Number one: my dog's name is Gooby.
Do you know any humans named Gooby? I rest my case.
Number two: he doesn't talk and I don't have to.
The majority of human interaction centers around conversation. When a human meets another human, there is either a) a mutual understanding that talking will commence or b) one human expects talking to commence, either by their own uncomfortableness with silence or their counterpart's. Thus, either talking or awkward silence with the desperation for talking is inevitable. Frequent topics include, but are not limited to: the weather, sports, food, local news, music, social media, anything worthy of complaint, and so forth. Why humans are so insistent upon saying anything for the sake of saying something at the fear of saying nothing—even to the point of speaking in utter trivialities all of their lives—is beyond me. Gooby has never once spoken a word to me, neither of unimportant matters nor profound subjects, and yet, we get along just fine.
Number three: he doesn't abide by rules.
If Gooby wants to pee on my carpet, he pees on my carpet. Regardless of how badly it will stink, or how angry my mother will get if she finds out. If he wants to lick that person's foot even when it's old and somewhat yellow and smelly and definitely dirty, he'll lick that person's foot. And enjoy it too. Too many of the humans I have come to dislike—including parts of myself—are too afraid of angry mothers or smelly carpets that they don't relieve themselves when they honestly probably should. Those humans have come to look at the world as ruled by other humans. Those humans have seen that other humans walk in a certain way, say certain things in certain ways at certain times, act a certain way even if said certain way contradicts natural instinct, and have decided that such certainty is the only certain way to exist. But clearly, one can exist—and be happy—with a peeing-on-the-carpet mentality. Gooby is one of the happiest things in existence; he shakes his tail to show his excitement, and because his frail frame is far thinner than is probably healthy, his whole body shakes too. Not many humans can do that. (Granted, not many humans have tails).
Number four: he doesn't cling to stupid mistakes.
I confess, one time I accidentally hit him with my tennis racket. I was in the backyard practicing my serve because I was bored and angry and needed somewhere to channel my useless energy. It all happened so quickly. He had been watching me, but apparently I hadn't been watching him because as I swung down, the racket landed right on his head. I still can't forgive myself for doing such a horrible thing, and yet Gooby loves me still.
Number five: he doesn't wear his "heart on his sleeve."
I had heard this term a lot, but never understood it until high school. My father and I have a good relationship, or so I like to think. Most of it is composed of me chattering about all my qualms regarding society and the people around me, while he patiently listens, occasionally interjecting. I was describing to him (in long, parenthetical detail) that my friend told me everything she went through all the time. She told me every detail of her relationship with her parents, her boyfriend, the status of her grades and homework and how everything was always crashing and falling apart at the seams. All this she told with such intensity and loudness as to evoke a sense of pity and empathy from me or whichever fortunate soul happened to be nearby, giving the listener no time to question the minority and minuteness of the problems themselves.
"She wears her heart on her sleeve," my dad said simply.
Some humans carry their pain like a badge of honor stitched into their smile. Like war stories they must tell to top those of their peers. Some humans want every other human to know what every human already knows: life is an ugly, sucky mess. It hurts, it sucks, it's unfair. I get it.
Gooby isn't constantly telling me how much it sucks to be him, although I'm sure at times it does—especially with me as his "owner" (I hate the word owner; I don't own him, but I suppose I do own his collar... I hate that). It probably sucks that people are always saying he's ugly, that my roommate's boyfriend mistook him for a raccoon—something I'm still bitter about—it probably sucks that he can't go wherever he wants whenever he wants to, but he doesn't broadcast the suckiness.
Number six: he doesn't expect much from me.
That other human is alive. I hate that. That other human has wants, wishes, goals, hopes, needs. I hate that. I hate that I might interfere with them or otherwise that I might not understand them or that I might not even care. That other human has thoughts, and I hate that I might be in them. I hate that I might not. That other human expects me to talk, expects me to be something, expects me to somehow understand everything about them—where they're coming from and why they breathe in the specific pattern that they do—all in a matter of minutes. I hate that they expect that and hate even more that I can't satisfy their expectations. Gooby expects some food, an occasional treat, frequent walks, and a spot next to me. Admittedly, there's no way of knowing if he expects anything more, and rarely ever can I even fulfill those expectations, but the difference is I don't feel the pressure to do anything momentous. I don't feel the pressure to be or do or say anything or anyone but a hand to run through his coarse fur or dump food into his metallic bowl or grip tightly a leash that links the two of us together.
Number seven: he doesn't separate the people around him into various categories and treat them as such.
