I’ve often been envious of my dog because he isn’t as acutely aware of the passage of time as I am. For the most part, he lives in the moment. He alternately chomps or licks his squeaky toys when he’s inside, fetches his frisbee in the yard, explores the universe of shrubs, sticks, and other dogs on the trail, eats at his established mealtimes, and sleeps when he’s tired. What a fantastic life that must be!
A dog doesn’t have to think about how rapidly the months pass, how the holidays roll around when it seems we just finished with them, how the aches of our aging bodies and the battle scars in our minds keep multiplying so that waking up in the morning is often just as painful as going to sleep.
But when I give this more thought, I realize that of course my dog must acknowledge time even though he can’t put it into words. For one thing, he can no longer leap into the car without a thought, but is forced to slow down and use a humiliating step. For another, he lives through the ebb and flow of seasons along with me—the lush green growing of spring (sticks in the pond!), the lazy heat of summer (the beach! the lake!), the crisp change of fall (extra food in the bowl!), the frigid cold (snowballs!) of winter.
On a deeper level, I wonder whether my dog is aware of the nuances in time that happen every day for me. Boring or painful things take forever, like cleaning the bathroom, driving in traffic to get groceries, trying to get back to sleep at 3 am, trying to stay awake and write when I’m not feeling inspired, or enduring unpleasant muscle spasms in my back. So immersed am I in my misery that I can hardly imagine an end to them, a time when once again my life will be more pleasant.
I hope Tock doesn’t experience such anguish, but I fear he might. Every morning, he stands at my side while I eat breakfast, imploring me with his eyes to hurry up so we can go for our walk. Does the wait feel interminable to him? Likewise, the wait for his dinner when he lies at my feet while I’m writing and the “dinner bird” (that sings on the clock at 4pm) has long since sung. Does he wonder whether he’s ever going to be fed? Worst of all are his trips to the vet. Before we even enter the building, all he wants to do is leave. He spends the entire time staring at or pulling toward the door, his toenails scrabbling ineffectively on the hard, cold tiles. Poor guy. He must feel like his punishment is lasting forever.
What about the good things, though? Walks in the woods on a perfect spring day, when the temperature and humidity are just right and the bugs haven’t yet emerged in droves. Working on my trail system at the family summer place. Listening to marmots whistle amidst sun-warmed talus slopes. Playing cards with my son and occasional reluctant husband. Writing when I’m in the zone and the thoughts flow fast. For me, these things sail by. I feel as though I’ve scarcely begun when they’re coming to an end.
I hope this cruel trick that time plays isn’t the same for Tock. I hope time stretches out for him when he’s happy even longer than it does when he’s not.
Of course, nothing would seem so wonderful if it lasted forever, right? In the best of all possible worlds, we’d move from one delightful thing to another, and another, and another. Last summer after Tock and I spent six timeless, satisfying hours on trail work, I admit that nothing felt so good as finishing for the day, putting my feet up, and eating a good meal. Tock would not have appreciated the shower, but he had a big dinner and a well-earned rest.
Though time ticks relentlessly onward and we can never re-visit the past (how I would love to hug my former dogs again!), it has proven very helpful in its effect on my memory. The good memories stretch out in a long golden glow that I can enjoy for as long as I want. Meanwhile, the bad memories have shrunk to nearly nothing. The super unpleasant sensation of childbirth, for instance, has totally vanished, as if my son were born in an instant. But I’ll forever remember the experience of holding him for the first time. The memory of devouring some homemade brownies after all that hard labor is pretty special, too. As for Tock, I’m hopeful that he’s reliving his best memories when his legs twitch during a dream.
What causes time to alter its tempo for you? Does it compress or expand depending on the nature of the moment you’re experiencing? Even if your legs don’t twitch when you’re dreaming, does time slow down when you remember the good things? It’s my hope that time can reward us all in that one small way.
Happy Tales!
Flights of Fancy 