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The Parable of My Dog and the Squirrels

My dog and I always walk in a park teeming with squirrels. Invariably, we encounter some during our excursion, and my dog tries to catch one. But she never has.
It goes like this. My dog spots the bushy-tailed mammal and stops in her tracks, hair standing on end. With eyes locked onto her prey she begins to stalk, ever so slowly, without regard for her leash, me, or anything else. Certainly not of her impending failure. Dogs have short memories when it comes to these things, you see.
The squirrel eyes her indifferently. Unlike my dog, the squirrel has full awareness of the situation. It’s aware of its superior quickness just as it knows the location of the nearest tree. It knows my dog cannot catch it. So it idles, in no rush to endure the inconvenience of escape, watching my dog’s earnest pursuit with what must be amusement.
The staredown continues. My dog steps ever so cautiously, like a kid sneaking out of a house with creaky floorboards – then springs forward.
With lithe movements and a calm demeanor, the squirrel darts away and up a tree, to safety. I bet it’s real smug up there.
My dog circles the trunk, brow knitted in sincere confusion, before loping back towards me with the goofy, open-mouth smile dogs wear when they’re panting. Her tail wags – “Oh well.” Never successful yet never disappointed, she is an irrepressible light.
I want the squirrel’s confidence. I also want my dog’s unyielding, stupid optimism.
What I really want, though, is for my dog to catch the squirrel, just once. Not because I’m cruel, but because I resent that wisdom can thrash a pure heart so mercilessly.

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