After initially thinking I would describe a litany of the pets I have owned over my lifetime--from a dog to a hog-nosed snake to a squirrel to a parakeet--I soon became aware that I had tapped into a very deep well of sadness. More than a moment of grief, it felt as if I had broken the seal on a bottle of "despair Drambuie" that had been corked for sixty years.
Of all my pets, my most dear was the only dog I have ever owned, a mixed fox terrier puppy named Skippy. He was a gift from my maternal grandfather--the only grandparent I have ever known--on a day in May of 1955 that was totally unremarkable. There was no "occasion". I simply arrived home from another day in the 3rd grade at Morgan Elementary to find a puppy running around the kitchen. I was told by my mother that the puppy was a gift from Granddad Homer, who was living with us but at the time nowhere to be seen.
This was not unusual for my grandfather. Although extremely generous with his money, he was a five-star miser when it came to communication. I do not remember a time when we shared a conversation, laugh, or tender touch. When he gave gifts, he always did it through a surrogate-- our first TV magically appeared in our living room, my first bike was delivered by a Sears van as I sat on the front lawn, my first gun--a .410 gauge shotgun--was handed down from him through the hands of my father. When he died, approximately six months after bringing Skippy into my life, I was not allowed to attend his funeral. Since when does a 9-year-old need closure?
At first, I resented the duties that came with owning a dog. When still a puppy, I attached a leash to his halter and swung him around in the back yard as if he were on a merry-go-round. But soon, Skippy became my trusted and loyal buddy.
On Columbus Day, 1961, I was sitting at my desk doing homework after school in my bedroom. I was 15 and a high school sophomore. Mom was the TV Editor for the Hutchinson [KS] News and hadn't yet come home. I heard Dad come in the front door and could tell something was wrong. Dad had found Skippy lying in the street dead, apparently hit by a car. His body was unmarked except for a tiny tear in his skin.
I could tell Dad was sorry for my pain. I asked him what we should do. He said we should find a spot to bury Skippy in the back yard.
Dad grabbed a shovel and I carried my dog as gently as my shaking arms would allow. We looked around for an appropriate place of internment. Somewhat baffled, Dad--who could have been the prototype for Jimmy Olsen of Superman fame--said, "Where can we bury that damn dog, anyway?" I had already steeled myself against showing one whit of emotion and his comment only steadied my resolve. We did agree on a final resting place and I placed Skippy into it, along with a piece of my heart.
I never owned another dog as long as I have lived. The pets I have had have not been of the type that one would describe as "cuddly". They were either reptiles or amphibians, except for one brief turn with a wounded baby squirrel.
Lately, as I have been giving more thought to the notion of once again being "in relationship", I ask myself, "What kind of person would I be happiest with?" It seems to me that the process is a lot more like selecting a breed of dog to purchase as a pet that some people might think. Am I looking for a guard dog, a lap dog, or a dog to play "fetch" with? Why, I ask myself, are most of my friends women? Why do the men I know mostly seem to be narcissists who talk only about themselves and NEVER ask a question about my life?
At the suggestion of a newly-acquired male friend, I took the online Enneagram Personality Test. I found out that I am a Type 2--The Helper. I am told "people of this type essentially feel that they are worthy insofar as they are helpful to others. Love is their highest ideal. Selflessness is their duty. Giving to others is their reason for being. Involved, socially aware, usually extroverted, Twos are the type of people who...go the extra mile to help out a co-worker, spouse or friend in need."
Not too bad an assessment, I would say. The description of a Type 2 goes on to say, "Two’s often develop a sense of entitlement when it comes to the people closest to them. Because they have extended themselves for others, they begin to feel that gratitude is owed to them. They can become intrusive and demanding if their often unacknowledged emotional needs go unmet."
I recoiled from this accusation upon first reading. The idea that I could become "intrusive and demanding" seemed like a ridiculous fantasy. But upon further contemplation, I had to admit that I do have "unmet emotional needs which go largely unacknowledged". The suddenness of this realization flooded over me like a loss every bit as painful as the death of a beloved pet.
Still, some men I know do engender a powerful resentment in me. These are the ones I labeled a bit ago as "narcissistic". The conversation is all about them with never a thought about me. This trait among the men I know is so pervasive as to explain why it is that I much prefer the company of women. It's not that I feel that "gratitude is owed to me" as much as I feel that I am an interesting person who deserves equal time. I don't think that is too much to ask of a friendship. If all I cared about was caring for and pampering the other, I would go out and buy a cat. Alternatively, I'll just have to learn how to extend myself less or be more open about verbalizing my own need for caring. Anybody know any Type 2’s out there?
© 18 August 2014
About the Author
No comments:
Post a Comment