I think we all have our secrets. My dog, who is a fairly large labradoodle beast, can perch on the smallest of spaces just to look out the window and languish in whatever sliver of sunshine central New York permits to slide through the dense, persistent clouds. He is, perhaps, the most anxious dog on the planet, going from sound asleep to high alert for no discernible reason. So, while I am not now, nor have I ever been, a cat owner, he strikes me as a feline in disguise, with all of the stereotypical characteristics associated with the breed that is supposed to be his arch nemesis.
Now, I would assume that if he were to go to the dog park and hang out with his dog park pals (of which he has none because he hates other dogs and has no instinct whatsoever to be a member of a pack), he would posture for them, fetching and barking and being all sorts of dog-ish. He looks like a dog, often smells like a dog, and betrays his feline nature with his incessant barking (a lovely trademark of this mutt breed), sounding like a dog. But, when he thinks that no one is looking–or, at least, no one is yelling at him to get off the furniture–he perches and watches. He harnesses his inner cat.
I think that there is a lesson to be learned in all of this–something about embodying the traits of your enemy or living your true nature–but I don’t know exactly what that is today. For now, I am happy to watch him watch the birds & squirrels. I am happy allowing him to perch on the forbidden furniture and steal the afternoon sunshine that is coming through the window. I am happy believing that living one’s truth may be found in becoming what no one thought you would ever be.