#13 PUPPY - AN ANIMAL ACCOMMODATED
#13 PUPPY Blog—AN ACCOMMODATED ANIMAL
Dear COVID-19, cousin to SARS and MERS;
Did anyone say, “Welcome to America”? I think not. Corona, crown, you are. In this case, not of gems, gold, and filigree, but of sugary-protein spikes resembling tiny, single-legged stools propped on what looks like a rough round of raw bread dough.
I mean, for being so tiny, so beyond detection, you nevertheless boast the longest genome of any RNA-based virus. One strand of nucleic acid about 26,000 to 32,000 AUGC bases long. But, ha, ha, ha, for all that stuff, you snarly small parasite, you cannot even reproduce by yourself! Wuss. You do, however, have the power to direct an invaded cell to produce more of your kind. Using those stool-structured spikes, you grab hold in your host organism (a bat for example), and Bingo! Population overload.
Admittedly, I understand hardly a bit of what I have just written. Only that, you, dear COVID-19, have traveled the world with nearly the speed of air molecules, and we of the world are accommodating ourselves to your presence. Ah-ha! I have reached the word I have been searching for: Accommodation.
My Apple dictionary says to accommodate, we make “sufficient space for, adapt to, or fit in with the wishes or needs of.”
We in the world are accommodating an uninvited viral guest that, like us, has agency, activity, action; and it seems, like some of us, is greedy and not at all satisfied with the word, “Enough.” Take toilet paper, for a recent example.
Chemists understand accommodation. They know the difference between the simplicity of natural gas and the complexity of coal’s chemicals (making coal a horrible thing to be burning). I know a couple of chemists, but nothing about chemistry and its seven-row periodic table of elements. I only know that chemistry depends upon understanding things like how many hydrogen atoms a carbon atom can—you know—accommodate.
Goodness knows, the English language has historically accommodated arguments about punctuation and syntax. It is rumored that Mark Twain once wrote a piece completely devoid of punctuation but at the end he included a line of commas and encouraged his readers to put them wherever it seemed they belonged. He, it is reported, thought himself not to be trusted with the things.
I don’t know about other religions, but Christian theology has a theory of “Accommodation.” The unreachable and otherwise unknowable God, through the person of Jesus, and a book of poems, stories, biographies, histories, comforts, and conditions, has accommodated; that is, adapted to the limitations of human understanding. Through a person and a book, we of a material world are given a glimpse of what we cannot grasp.
Now, about Scooter Sublime. This yet growing twenty pound pup my husband privately calls “Frenzy,” consumes a daily cup-and-a-half of Delicious and Nutritious kibble divided between two feedings (plus fresh veggies, some fruits, an occasional bite of fish or lean meat, pumpkin, and plain yoghurt), a daily brush through his long puppy coat, some training, and occasional naps. He’s mastered his first experience with a groomer who bathed, clipped nails, delivered a bit of a trim to the goldendoodle nose, paws, and patootie; and he has fallen in love with his groovy car-seat.
Nearing the completion of his seventh month, Scooter bears a proud voice when fierce seems fitting (like warding off shadows), and a pathetic, pronounced whine when he feels a lack of attention. Apricot-colored patches of a wavy, wiry coat have emerged along his spine. He loves of running cyclone speed circuits on grass, then moves just before inside to run tornado trips from room to room carrying his favorite, mangled, squeaky lizard toy.
“Watch this!” Scooter says, throwing and retrieving his green ball all on his own. He’s very proud. Personal tossing is his newest, best thing.
We who “watch this,” are we who accommodate. We are “providing lodging or sufficient space,” adapting, meeting needs—food, raincoats, training, grooming, playing, laughing, scolding, belly-rubs, and loving. Still, I wasn’t ready for what my husband chose to do “on Scooter’s behalf.”
It goes like this.
I meet morning long before the sun or my husband do. My husband rises an hour or so before Scooter is invited to join in our day. However—regardless of how quietly the man manages to place his feet on the floor, the pup knows. The pup complains. The pup wants up.
“How about me?” he whines. Not easily, we ignore him since he isn’t supposed to call the shots. Back to sleep he goes.
One day recently, as I left our bed at my usual time (Scooter pays no attention to my o’dark departures even though I walk by his crate), I noticed that not only my husband, but his pillow, were missing.
“What?” I asked when at last he and I shared kitchen space.
“Oh,” said he. “If I wake in the wee hours, I just move to the guest room. That way, when I get up, Scooter’s not disturbed.”
“You move to the guest-room, so Scooter doesn’t have to whine a bit?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“You accommodate a dog?”
“You don’t?”
“Shall we get him up?”
“It’s a little early. But, yeah, let’s.”
