Our lives are built upon countless decisions, an interwoven foundation of choices, big and small. Some are monumental, shaping the very course of our existence. Which career to pursue? Who to love? Whether pineapple truly belongs on pizza?
D. K. Wall:But most are mundane. What to eat for dinner? Which book on the leaning tower of your to be read stack to tackle next? Whether you can hit that snooze button just one more time?
D. K. Wall:For most of us, these small decisions are fleeting, dispatched with minimal mental effort. We are, after all, busy with more important things to accomplish.
D. K. Wall:But not Roscoe. For those not in the know, Roscoe is 55 pounds of Siberian Husky fur and blessed with a life largely free of choice.
D. K. Wall:His carefully prepared, nutritionally balanced meal appears in his bowl twice daily with the reliability of a Swiss train. His exercise regimen, six miles of trails a day, is dictated by the family's schedule. Bedtime is a non negotiable, herd like migration to the sleeping quarters.
D. K. Wall:In the kingdom of our home, Roscoe is a happy, well fed citizen with no executive power whatsoever, and he likes it that way.
D. K. Wall:In his early years under our roof, he gladly outsourced all his cognitive functions to a higher authority. His bestest brother ever, the late great, His Royal Highness Little Prince Typhoon Phooey.
D. K. Wall:Typhoon, happy to finally have someone listen to his endless opinions, dictated the optimal napping locations, the precise moment to request yard time, and the appropriate volume for Sibernacle Choir practice.
D. K. Wall:Roscoe's only job was to follow, a task he performed with a joyful bounce in his step, utterly gleeful to leave his brain in neutral. He was the delighted Vice President of Doing What He Was Told.
D. K. Wall:When Typhoon passed onto the great dog park in the sky, a constitutional crisis rocked our household.
D. K. Wall:Roscoe was rudderless, a furry vessel adrift on a sea of uncertainty, his eyes pleading for a direction. The chain of command was broken. Chaos reigned.
D. K. Wall:Fortunately, just as anarchy was about to set in, we adopted Sally. Sally, a forty five pound dynamo of boundless attitude, took one look at our disorganized state of affairs and promptly staged a coup.
D. K. Wall:She burst onto the scene like a caffeinated CEO on a mission to optimize a failing startup. You might expect grumbling from the tenured employees, but no. The boys, long starved for leadership, snapped to attention, desperate for a brain within the outfit. With Sally's extension to the throne, order was restored.
D. K. Wall:Roscoe was ecstatic. Once again, his life was a blissful, decision free paradise. He was happily demoted to intern in charge of tailwags. All was right with the world.
D. K. Wall:Except for one thing, a solitary decision that Sally, for all her managerial prowess, cannot make for him.
D. K. Wall:You see, Typhoon was a boy dog. Sally is a girl dog. And this brings us to the delicate and profound subject of canine urination.
D. K. Wall:For Sally, the process is a masterpiece of efficiency. When the urge strikes, it's a simple, automated function. She engages the squat protocol over a suitable patch of grass, handles her business, and moves on with her life, all within the span of about seven seconds. It is a task, not an art form.
D. K. Wall:But for the male of the species, specifically Roscoe, it is a sacred ritual. It is a performance. It is a series of complex high stakes negotiations with the universe. Every single trip outside becomes a dramatic one act play entitled the agony of choice.
D. K. Wall:Take Operation Morning Evacuation. After a solid night of sleep, emptying the bladder is of top priority. Sally, first out, completes her objective with ruthless precision. She's already sniffing for rogue squirrels before Roscoe's first paw has even touched the grass.
D. K. Wall:He stands at the door, scans the yard, and becomes overwhelmed with a multitude of options before him.
D. K. Wall:And so, enter Phase One, Geological Survey. This is not a casual sniff. This is a forensic investigation.
D. K. Wall:He lowers his noble snout and begins an inventory of olfactory interest with a twitching nose analyzing aromatic data points. He discards some spots as too mundane. Others have been visited by various creatures of the night and show promise.
D. K. Wall:But scent alone does not satisfy all criteria. Does the soil composition offer the right splashback absorption? Is a blade of grass of the proper height? Which way is the wind blowing?
D. K. Wall:Once a potential candidate, say a particularly robust dandelion, is identified, hope grows in his eyes. A decision has been made. This is the one. He circles preparing for phase two, leg lift deliberation and alignment. Here, things get complicated.
D. K. Wall:Roscoe, you must understand, is ambidextrous or ambipedal or perhaps ambipawdal. Whatever the term, he is equally comfortable lifting his right or his left leg.
D. K. Wall:This choice is not to be taken lightly. We've witnessed the port versus starboard debate rage for what feels like an eternity. He'll lift one, hesitate, put it down, turn in the opposite direction, and try the other, as if testing for a subtle difference in balance or barometric pressure.
D. K. Wall:We refer to this struggle as the Roscoe Shuffle, an intricate dance of twisting, turning, craning his neck, and sidestepping, all while first one rear leg and then the next hovers precariously in the air.
D. K. Wall:Why does he do this? I have developed several theories. First, the Canine Compass Theory. He is attempting to align his urinary trajectory perfectly with magnetic north for reasons we mere humans cannot comprehend.
D. K. Wall:Second, the Artistic Expression Theory. He is not merely relieving himself. He is creating a statement piece. The angle of the stream against the backdrop of nature must be aesthetically perfect.
D. K. Wall:Third, the mothership theory. He is sending a signal, a liquid Morse code to his home planet. He will complete his mission only when the star is aligned.
D. K. Wall:Whatever the reason, the moment has finally come. A position has been obtained. Balance is locked. Leg lifted. Phasers armed.
D. K. Wall:And we enter Phase Three: Abort.
D. K. Wall:More often than not, just as he achieves what appears to be the perfect stance, leg at a jaunty angle, body contorted into a shape that would make a yoga master weep and a look of profound concentration on his face, he will freeze, his eyes locked on an object elsewhere in the yard.
D. K. Wall:A branch, a leaf, another blade of grass that looks identical to the one he is balanced over, at least to the undrained human eye. Whatever he has spotted, it is, in his mind, the El Dorado of Pee Post.
D. K. Wall:It is greener. It is taller. It possesses an undeniable aura of significance that the poor dandelion simply lacks.
D. K. Wall:With a sigh that carries the weight of all the bad decisions ever made, his leg will slowly, agonizingly lower back to the ground. The entire process, the sniffing, the circling, the leg deliberation, the shuffle must begin anew.
D. K. Wall:This entire performance can last beyond all reason, or at least beyond the patience of the human shivering in his pajamas and wondering why he didn't bring a mug of coffee outside while this drama is played out on a canvas of suburban lawn.
D. K. Wall:And, in case you think the second target is the charm, this can go on for a third or fourth until finally Roscoe trots back to the very first dandelion he rejected and handles his business, as if exhausted by the sheer burden of it all.
D. K. Wall:He then returns to the house, blissful in the lack of need to make any further decisions until the urge hits him again.
D. K. Wall:Is the moral of my story that even in the simplest of lives, a bit of choice can be a terrifying thing? Perhaps Roscoe knows something we don't. Perhaps the weight of these small decisions is far heavier than we imagine.
D. K. Wall:Whatever the reason, I'm taking my coffee with me next time.