Rust zacht Misty

THE HUNTRESS

She inhabits a world without words. A magical, primeval place, where the poetry of life cannot be captured in complicated sequences of symbols, but instead consists of pure, undiluted experience. Sights, sounds, and smells so numerous and manifold as to put to shame our feeble human vocabulary.

Only small children, and sometimes those whose dreams are so deep that language has utterly dissolved, are granted a similar unrestrained access to the domain of the senses. Yet Misty far transcends both childish ignorance and sleep’s stupor. No toddler or dreamer could pursue a rabbit or a hare and ever hope to outpace it. Misty can. I know it for a fact. She is a galgo español, a Spanish greyhound, carrying within her a genetic legacy of thousands of generations of intrepid, proud, independent, self-reliant hunters.

Suddenly, I feel a sharp jerk. The leash goes taut. What does she see? She gazes across the field in front of us, with that characteristic intensity that almost frightens me. We stand there completely motionless for what seems like forever. Only then do I notice it as well. A rabbit hopping through the tall grass, perhaps four or five hundred feet away.  I strain to keep the animal within my field of vision, although it’s unmistakably there. Her eyes, mellow and melancholy when staring at me from across the living room, are fiery thunderclouds now, from which imagined carnage rains down in torrents upon the land. She’s ready, every muscle in her body tense with excitement.

And I am so tempted to unleash this canine whirlwind. Just once, to give her a chance to do what she’s good at. But, as always, I decide to be a responsible dog owner. Do I really want a dead rabbit on my conscience? Besides, Misty has a couple of old injuries (broken leg, busted spine) that might cause her to get hurt. It doesn’t matter anyway. Her attention span is short, and she gently tugs the leash. Let’s move on, she says, I want my afternoon nap.

Every time something like this happens, I am deeply moved by the fact that even years of abuse and physical infirmity have failed to break Misty’s spirit. (She was adopted from a Spanish shelter, where she arrived in very bad shape.)

I cannot quite articulate exactly why I love dogs so much, but experiences such as the one described make it absolutely obvious nonetheless. While trying not to sentimentalize or anthropomorphize these creatures, it is clear to me that my love for them bridges the profound chasm that separates one species from another. When I’m with my dogs I temporarily find myself transported to a realm beyond language and rational thought. Perhaps this is what some have called ‘pure being’.

Now Misty is dead. Her liver just stopped working one day. The vet couldn’t tell us why. Before the tests were in she was gone. There was nothing he could do to help her. Her death has left me feeling empty and brokenhearted. She will never be forgotten, however. Run free, wherever you are, my darling.