I saw the Rug this morning! Out on an early walk, as were I and my companion, he plodded up the sidewalk alongside his companion, with a loyal, though weary, doggy step. When we first spotted him last summer--a white, medium-sized pooch--the word that immediately came to mind was RUG. White fur, but not the shiny, fluffy kind shown off by young, well-groomed pups. His fur kind of slumps over, as if slightly dejected, and appears to be in need of a little shampoo and conditioner--sort of like a shag rug (a once-popular rug with long pile) that's been well-used, worn down and flattened, becoming, in the end, simply another ordinary piece of dirty carpeting.
We always loved passing the Rug, not that we've ever said a word to either him or his person, the early hours being something of an agreed-upon quiet-time. Winter stopped our early walks (too dark!) but now we are back with the summer. We have passed a number of white dogs, but until this morning none of them turned out to be the Rug. So we had a moment of excitement.
I think I enjoy him so much because he seems to say, "I know I'm a dog. I know I'm old. I know I look like a rug. But who cares?"
This is an attitude I wonder if I am approaching myself. I do hope I don't yet look like a rug, but I feel a kind of turning in myself. An acceptance, I suppose, of who I am, and also of who I am not. I know I am a writer of young adult novels. But I also know I have limitations in that endeavor. I also know I am not young and cool, as so many popular ya authors seem to be. But who cares?"
Well, I still do, a little. But with the Rug as my mentor, one day I just might not.