As a child, my Samoan mother tells me, I would frequently tell her to take a shower, that she was dirty, that somehow her brown skin equated to filth. Other humans have posited the same, on a much more globalized scale, allowing these convenient perspectives to align with their agendas and influence their actions, attitudes, and treatment of fellow humans.
I used to think words like "Austin" and "awesome" were spelled with an "o." I used to (and still) spell out words in my mind to understand their meaning. So when I first heard the word "autism" I thought it began with "o" in the same way that "odd" spelled out my cousin. He is a year younger than I, and more ambitious and hopeful and loving than I could ever hope to pretend to be. But then one human coined the term "autistic," setting him into a whole new category of existence. I didn't know the hatred of a child until I saw the way girls spat at him, and the way boys laughed at him, often times incited by his older brother, placing him on the pedestal of "freak" and "weirdo" because it was funny and he didn't understand that even if he was laughing too, they were still laughing at him and not with him. I didn't know the hatred of a child until I saw it in myself—watching him being alienated, snickered at, ridiculed—wanting to punch my tiny fists into their useless skulls.
Humans have a way of categorizing their hate, making it cut and dry and neat, giving it names or acronyms or pictures. Humans have a way of identifying what tiny inconsequential thing is not like the others, and reiterating, emphasizing, and highlighting that tiny inconsequential thing until it is all any human sees when they see that other human.
Number eight: he doesn't force his body onto others to satisfy his own sexual hunger, and then shift the blame because surely they were asking for it.
I remember the first time I learned the word “rape.” It was grade school, and I knew very little of the outside world. The class clown was a boy with long blonde hair, a vulgar mouth, and no respect for authority; everything I learned, I learned from him. We were partnered up for some grammar exercise because despite being a complete slacker, he was the only student in the class who shared my natural knack for spelling and grammar. It was simple: we were given a list of words missing key letters, which we then had to identify. As we approached what was supposed to be “grape,” my partner, whose eyes and ears had been exposed to the world far more than my sheltered existence, whispered to me in shocked, hushed tones, “I can’t believe they would put that word in here.” Confusion struck as I looked down at a word one consonant away from being my favorite purple fruit. “That’s not even a word,” I argued stubbornly. He wouldn’t explain what it meant to me, but his tone said enough.
Do you know any humans named Gooby? I rest my case.
Number two: he doesn't talk and I don't have to.
The majority of human interaction centers around conversation. When a human meets another human, there is either a) a mutual understanding that talking will commence or b) one human expects talking to commence, either by their own uncomfortableness with silence or their counterpart's. Thus, either talking or awkward silence with the desperation for talking is inevitable. Frequent topics include, but are not limited to: the weather, sports, food, local news, music, social media, anything worthy of complaint, and so forth. Why humans are so insistent upon saying anything for the sake of saying something at the fear of saying nothing—even to the point of speaking in utter trivialities all of their lives—is beyond me. Gooby has never once spoken a word to me, neither of unimportant matters nor profound subjects, and yet, we get along just fine.
Number three: he doesn't abide by rules.
If Gooby wants to pee on my carpet, he pees on my carpet. Regardless of how badly it will stink, or how angry my mother will get if she finds out. If he wants to lick that person's foot even when it's old and somewhat yellow and smelly and definitely dirty, he'll lick that person's foot. And enjoy it too. Too many of the humans I have come to dislike—including parts of myself—are too afraid of angry mothers or smelly carpets that they don't relieve themselves when they honestly probably should. Those humans have come to look at the world as ruled by other humans. Those humans have seen that other humans walk in a certain way, say certain things in certain ways at certain times, act a certain way even if said certain way contradicts natural instinct, and have decided that such certainty is the only certain way to exist. But clearly, one can exist—and be happy—with a peeing-on-the-carpet mentality. Gooby is one of the happiest things in existence; he shakes his tail to show his excitement, and because his frail frame is far thinner than is probably healthy, his whole body shakes too. Not many humans can do that. (Granted, not many humans have tails).
Number four: he doesn't cling to stupid mistakes.
I confess, one time I accidentally hit him with my tennis racket. I was in the backyard practicing my serve because I was bored and angry and needed somewhere to channel my useless energy. It all happened so quickly. He had been watching me, but apparently I hadn't been watching him because as I swung down, the racket landed right on his head. I still can't forgive myself for doing such a horrible thing, and yet Gooby loves me still.
Number five: he doesn't wear his "heart on his sleeve."
