A reminder that "mnemosyne" means "memory" in Latin, and it's the tag I use in my blog titles for two reasons. One, because I want to sound cool, and Latin words sound cool. Two, because I talk about a specific memory here.
This time, we'll be talking about dogs, and my rich personal history with them.
I couldn't have been older than four when I had my first major encounter with a canine – a full grown golden retriever. I was with my dad and one of his long time friends, and I believe they were talking and casually playing fetch with the long-time-friend's dog. Of course, at the time, as a little kid around a big dog, I had my respect for the animal, but I was ok with standing out there with them.
Until I started walking away and the Frisbee (as I remember it) flew over my head, and the dog started running towards me. Well, "at" me. And I panicked.
And ran.
And didn't get very far before the retriever lost interest in the fetch object and came after the little kid running away from it (him?... I'm afraid to say cause I don't remember the dog's gender). All told, the harrowing scene which scared my childhood life ended with me on the ground and the dog sitting on top of me.
Not cool.
In fact, I spent the next... eh, eight years of my life? Maybe ten. And I lived in somewhat mortal fear of dogs. If the dog was around, I wasn't. I could not stand to be within the "range" of a dog collared by leash. They were evil, scary creatures to me that I wanted absolutely nothing to do with.
Specifically, I can tell you about my grandparents' dog, which I spent a good amount of time around when we moved back to Atlanta from Dallas, Texas six years back (wow, six years now o3o ). A lively Jack Russell Terrier mix called Lucy.
Um, the only thing worse than big dogs is small dogs. Because small dogs are faster and more agile, which makes them better at trying to kill you when you aren't looking. Usually when we visited my grandparents, Lucy would be tied to a leash, and I never entered the range of that leash, or even got close.
Those oh so frightful times when Lucy accidentally or purposely got loose? Yeah, I'd be running up the stairs in fear of my life.
But, as could only be expected from a story like this, time went on. Eventually, I could get close to her and pet her while she sat. Of course, as soon as she got up or jerked her head for any reason, I'd be gone in a flash, safely out of range.
And then I'd be next to Dad and a loose Lucy, playing fetch and letting her keep her attention on him rather than me.
And I spent time around other more docile dogs.
And by the time I was about fourteen or fifteen, I was ok with dogs. I'm sure maturity (and getting taller) had something to do with it, but I didn't mind dogs.
It wasn't long after that before I came to enjoy them. Lucy and I have now reached the point where, if I am sitting down in a place she can be within reach, she will come and sit in front of me (without me telling her to do anything) and wait to be scratched.
My dad has taught me about caring for dogs and the sweet spots for scratching them and all these kinds of things.
Nowadays, dogs aren't so bad.
Just so long as they aren't sitting on me.
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