figured I must have been loved pretty deeply.
She tackled me in a swell of warmth and love, with messy golden retriever kisses and soft golden retriever fur. God, do I miss those puppy hugs. She would sit with me, unwilling to leave me alone, watching the now puppy-less group 100 yards away. She would bark at me to return yet wouldn’t leave my side.
Rosie loved me enough to abandon a crowd of admirers, promises of attention, and boundless excitement. I was worth it for her. I was worth the lonely journey, I was worth the unrelenting speed, I was worth leaving all else. I had left her, but she had found me. And by finding me, she had gifted me the most unconditional love. I guess that’s why they say that a dog is a man’s best friend.
Even after one hundred iterations of the same game, the same chase, she never tired. She would continue sprinting after the hidden Kiera. I know enough to know that her little golden retriever brain likely saw a target 100 yards away and that she wasn’t thinking of what she was leaving behind nor of that risk, but it meant a lot to me regardless.
She taught me that I was special. Just by being. Without prodding or begging or willing. I sat there, continually still and silent, and she cared that I wasn’t alone.
I was special enough to be run towards. A special kind of special.
If you are wondering what happened to this precious spirit, we lost our Rosie when she was only 6. As many golden retrievers do, she struggled with several terminal health problems over the course of her short life.
But she never stopped chasing after love, joy, and companionship. She never stopped running towards. In just six years, she delivered a lifetime of affection. Her bright spirit sits on our front porch, reminding us to run toward life, not away from it.
Questions I leave you with:
What are you running towards?
What has run towards you?
How do you recognize your specialness?
Other sources that are worth your time:
