Doug Bruns

Posts Tagged ‘Maggie’

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“Take this,” he said. I refused.

In Travel, Writing on February 21, 2013 at 6:00 am
Mystery Doll of Cusco

Mystery Doll of Cusco

The roof over my office where I write is being replaced. I’ve noted this word “office” before. Office suggests a place where serious business is conducted. There is little I conduct, serious or otherwise, in this space, and such a laden and infused word feels at odds with the spirit of the place.

The building is old, like much of the Old Port, and even five flights up my space has a fireplace and a bold heavy mantle. The fireplace is no longer functional and I doubt it ever was. Who would carry wood up all those stairs? Atop the mantle I keep trinkets from travels. I have a Buddha from Thailand, another one from Tibet, still another one from India, and a beautiful silver Bodhisattva from Bhutan. A room cannot have too many Buddhas. I also have a cast-bronze dragon, long and lean, that I picked up in a market in China. It’s mouth is open and the tongue appears as fire. I just now realize that a fist-size piece of amber I bought in a village in Ecuador is missing. It had a wasp suspended in it, Jurassic Park kind of stuff. I must have lost it in a move. Most unusual is a lead doll. It stands about two inches tall and rests surprisingly heavy in the hand. I was having a restless night in Cusco, Peru, and decided to walk into town. It was dark and the square at the Cathedral of Santo Domingo was empty and I was sitting alone and enjoying the coolness when a man approached me. He was holding a small pouch which he handed to me. “Take this,” he said. I refused. “Please,” he asked. I told him I was just getting some air, that I didn’t have any money. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I came to give you this.” His English was good and he was nicely dressed. He opened the pouch and removed the doll. She is silver and naked and quite beautiful. The man disappeared into the mist. The doll rests in a place of honor on the mantel. Someday I hope to understand what happened that night.

On an opposing wall I have a little shrine, for lack of a better word, to my once-companion, Maggie. I have a couple of pictures of her and her collar. She was often a subject of these pages. Next to her, I’ve pinned a photo of my friend Michael, also now gone. There are other things in the space that I cherish, many of which I’ve attached to the walls with thumbtacks. There are my stamped entry papers to the Annapurna National Sanctuary in Nepal, as well as a thick strand of yak hair my guide, Ram, gave me. He knew I was concerned about a mountain flight scheduled for the next day. The previous day’s plane had slammed into a cliff, killing all but three. The yak hair was to protect me. It did. I have several photographs hung as well, most of them remaining inventory from the gallery I once owned.

I said they are working on the roof over the space, and today upon entering Lucy and I determined that it was not a good day to hang out there. She could not nap on the futon as normal, not with the pounding directly overhead, and I couldn’t hear myself think, not that thinking is always exercised, but it helps. We repaired to home where I write this, noticing, the effect, or lack thereof, an office will have on one. (I note the previous sentence and blame the folks at Downton Abbey.)

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In memory of Maggie

In Death, Dogs on December 17, 2010 at 7:30 pm

I re-post this in loving memory of my Maggster:

How is it that Maggie, my ten-year old vizsla, is so excited every morning upon waking up? She’s not a puppy any more, but you wouldn’t know it at 6:00 am, with the sun streaming in and the gulls screeching. As soon as I move, she leaps from her bed and throws herself on the floor at my bedside. (My wife is certain that she hears my eyes opening.) She rolls over and arches her back, twisting. Then she rights herself, stretches, squeals, and rolls over again, crashing to the floor. I struggle to get out of bed amidst her bounding and cavorting. Lastly, she rises, braces her legs in support and flaps her ears. I’ve tried to count. It’s either six or seven rotations of her head, ears slapping accordingly. Lately, she has taken to letting out a deep resounding howl, as if to announce to the world that she has risen. She is like the German grandmother, wagging her finger, “Morgen Stund hat Gold im Mund,” or “The mourning hour has gold in its mouth.” It is all, frankly, annoying. But learning by repetition can be annoying. Yet, for some such as myself, that is, individuals for whom the previous day’s lessons are likely forgotten with each new dawn, repetition is the only way. That is the stuff of habits and I have always believed in them–at least the good ones. The bad habits require belief in something opposing. That is the only way to break their backs. Good habits are practices of self-sustaining discipline. Yet, I have much to learn, even as I’m subjected to the habitual morning training at the hands, dare I say paws, of my dog.

Every dawn, rain or shine, Maggie performs her routine at my feet. All that excitement and enthusiasm and joy. Every morning that lesson gets drilled into me. You must see where I’m going here. I have never met a soul who musters, at the prospect of each day, such happiness as Maggie. Life should be so simply learned as to watch our dogs and emulate them. Unconditional love, curiosity, loyalty, boundless joy. (I choose to ignore the chewed shoes, the ruined carpet, the surprise in the closet. Learning to ignore the troublesome aspects of existence is sometimes a lesson too. ) And the current lesson: a canine reminder, carpe diem. I’m a slow learner. Maggie is a good teacher. Her work is not yet done.