Dig It

Some things don’t change no matter where you go in this world. Across the street from the café where I write, there is an empty lot. It has been empty a long time. Just yesterday, or this morning, a big pile of sand was dumped. A neighborhood dog is intrigued. I know this dog. I’ve seen him around. We’ve never spoke, but I know his face and he probably knows my scent. He stands on top of the mound. He is king of the new sand pile. He barks at another dog – a blond dog who is slow & numb and doesn’t like being barked at. The other dog, the one on top of the sand pile, he sees his street from a new vantage point. He digs. He digs furiously tossing sand from the top of the pile into the lot, onto the sidewalk, out into the street. The worker with the wheelbarrow comes to take a load of sand to the storefront under renovation; the dog steps off the mound, lets the worker fill the barrow, then returns to his perch. He digs some more.

I wrestle with writers block – two months, now. It’s awful. Some say it’s a fallacy, writer’s block; it doesn’t exist; it’s just an excuse for not writing. I can think of nothing. I delete nearly everything word I type. I can only watch the dog and think how some things are the same the world over. Dogs & new piles of fresh soft sand. Dig. It makes me think of one of my favourite stories, a well known story.

Two boys, twins. One an optimist, the other a pessimist. The pessimist is put in a room piled high with toys, games and all the diversions so loved by little boys. He sits, long-faced, making no attempt to even explore any of the toys. ‘Why?’, he’s asked. ‘Because I have no one to play with.’ He is the pessimist.

The other boy, his twin brother, the optimist, is put in a different room, a room with only a giant pile of horse manure – nothing else. Equipped with no shovel or tool, the boy climbs onto the pile of manure and begins to dig. He digs furiously, excitedly, hopeful. ‘Why?’, he’s asked, “Why are you digging in this big pile of manure?’. ‘Well,’ he explains, ‘with all this manure around, there must be a pony nearby.’.

Thank you, dog. Although we have never spoken, today, you are my saving grace. Not only have you given me something to write about, you have also made me hope there is a pony in here somewhere. Keep digging, doggy, you’ll find your bone, I just know it.