Earlier today a dog hurt my feelings.
I was excited. I had put him outside while I had breakfast, and was about to surprise him when I let him back in.
We were going on one of our epic walks.
Sammy spends most weekdays inside, while his dad is at work. Over the past couple weeks that I’ve been house-sitting, he’s been spoiled. Almost every day, I’ve not only taken him for a walk, but he’s sat with me for hours outside our favorite cafe. He loves it. An adorable beagle routinely mistaken for a puppy, he receives an endless barrage of love and affection. Everyone wants to pet him. Everyone wants to know his name and age. Alongside him I’m reduced to little more than a spokesperson.
Given all that, I was dumbfounded this morning when, making a big commotion as I pulled the leash out from behind my back, Sammy barely reacted. He even hesitated, as if he didn’t want to come inside. Surely, for whatever reason, he didn’t get it. Maybe he was still waking up. I fastened the leash to his collar, an unmistakable sign of an imminent outing. Nothing. Rather than making his usual beeline for the front door, he went over to his bed and lay down.
I left him alone while I closed up the house. When I returned and told him it was time to go, tugging on the leash, he refused to budge. It wasn’t until then that I finally got it.
Sammy didn’t want to go with me.
Not only was I dumbfounded, I was disappointed.
My reaction seemed silly. If Sammy wasn’t up for an outing, it only made things that much easier. I could go to a different cafe, one further away than if he came along. I wouldn’t have to untangle him every time he got his leash wrapped around the table and chairs. I wouldn’t have to clean up his poop both coming and going.
Nevertheless, my feelings were hurt.
By a dog.
My reflexive response was to dismiss what I felt. It made no sense. “He’s just a dog! Snap out of it!”
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized it wasn’t so silly after all.
What was silly was the perceived need to justify my feelings. If someone had slapped me, I wouldn’t have questioned the pain on my cheek. Yet when, in response to Sammy’s rejection, my heart grew heavy and a slight lump formed in my throat, my immediate inclination was to rationalize it away.
I shouldn't feel...
There's no reason to feel...
But it was too late for that. I had already felt. I had already experienced the sadness. The feeling was justification in and of itself. It didn’t need a rational one.
Emotions are unsettling because we don’t have control over them. Often we don’t even understand them. Attempting to frame them in rational terms —to prove or disprove their legitimacy — gives us an immensely comforting though ultimately delusional sense of control.
Would we judge the veracity of a mathematical equation by how it made us feel? Would we conclude it was true if it felt good? False if it felt bad? The very idea seems laughable. Nevertheless, we don't hesitate to judge our feelings based on whether or not we deem them rational.
Between our posable thumb and our faculty of reason, we're the envy of most of the Animal Kingdom. Sadly, we get carried away and go a step further, confusing ourselves with rational beings. We’re not. We’re feeling ones. It’s what makes us human. Using reason to justify — or invalidate — our emotions is a way of denying a fundamental and sometimes uncomfortable part of our human experience.
Rather than questioning my sadness about Sammy’s choice to stay home, I should have embraced it: I had grown attached to him and fond of our outings. A beautiful sentiment; hardly something I needed to justify.
Feelings don’t require justification; they require understanding.
I no longer feel silly that a dog made me sad. I’m glad I felt what I did, and going forward I hope to be self-aware enough to shamelessly feel even more.
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