My Old Dog
My old dog is black and the size of a loaf of bread.
She stinks no matter how often or how seldom I bathe her.
My old dog has more gray hair these days.
She has a wrinkled face and doesn’t hear when she’s called (or doesn’t listen).
My old dog has a pot belly. She snores.
She lives up to her name, and she still has a lot of fight left in her.
My old dog makes a mess on the floor and expects someone else to pick it up. She just sits there and looks around like, “that’s not my shit” and waits until it gets bagged up and tossed. She wants to be fed and watered and nurtured and loved in all of her adorable filthiness and dumbness.
My old dog is me. And so on my knees, I clean up after
Achintya Bheda Abheda (simultaneous oneness & differentiation),