I had heard this term a lot, but never understood it until high school. My father and I have a good relationship, or so I like to think. Most of it is composed of me chattering about all my qualms regarding society and the people around me, while he patiently listens, occasionally interjecting. I was describing to him (in long, parenthetical detail) that my friend told me everything she went through all the time. She told me every detail of her relationship with her parents, her boyfriend, the status of her grades and homework and how everything was always crashing and falling apart at the seams. All this she told with such intensity and loudness as to evoke a sense of pity and empathy from me or whichever fortunate soul happened to be nearby, giving the listener no time to question the minority and minuteness of the problems themselves.
"She wears her heart on her sleeve," my dad said simply.
Some humans carry their pain like a badge of honor stitched into their smile. Like war stories they must tell to top those of their peers. Some humans want every other human to know what every human already knows: life is an ugly, sucky mess. It hurts, it sucks, it's unfair. I get it.
Gooby isn't constantly telling me how much it sucks to be him, although I'm sure at times it does—especially with me as his "owner" (I hate the word owner; I don't own him, but I suppose I do own his collar... I hate that). It probably sucks that people are always saying he's ugly, that my roommate's boyfriend mistook him for a raccoon—something I'm still bitter about—it probably sucks that he can't go wherever he wants whenever he wants to, but he doesn't broadcast the suckiness.
Number six: he doesn't expect much from me.
That other human is alive. I hate that. That other human has wants, wishes, goals, hopes, needs. I hate that. I hate that I might interfere with them or otherwise that I might not understand them or that I might not even care. That other human has thoughts, and I hate that I might be in them. I hate that I might not. That other human expects me to talk, expects me to be something, expects me to somehow understand everything about them—where they're coming from and why they breathe in the specific pattern that they do—all in a matter of minutes. I hate that they expect that and hate even more that I can't satisfy their expectations. Gooby expects some food, an occasional treat, frequent walks, and a spot next to me. Admittedly, there's no way of knowing if he expects anything more, and rarely ever can I even fulfill those expectations, but the difference is I don't feel the pressure to do anything momentous. I don't feel the pressure to be or do or say anything or anyone but a hand to run through his coarse fur or dump food into his metallic bowl or grip tightly a leash that links the two of us together.
Number seven: he doesn't separate the people around him into various categories and treat them as such.
As a child, my Samoan mother tells me, I would frequently tell her to take a shower, that she was dirty, that somehow her brown skin equated to filth. Other humans have posited the same, on a much more globalized scale, allowing these convenient perspectives to align with their agendas and influence their actions, attitudes, and treatment of fellow humans.
I used to think words like "Austin" and "awesome" were spelled with an "o." I used to (and still) spell out words in my mind to understand their meaning. So when I first heard the word "autism" I thought it began with "o" in the same way that "odd" spelled out my cousin. He is a year younger than I, and more ambitious and hopeful and loving than I could ever hope to pretend to be. But then one human coined the term "autistic," setting him into a whole new category of existence. I didn't know the hatred of a child until I saw the way girls spat at him, and the way boys laughed at him, often times incited by his older brother, placing him on the pedestal of "freak" and "weirdo" because it was funny and he didn't understand that even if he was laughing too, they were still laughing at him and not with him. I didn't know the hatred of a child until I saw it in myself—watching him being alienated, snickered at, ridiculed—wanting to punch my tiny fists into their useless skulls.
Humans have a way of categorizing their hate, making it cut and dry and neat, giving it names or acronyms or pictures. Humans have a way of identifying what tiny inconsequential thing is not like the others, and reiterating, emphasizing, and highlighting that tiny inconsequential thing until it is all any human sees when they see that other human.
Number eight: he doesn't force his body onto others to satisfy his own sexual hunger, and then shift the blame because surely they were asking for it.
I remember the first time I learned the word “rape.” It was grade school, and I knew very little of the outside world. The class clown was a boy with long blonde hair, a vulgar mouth, and no respect for authority; everything I learned, I learned from him. We were partnered up for some grammar exercise because despite being a complete slacker, he was the only student in the class who shared my natural knack for spelling and grammar. It was simple: we were given a list of words missing key letters, which we then had to identify. As we approached what was supposed to be “grape,” my partner, whose eyes and ears had been exposed to the world far more than my sheltered existence, whispered to me in shocked, hushed tones, “I can’t believe they would put that word in here.” Confusion struck as I looked down at a word one consonant away from being my favorite purple fruit. “That’s not even a word,” I argued stubbornly. He wouldn’t explain what it meant to me, but his tone said enough.
I didn’t know for a while what it meant. Didn’t know that a human could and had before physically robbed another human of their innocence, forced their existence into that other human's body, and seen nothing amiss with that practice. That a human could and had done it on the basis of religion, to the same human, on multiple occasions in one day, declaring their actions commanded and therefore condoned, even pleasing, to God or deity or whatever maker, creator, or higher power they believe in. That some humans are not only physically forced, but psychologically and emotionally, into silence.
