Wednesday, April 14, 2004

Larry

Larry is my friend. This may seem like a rather mundane thing to most...having a pet and referring to it by it's first name, carefully skirting the issue of special relevance. He's a dog, sure...but I've grown accustomed to all but ignoring that aspect. Larry came to us under the umbrella of external necessity. My girlfriend's Uncle had taken ill and, after purchasing and caring for Larry for several months, was unable to continue. The terms were vague...we were to "mind" Larence (as we have come to call him) for an indefinite period of time. After a while, it became clear that he was here to stay.
It's hard to describe our relationship with this small entity that brings us so much joy...this little, white, animated teddy bear with a mind of his own and a daily agenda that seems to reset every few minutes. To communicate, we have developed a seemingly simple language derived of keywords, varying tones of noise, and a whole lot of empathy. As a result of forging this interspecial friendship, I have discovered a renewed understanding of patience and wonderment.
For instance...
Larry treats all visitors and encounters the same. He's eager to make a positive impression on new people, and is always excited to greet known friends. There is no room in his life for such a thing as an "acquaintance", and he's sure to let you know that he's happy to see you again...each subsequent encounter a celebration of life and interaction. If it's late, and the house is still, he'll be sure to bark at any strange bump or noise...letting the potential invader know that, although it might be nice to see you, it is far too late to be disturbing the current peaceful atmosphere of the house. Sleep is sacred. That's when Lisa, Larry and I get to lie down and dream. He finds his spot for the night, cuddles up, and lets out a relieved sigh as we all drift into that strange place. A place that's best received if one can awaken to the presence of trusted companions.
In our waking hours, he finds great joy in simple games. His current favorite is something I can only describe as "Let's pretend that I can overpower you and take this tug-toy away from your grip". Simple, basic stuff. Just an excuse for us to avoid more complex interaction and share a moment doing the exact same thing. It's the shortest distance between two points in space...me and Larence. I'm sure a lot of this can be chalked up to instinctual behavior. He likes to bury treats in laundry. He has to sniff everything. He'll tilt his head to the side if you say something to him that makes no sense. But there's a thought process going on there that is unique to our environment. Just the right amount of learned processes, on-the-spot diagnostics, and decision-making that make for a pretty convincing living thing. Kind of like a person. In fact...I'd say exactly like one.
So what makes a person? What makes a thing capable of being deemed a "friend"? Does the fact that Larry probably won't ever affect the course of mankind's progress on this Earth exclude him from being considered an equal? Does the realization that he'll never invent anything...fix anything...or, otherwise, bring to light physically tangible things previously unseen...effectively invalidate him for inclusion in the pantheon of relevance?
After careful consideration, I'd have to say screw that idea. The very real notion of losing that feeling I get when I see him gazing expectantly out the front window as I approach...when I open the door and he rushes to my side, ecstatic...that alone could change the course of who I am...who I'll become. These are indelible influences on my life now, and, just like every friend I've ever had, it shapes my world as I struggle to create, discover, and disseminate what I've learned. Only something that truly cares about what goes on outside it's own sphere of understanding could do that. Only a person could do that.

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