letting go

This one’s for Dory. As I write this, I’m on a plane traveling over a thousand miles away from her, and I miss her already. It’s a dangerous thing, to start writing about my dog. This could easily become a Dog Blog. I could write volumes, but only because she teaches me volumes.

Dory is a Flat-coated Retriever. She looks like a Golden Retriever, but she’s black, with wavy ears that cause passersby to ask us if she’s an Irish Setter. Her ears look like she’s straight out of an 80s crimped hair trend, and though she’s all black, certain light reveals burgundy highlights in her ears. She’s a year and a half, our pandemic puppy, and I’m smitten.

I’ve never met a dog with more curiosity than Dory. When we first brought her home, she’d sit by the window and just stare out. On the back porch, I’d see her look up, and follow her gaze as she tracked a crow flying from one tree to the next. Nothing escapes her watchful eye. She likes the window so much that we moved a poof there, and she lies on top of the poof resting her paws on the windowsill all morning, just watching and waiting for something interesting to happen. Her energy is laser-focused, whether she’s looking at birds, staring down a stranger she wants to turn into a friend, or playing with her toys.

Dory is obsessed with gravity and tennis balls. She loves taking her ball to the edge of the steps that go to our basement. She lies at the top of the steps with the ball next to her, pretending calm. Ever so slowly, she nudges the ball with her nose, until it tumbles down the stairs, at which point she races it down, picks it up with her mouth, runs back up the stairs, and lies down to do it all over again.

When she’s not by the stairs—or playing soccer with the tennis ball while carrying another toy in her mouth (or blanket, or pair of Chema’s boxers)—she’s on the couch. She’ll hold the ball at the edge of the couch with her paw on top of it, like a cartoon cat that has just trapped a mouse. She’ll sit like that for several minutes—ball suspended at the edge—until she suddenly removes her paw, and it drops. She waits a split second to see if I’m going to retrieve it for her, then hops off the couch to get it herself.

She may not know it, but Dory’s play is a daily demonstration in letting go. Because she wants to hold the ball close, but not more than she wants to see where it goes.

It’s a reminder to me to release that which I’m holding close. To see what happens if I loosen my grip. To watch with curiosity (and endless delight) what happens next. 

What are you holding close?

What would happen if you let it go, with curiosity, to see what happens next?