Number nine: he doesn't bring death to masses of people, innocent and not, young and old.
Humans have cited a plethora of reasons for killing other humans: for sport, for political reasons, for justice, for order, for victory. I remember the first time I saw a dead body not sitting in a casket. Someone had shot a guy in the head, then left him in a parked car on a street in my neighborhood. Our neighbor found the body the next Sunday while walking his little girls to church. I sat in the back seat of our car staring at the body in the car next to us, listening to our neighbor tell my dad that the man in the car had a bullet hole in his head. All humans are born sure of really only one thing: every second from then on is a second nearer to their death. Sometimes I like to think I've come to terms with and accepted that fact, but finding out that said death could come at the hand of another human, possibly one they loved at one point and time, for reasons that really don't make sense, is no comforting realization.
Number ten: I can't think of a tenth reason.
Well, I probably could. Like the way some humans have exploited other humans' homelands to gain a monetary profit for themselves then told them they need to participate in the greed or they'll be crushed, but before the money, those humans would have had no say. Like the way some humans whip out their phones to take a picture they'll probably never look at again of some breathtaking view they could otherwise experience with their eyes, a brilliant human technology that doesn't usually cost as much money, but is quickly losing popularity. Like the way some humans declare their existence of car exhaust and plastic so loud that it squeezes the life out of everything around them. I could go on.
But I don't want you to think of this as me just railing on human existence, so much as it's just me really loving my dog. My dog who, yeah, looks a bit like an old man mixed with a piranha mixed with a rat—not a raccoon!—but whose existence has always brought me joy. From the time I first returned from camping and found out my sibling had somehow got hold of a creature (yet another) and brought him home to our already cat-filled house, to the time my friends were so in love with him that they spent the whole visit petting and loving him but completely ignoring me. My dog who has his own Twitter account. My dog whose upper lip sometimes curls to reveal his overbite in the most adorable way. My dog who can't be described in any other way than "such a Goob."
Humans have cited a plethora of reasons for killing other humans: for sport, for political reasons, for justice, for order, for victory. I remember the first time I saw a dead body not sitting in a casket. Someone had shot a guy in the head, then left him in a parked car on a street in my neighborhood. Our neighbor found the body the next Sunday while walking his little girls to church. I sat in the back seat of our car staring at the body in the car next to us, listening to our neighbor tell my dad that the man in the car had a bullet hole in his head. All humans are born sure of really only one thing: every second from then on is a second nearer to their death. Sometimes I like to think I've come to terms with and accepted that fact, but finding out that said death could come at the hand of another human, possibly one they loved at one point and time, for reasons that really don't make sense, is no comforting realization.
Number ten: I can't think of a tenth reason.
Well, I probably could. Like the way some humans have exploited other humans' homelands to gain a monetary profit for themselves then told them they need to participate in the greed or they'll be crushed, but before the money, those humans would have had no say. Like the way some humans whip out their phones to take a picture they'll probably never look at again of some breathtaking view they could otherwise experience with their eyes, a brilliant human technology that doesn't usually cost as much money, but is quickly losing popularity. Like the way some humans declare their existence of car exhaust and plastic so loud that it squeezes the life out of everything around them. I could go on.
But I don't want you to think of this as me just railing on human existence, so much as it's just me really loving my dog. My dog who, yeah, looks a bit like an old man mixed with a piranha mixed with a rat—not a raccoon!—but whose existence has always brought me joy. From the time I first returned from camping and found out my sibling had somehow got hold of a creature (yet another) and brought him home to our already cat-filled house, to the time my friends were so in love with him that they spent the whole visit petting and loving him but completely ignoring me. My dog who has his own Twitter account. My dog whose upper lip sometimes curls to reveal his overbite in the most adorable way. My dog who can't be described in any other way than "such a Goob."
I often tell people that my dog is the most adorably ugly creature you'll ever meet. I say it confidently as if his ugliness is part of the reason to love him. I suppose in this way I'm a hypocrite: I could never love the ugly in human the way I love the ugly in Gooby. But two people just passed by me, who left me smiling. There goes a third. And every time I think of Gooby, it is accompanied with a memory of who he made smile. My mother, with her wide glimmering row of perfectly straight teeth. My brother with his goofy dimples. That short, Edna-from-The-Incredibles look-alike who called him "Mr. Happy-Happy," and couldn't keep herself from beaming. So really it's not that I think so lowly of the human race, or even that I think so highly of my four-legged friend. More so it is that I love it when people smile—why can't we do that more?
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