The English Cocker Spaniel will never let you see he isn't happy, and sometimes this is very difficult to discern. His tear ducts aren't reservoirs of protest, they are wellsprings of refreshment for his nostrils and his sight. If they close, you mightn't notice, so insouciant is his nature. Allergies can irritate him; genetics can play a part. Other things.
We watch an English Cocker Spaniel at his play as some shimmering cuirass of our own wearing, against every knowable slight; crown, upon every gladness; lens, upon so much loveliness; panache, on so much mirth. None of the things we know to be true of his fragile gift to us can ever breach our bond, through him, with delight, curiosity, energy, and respect for rampant sauciness, fair play, wit, and gentleness. Where does it come from?
Very few things I believe are not passed through Whit's exemplary sieve in my assessment. I don't tax him with the weird occupations of one's life, any more than I inquire of him what makes a bush so damned interesting. But he shares. And this is the prettiest sight I can ever expect to contemplate. We give him medicines now, and prepare for his surgery early next month. He's a vigorous little guy, and we're very hopeful.
If this blog could be an English Cocker Spaniel's, it would be so sweet. This posting naturally raises fellow feeling, but it's not a complaint. It's a tribute. We can accept no comments; Whit wags, and pays it no mind. That's the spirit.
Georg Frideric Händel
Sonata, Anthem for the Duke of Chandos,
I will magnify thee
Harry Christophers, The Sixteen
Chandos Records, Ltd., 1989©