Despite the hierarchal structure of the pack, a dog sees itself as part of a team. To be sure, there are designations within the pack: Alpha, foot soldier, guardian, and so forth, but when a dog feels the contribution is equal and necessary, it will do what it must without question or regard for its own safety. Dogs are often seen as being valiant in this manner, but it is really a simple logic computation.
My dog is no different. Sophia knows she is responsible for the perimeter and the safety of the pack – in this case, my mother and myself. The locations have varied, being at one point my apartment, and another my parents’ home, but the charge remained the same all along. That said, Sophia went to great lengths to do her job and do it well, but always sought our feedback and praise that hers was a job well done.
I say this because at the moment she is chasing a squirrel around the back yard, a squirrel that has deftly navigated the maze of oaks on the sixth fairway beyond the wrought iron boundaries of our yard, squeezed through the red blanket of bougainvilleas running parallel to the course sand traps, and has found itself in the domain of a sixty pound ugly dog.
Ordinarily, Sophia took silent delight in ridding her fortress of its trespassers, but knowing both her charges were home and awake, wanted us to know that she was taking her job seriously. She also wanted to be told how well she was doing her job and for us to realize she was pulling her weight with her contributions to the pack. So she did what any other dog would have done in this situation: Sounded the alarm. […]
“No, it’s like this,” I managed to say while maneuvering myself into a chair with both hands full and my right shoulder straining to hold my Treo firmly to my ear, “I told the guy some time ago to call on me if he ever needed my help. Now he needs my help.” I dropped into the chair and dropped the bags I’d been holding. Once they were down I relaxed my shoulder and let the phone slip into a free hand.
“And you can’t reschedule for another time?”
“No,” I replied. “I’m on his clock.”
There was a rattling of noise nearby; Michelle quickly escaped from its direction, walking briskly towards me with an oh my god look on her face.
“Geez, you think the guy would need to travel with an entourage or something,” she remarked as she plopped down in the seat beside me.
“I hear a woman’s voice. Who is that with you?” […]
Aggravation. That and fatigue. That, and coming down from a huge alcoholic buzz after a five hour flight. Those three things – aggravation, fatigue, and the fading effects of the buzz – didn’t make for a pleasant departure from my aircraft into Philadelphia airport.
The aggravation was almost self-explanatory: I hated flying. I hated it so much that the only way I knew to deal with it was through mass volumes of alcohol. If I was lucky I’d fall asleep and miss out on the flight entirely but that was rarely the case. This time the aggravation was even more so after finding out from Jenna at Wired that I could only get on a flight as a standby passenger, and that always meant the worst seat on the plane, as if there was any other.
Fatigue was almost self-explanatory as well: From the moment I got off the phone with Kevin Kelly of Wired magazine regarding his assignment, I’d been racing to get things ready and make arrangements to leave town 24 hours later. By the time I was at the airport I realized I’d left half of the things I’d meant to pack at home. I’d forgotten to make some phone calls. And when I made the most important one – to Stacy, the girl I had been dating recently – she didn’t sound the least bit surprised when I told her we’d have to postpone my promised weekend in the mountains.
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