Sit / by Megan Hanlon

The dog has learned to sit for what he wants.

If he wants his favorite chew toys, the red rubber ones that claim to be indestructible but aren’t, he sits in front of the cabinet where they are stored and waits.

If he wants a small taste of the chicken that’s being diced or fresh spinach that’s being chopped for dinner, he sits on the kitchen floor and stares up as though he’s never been fed in his life.

If he wants to go outside to do his business despite the pelting sleet or gusting northern winds, he sits at the feet of the nearest adult in the room, sizeable ears perked up, white dots of eyebrows raised, everything about his pose silently saying now.

I didn’t teach him this.

Or maybe I did, by accident.

Years ago when he was just a pup, a slithering Slinky of fur over-exuberant and impatient for everything, we diligently worked on housetraining, every few hours trotting out the door and over to where concrete gives way to grass. But between the time when I clipped the black leash to the ring on his blue collar and when I turned the knob to open the door to the outside world, I commanded him to sit. Wiggling from top to bottom, hardly capable of touching curled tail to floor, he briefly sat and sprung back up. Then off we went.

I suppose, somewhere in the six years since, it occurred to him to apply this behavior to other things.  

How reassuring it must be to know exactly who you are—dog, excitable, hungry, playful, occasionally obedient—with one true purpose: to love and be loved. How comforting to know exactly what you want—rubber bone, dinner crumb, bowel relief—and afterward, complete happiness.

Here I sit, staring out the window at the day as it goes by, at the snow falling purposefully and the fragile birds sorting through seeds at the feeder, waiting for what I want to become clear.  

photo by Megan Hanlon