A fun blog of 'soft' philosophy about the life and times of a Westiepoo called Chester. Written as a prelude to a more serious novel raising the question: Who is the most bankrupt: the banker who won't whistle-blow or the chef who loses her livelihood?
So to continue my little story ‘Every Dog has a Story to Tell’ ... well not actually, I secretly call it 'Every Dog has a Story to Tail', but don’t tell my master, Mr. A, he doesn’t get it (woof, woof)! You see my tail, possibly like your tale, is very precious to me.
I have had for three years (yes my birthday was earlier this month, and no I didn’t celebrate it … I have no money to). And I don’t like people touching it (growl, growl). But the one thing about my tail is it tells you much about me. When I’m scared, usually of big black labradors, it curls up rigid. And when I am excited it softens then wags vigorously, as when Miss A returned from uni last weekend. Or when I’m tired and sleepy, it relaxes by the side of my torso.
We all tell stories each day to ourselves, to others and the world around us. Stories about what we like, have ambivalence towards and dislike. Stories of who we love and hate, and those in between. Stories tore between best friends, those we tolerate and those we don’t. The reality of who I am is defined by these stories I tail (I mean tell). Without a story, I can easily get lost. Just like I did few years ago when, as a young puppy, I ran away from my master. He was very offended as I eloped down the streets of Bridgnorth toward an oncoming car. Throughout, I had that feeling of being frightened until someone stopped their car picked me up and passed me back to Mr. A, who then carried me to Mrs. B, where I felt better, more confident, more aligned. Things fell back into place.
And yet this transformational process witnessed by my tail is still an enigma to me. For example, each school day there are two greyhounds that I vehemently bark at as they pass with their mistress and her children four times a day (once to school and back in the morning and repeated in the afternoon). If only I could walk with them and be in their pack instead of pandering to my fear of them. I’m sure my tail would turn from rigid and curled to relaxed and soft and wiggly … and I’d feel a lot happier for it too.
Next time … on Every Dog has a Story to Tail, some further food for thought (hmm ... tuna and cheese … my favourites)!