Saturday, July 21, 2007

ch. 2, v.1-15 (fears)



Lo, tho' I walk through the hall of the house of alone-ness
I shall not panic.
I shall neither raid the storehouses of kibble nor
pull down the vaults of my companion's sustenance.
Tho' I may scatter the treasures and linens of my companion
I shall chew the recesses of her raiment only a little bit.

I find my comfort in the treasures and linens of my companion
and eat just this one pocket and a few tissues.
My companion returns, calling to me with words of praise
"Good dog" and rewards me for the many adornments unchewed
and storehouses unmolested.

Yay, tho' the fear of abandonment rises about me
like unto concrete walls and chainlink fences,
tho' it gape before me an abyss as dark as an empty stomach,
I shall know that I am in the denning place of my pack and fear not.

Exegesis and Commentary
Although these verses articulate, for the first time here, the tremend
ous separation anxiety that has attended Frida all through these nine years, they actually testify to her growing ability to face down that fear. Even just a few years ago, as she suggests here, being alone in the house with access to all its rooms would have led to considerable destruction: food bins overturned, evidence of panic overeating (a hugely bloated stomach and food regurgitated), human food spread all about (including, more than once, a bottle of olive oil carried into the living room and allowed to pour out all over the floor), private parts of my clothing consumed, and many different kinds of objects chewed.



That history has led to a variety of stratagems for giving Frida less space to worry about in my absence: she was initially crate trained and now is kept in the living room when alone. She also gets her frozen kong, filled with carrots, cream cheese, and peanut butter, whenever I leave, a ritual that occupies her attention and seems to comfort her.

So the miraculous thing, a few weeks ago, was that I forgot to secure the living room door, and Frida had access to the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom, several trash cans and several laundry baskets, and she ate only one pocket out of one pair of shorts. Even tho' she carried other items of clothing into the living room, she didn't actually chew them. Is it a miracle if the saint changes her own behavior?



(Note the dog food bins, trash cans, completely untouched. This is beyond my ability to fathom. I can comprehend it only through an effort of faith.)

The realistic
question, tho', is what is it that actually changed in Frida's life? I can identify a few key things (poodle company, getting older, etc.), but I think the most important thing is that she has been weaned off of the potassium bromide, an anti-seizure medication she's been on for over eight years. I had never been fond of it--it barely controlled her seizures and had nasty side effects--but the vets eight years ago seemed to love it (no danger of liver damage, which is the risk with the barbituate). So b/c apparently her body was no longer absorbing it well, and it was making her sick, a good neurologist at Angell suggested taking her off of it (veeeerrrry gradually), and not only did it solve the problems we had begun to notice (wobbly legs, accidents in the house, etc.), but it has generally made her more confident: more playful with other dogs again, less destructive when left alone in the house, less barky, so on. It's been great. I wish it had happened years ago. (Don't worry--she still has many of the neurotic, woebegone, and generally long-suffering behaviors that make her our saint.)


(No, we don't make Frida lie in this seemingly sterile and uncomfortable spot. She frequently chooses to lie here; she would actually get in the tub if she could.)

Saturday, July 14, 2007

Ch. 1, v. 7-13 (arboretum)



We make our den on the shoulder of the City.
Her bold features rise granite and steel on the horizon and scrape the sky.
We hear the wail of her sirens and the rumble of carts upon her roads.
An emerald necklace encircles her clavicle
and we make there our daily perambulation
meditating on the goodness of flora and fauna.

The servants of Arnold tend a rich flock of trees and shrubs.
My companion says, "In the season of new growth, partake of this offering.
The odor of flower fruit and seed shall be good in your mighty nose
and so also the odor of compost and carrion in your fur."

Signs are upon the trees.
We know the name of each and its lineage.
Praise be to the servants of Arnold.








Exegesis and Commentary
Most of this is, I think, quite self-evident: the Emerald Necklace, the Arnold Arboretum, etc. The one surprise to me is the good smells; I thought I made clear my dislike of the carrion fragrance in her fur, but I guess the power of her own desire for it overwhelms anything I have to say.

Many of the flowers in the Arb are now past. It's green and lush, and fruit and seeds are starting to come out. But there are many little cadavers in the grass, in which the dogs revel. Their unabashed appreciation for the place of death in life is a reminder I appreciate.

