He is far more cautious when it comes to stairs. His conveniently flattened face can withstand endless collisions with plaster, but he somehow knows not to take chances with vertical tumbles. He can sense the plunging empty space of an approaching downward staircase, and he moves with caution, using his paw to locate the edge. He senses the oncoming hurdle of an upward staircase well in advance, and lifts his forepaws alternately in a bit of canine ballet as he anticipates a climb.
A keen sense of smell is certainly an asset, but, for Manny, navigating the world is mostly about preparation, approximation, and risk assessment. He gets lost a lot but he rarely gets hurt. He is on constant alert, readying himself to the extent he can for obstacles. He never seems to know exactly where the obstacles are, but he allows himself a generous margin of error when he knows he is getting close. He gets sloppy when he can afford to, takes extra precaution when the stakes are higher. He knows he is safest when he is by my side, but he savors his independence and is willing to sacrifice a little bit of security for an occasional adventure. He is, in that way, not unlike the rest of us.
When I was in my early twenties, I bumped into a lot of walls. I always caught myself (or allowed someone to catch me) before I went off a cliff, but I was determined to assert my independence. More often than not, I had no idea where I was going or what I was looking for. My parents wanted to protect me from whatever was out there, and I occasionally took them up on it. Security has its appeal, but so does independence. If we are lucky, we can have a bit of both. We all have different comfort levels, we all struggle to find the right balance. Thirty years later, I still get bruised, still find myself way too close to the edge before I turn tail and seek out safer ground.
In our new house, Manny has chosen a favorite spot on each level, a spot where he can feel independent and secure at the same time. He goes where he knows I am close by, where he can hear me and I, in turn, can hear him. Sometimes, when he goes in the yard, he disappears around the side of the house for a long time. I know what he is doing. He is digging, desperately clawing through a chunk of earth so he can squeeze under the fence into the neighbor's yard. Last night, I found him there, with his head already halfway through. I dragged him back into the house. I will try to patch up the hole, and he will keep digging. It's a dance we did at the old house.
I will keep my eye on him, even though I am fairly confident he will not get lost or hurt. He will make his escape, come out on the other side of the hole -- if not this one, another one -- and savor his newfound freedom. And then, as he always did at our old house, he will make his way around to the front door, and wait, as long as he has to, for me to let him back in. Briefly energized by his taste of the world outside, he will be relieved to be safe again, and will once again settle in to one of his favorite spots, staying close but not too close to me as I go up and down the stairs.
Home, for Manny, is where the lady with the food is. No matter where we end up, Manny will wrestle with his yearning for a bit of independence and his need to feel save, and loved. He will take an occasional chance, and he will suffer an occasional setback. But, with a little preparation, approximation, and risk assessment, he will, somehow, seek out his comfort level and find the right balance. He is not unlike the rest of us.
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