A Bodishattva Never Hesitates
He was in his sixties – out of shape, but not too out of shape that he couldn’t cradle a large, limp dog in his arms. I was coming off the dog beach near my house and he was just stepping on to it.
The dog’s head hung over one arm. There was a towel, in case of spills, underneath him.
“Bringing your baby to the beach?” I asked sympathetically.
“It’s his last day,” the man replied.
His name was Chico. The dog, not the guy. He was 17 years old. Coming down to the doggie beach, the scene of many past triumphs, no doubt, for the last time.
So, what do you say? Nothing. But I did anyway. Is he in pain? (No). When are you taking him in. (Tonight). You’re doing the right thing (Like I would know).
I stroked the dog’s leg and he raised up his head and looked at me. There was nobody home. My own little dog stood up on his hind legs anxiously sniffing Chico.
The guy said.
“I had a couple of good sessions with an animal communicator. She told me he was ready but was just waiting for me to accept it”.
Very smart woman, I thought. Whether or not she could talk to animals she could sure read people.
“It’ll be my turn some day,” I said.
He staggered, then, down to the ocean’s edge. I sat in my car and watched him. Thinking how his muscles would hurt the next day after the weight of his sweet burden. How his arms would ache. I watched him lay his old boy down in the sand.
Now would be a good time to say that every fiber of my being wanted to go to him. But this had nothing to do with being. Or fibers.
Once, at my Zen Center, my teacher had said that a true Bodhisattva never hesitates. He sees and acts – always with the appropriate response.
But L.A. is nothing but confluence. There are no discrete things. People, media, events, sometimes anger, weather (or lack thereof) and always cars, cars, cars running together – streaming – into a river of distraction that somehow makes up your day. Like it or not, it’s hard to act.
I didn’t have a story line going through my head about what I would say if I did walk over to the man or what he would say or whether he would even want me there.
I just had a clear picture of me being down there sitting with him at the water’s edge listening to the old dog’s labored breathing against the rustle of the surf.
An hour later I’m on the freeway snaking out over the docks. Would somebody please explain to me how all of the Mad Max container trucks know to hit the road at the same time? My little Toyota was boxed in. Like walking down 5th Avenue and you can’t see the sky but you know it has to be there. There’s no oxygen. I can only cling to the belief that I will get off and ride on surface streets one day.
Behind me a black car is about 2 feet, I’m not exaggerating – 2 feet, behind my bumper. I’m in the fast lane and already over the speed limit. But apparently it’s not enough. She swerves to my right but finds no opening. She slams back behind me and rides me. I take my eyes off the rear view mirror. But there’s no escape. Her hatred is coming up through my tailpipe, into the steering wheel and straight through my hands where it makes a beeline for my gut.
I turn up my cd player to distract myself. I’ve taken to listening to what could very loosely be called self development cd’s in my car. Although, frankly, anything which develops the self seems to be kind of superfluous these days. But now I’m into Eckhart Tolle.
He’s talking about the difference between object consciousness and space consciousness. How we give such power to things. We have to have this. We need it now. We convince ourselves that we need to ask this question now! This is so important! We make things so immediate and it’s always about us. He’s a good speaker and he laughs often. It is, after all, a subject rich with humor.
The rest of my day was productive. I got a lot of things done. All of it mattering somewhat in the scheme of things.
Periodically, I thought of the guy on the beach. When I ate my lunch it was Chico’s last meal. Heading back to the Coast in the last afternoon; his last sunset.
So many last things for Chico.
I thought how the guy had come down to the beach by himself.
Maybe if I had parked my car and walked up to him he would have told me he wanted to be alone. Or maybe he would have been grateful for some silent companionship.
I didn’t develop a story line in my head. When night fell I let him and Chico slip away. It was, after all, only, a missed opportunity.