It's been fun to watch Luna and Millie get to know each other and negotiate their boundaries - of both personal space and physical territory. To my surprise, Millie often follows Luna and me when we ramble around the yard. Luna was quite pleased the first time this happened.
Luna: Oh, boy! Oh, boy! Oh, boy! Millie! Millie! Millie! Did you come out to play with me? Didja? Didja? Didja? Huh? Huh? Huh? Millie: Wha...?
Luna: We're gonna have so much fun! Millie: Fight or flight? Fight or flight? And which direction shall I run?
Both: Hey....what's the neighbor dog barking about? Millie: Is it danger? Luna: Is it someone to play with? Both: Is it headed our way?
Both: Hey, what happened to the pinky? Hurry up, slowpoke!
Luna: Something smells interesting over here... Millie: Good. Go away. Then I'll have the pinky all to myself again. Stupid interloper.
Yesterday’s quote from George
MacDonald reminded me of this passage from Out of Africa by Isak Dinesen.
(Note: It was originally published in 1937, so be forewarned, her attitudes
towards and language describing African people are of her time and are not politically correct. Nonetheless,
it’s an interesting reflection on acquisition.)
“In the Reserve I have sometimes come upon the Iguana, the big lizards, as they were sunning themselves upon a flat stone in a river-bed. They are not pretty in shape, but nothing can be imagined more beautiful than their colouring. They shine like a heap of precious stones or like a pane cut out of an old church window. When, as you approach, they swish away, there is a flash of azure, green and purple over the stones, the colour seems to be standing behind them in the air, like a comet’s luminous tail.
I shot an Iguana. I thought that I should be able to make some pretty things
from his skin. A strange thing happened then, that I have never afterwards
forgotten. As I went up to him, where he was lying dead upon his stone, and
actually while I was walking the few steps, he faded and grew pale, all colour
died out of him as in one long sigh, and by the time that I touched him he was
grey and dull like a lump of concrete. It was the live impetuous blood
pulsating within the animal, which had radiated out all that glow and
splendour. Now that the flame was put out, and the soul had flown, the Iguana
was as dead as a sandbag.
since I have, in some sort, shot an Iguana, and I have remembered the one of
the Reserve. Up at Meru I saw a young Native girl with a bracelet on, a leather
strap two inches wide, and embroidered all over with very small turquoise-coloured
beads which varied a little in colour and played in green, light blue and
ultramarine. It was an extraordinarily live thing; it seemed to draw breath on
her arm, so that I wanted it for myself, and made Farah buy it from her. No
sooner had it come upon my own arm than it gave up the ghost. It was nothing
now, a small, cheap, purchased article of finery. It had been the play of
colours, the duet between the turquoise and the ‘nègre’,—that quick, sweet,
brownish black, like peat and black pottery, of the Native’s skin,—that had
created the life of the bracelet.... I
stood in Meru and looked at my pale hand and at the dead bracelet, it was as if
an injustice had been done to a noble thing, as if truth had been suppressed....
the settlers of East Africa I give the advice: ‘For the sake of your own eyes
and heart, shoot not the Iguana.’”
heart of man cannot hoard. His brain or his hand may gather into its box and
hoard, but the moment the thing has passed into the box, the heart has lost it
and is hungry again. If a man would have,
it is the Giver he must have; . . . Therefore all that He makes must be
free to come and go through the heart of His child; he can enjoy it only as it
passes, can enjoy only its life, its soul, its vision, its meaning, not itself.”
—George MacDonald, 1824–1905