“I’m looking for an over-sized mellow cocker spaniel,” I told the breeder.
“We have just the puppy,” she answered. “He’s 30% larger than his siblings. His nickname is The Philosopher. He just sits back and watches everything before deciding whether he wants to engage.”
I named my chunky baby black English Cocker Spaniel Hoover–officially Hoover It Up–and he has proceeded to live up to the moniker. He has also been a soul mate, the pup who would climb on my lap and, until he lost his sight, stare deeply into my eyes.
Hoover didn’t suddenly go blind. I had plenty of time to panic during the process and to explore surgical possibilities only to discover that potential post-surgical complications were simply unacceptable.
“He’s such a happy dog,” my vet kept telling me.
It took me a while to figure out what he meant. Hoover didn’t know he was going blind. He wouldn’t feel sorry for himself once he was blind. He would adapt.
What if we writers did the same? We wouldn’t fear our projects. We wouldn’t doubt our abilities or feel bad when confronted by a challenge, even if we failed that particular test. We would adjust and carry on.
That’s exactly what Hoover has done, to the point where he’s often off-leash during our jaunts in the countryside. When he’s on an open path he trots quite briskly, especially if he knows the terrain. Every once in a while he decides to go off trail, following smell after smell until I finally call him back with a degree of impatience I immediately and regularly regret. Still, I know that his explorations enrich his outing and his life, even if he does walk headfirst into a rock every once in a while. I find myself wishing I had the same self-confidence regarding my own creative exploration, regardless of whether I might bash into an obstacle or even a dead end.
Of course, Hoover knows that he can trust me to look out for him. He understands the words “Watch!” or “Careful!” When the warnings come too late or go unheeded, he takes comfort in the comfort I immediately provide. Every once in a while he stops mid-trail, confused and unsure of where to go, and tries to look around despite those unseeing eyes. I reassure him as I direct him back to the trail. Tail wagging, he immediately resumes his exploration of the world around him.
Here’s to all of us experiencing that kind of unflinching creative exploration.
I loved this piece and what Hoover has to teach about the creative process. The abandon with which he gives himself over to exploring on his walks with you. He seems a free being and sight has little to do with it.
I love it. Great analogy for life in general!
Thanks Hoov!