Sunday, July 8, 2007

Who is St. Frida Anyway?


Q: Who is St. Frida?
A: For anyone
stumbling upon this blog who is not a member of Frida's pack, here are the basics: Frida is a "mixed breed" dog I brought home from the shelter at Angell Memorial in Jamaica Plain when she was six months old--now about eight years ago.

She is not yet a saint, obviously, as she is still alive (a fact very much to our liking). She is known as St. Frida the dog martyr in anticipation of her beatification. Of course, the canonization won't take place w/in the Catholic church, and we're really not sure what church or if any will canonize her. That all
remains for the future to tell.

Q: Who made the painting of St. Frida?
A: An artist named William Schaff who is based in Providence, R.I. I believe he has other images you can see on Flickr. He has done many beautiful pieces of dogs, none of them sentimental. In fact, they remind me of German Expressionist work of the e
arly 20th c.


Q: What is it that makes her a future saint?
A: Primarily, her great suffering, which she generally bears stoically but nonetheless
communicates with great force and frequency in her expression. In fact, the suffering she expresses is so out of proportion to the conditions of her life--she seems to be enduring a pain much greater than the circumstances of any particular moment would justify--that we assume she knows a pain much beyond her self in time.

Personally, I suspect that Frida suffers for the crimes that humans visit upon dogkind at large. The look on her face is much the same as one you can see on the faces of many stray or abused dogs on many city streets anywhere in the world. I could go into more detail about that, but it's best to leave that for what the book itself has to say. There you will find both the pain and the joy Frida seems to know.


Q: Who are you?
A: Frida's adopter, companion, feeder, walker, and now scribe.

Q: What ki
nd of saint is Frida? Does she have any attributes to identify her?
A: I'd say the most appropriate saint-type to apply to her would be that of the mendicant: she is, like all the canis lupus that became familiaris, very good at begging. She is, I think, also a mystic of some sort. Certainly, there have been times and places when seizures were understood as some kind of mystical experience, and w/o medication Frida would have frequent seizures.

Her attributes, show in the portrait, are her epilepsy medication; the Kong she receives (in a now ritualized fashion) upon being left alone, to lessen her separation anxiety (the fear of abandonment); and the tags, which offer some safeguard against becoming lost.


Q: What is the nature of her faith?
A: This I don't know for certain, and that is part of the purpose of the book of St. Frida: I hope through translating it to flesh out the substance of the "faith" that underlies Frida's future sainthood.

Q: Translate?
A: Yes. As with many books of mystical or spiritual experience, the original language is not English. In fact, Frida's original is not written or even in any human tongue, dead or living. I am transcribing the book from my best understanding of her expression, which is mostly body language; it is a very inexact process. I hope readers will be generous with me, as my comprehension of "dog" is only quite rudimentary, and there is a considerable gap between the semiotics of canine communication and written English.

Nota bene: I have taken as my model a fairly standard biblical English: the New Oxford edition. I was initially drawn to the KJV b/c I most enjoy reading that, but somehow the 17th-c. language didn't seem quite right for Frida. Conversely, the newer, "hipper" teen-speak evangelical bibles that have abandoned verse altogether I just don't like. And that's my prerogative.

Q: Is this a joke?
A: . . . sorry, did you say something? I was busy trying to count the angels on the head of this pin . . .

Saturday, July 7, 2007

Ch. 1, v.1-6 (arboretum)

Regard the azalea--the light gives its reflectance spectrum life
That pleases the rods and cones of my companion's eye.
The azalea is as raiment to the hillside
A cloth cultivated multiplied begat & begat to ten thousand breeds
All to please the rods and cones of my companion's eye.

Rejoice in the azalea--the cultivar prospers.











Exegesis and Commentary

The azaleas are a phenomenon of the Arb in late spring/early summer. There is one hillside in particular that blossoms spectacularly, and although Frida cannot see those colors herself, she clearly understands that there is something special about this part of the Arb at this time of year and a reason we visit it, umm, religiously when the flowers are blooming (which she must smell).

You can also see in these verses her appreciation for human intervention in the process of evolution: that is, the effect of selective breeding for our purpose and pleasure. The ten thousand varieties of the azalea were created by humans; they are not an outcome of the plant's prosperity in reproduction, except to the extent that we have made it prosper to enjoy its colors. And so with canis lupis familiaris.