The Tree Fell Silently

A mentor once said to me, “If you really need to talk, it doesn’t matter if anyone is listening.” I was young(ish) at the time so I disagreed. I volleyed back with a bunch of platitudes about friendship and understanding and empathy and feedback. He chuckled, once again amused by my naïveté. I should get a Ouija board just so he can say “I told you so.”

You’d think having posted more than 300 times on this blog would have been enough to convince me. Catharsis, like luck, is where you make it, not where you find it. The same goes for venting one’s spleen. The Internet is thickly spattered with bits of vented spleen. For all that, the fact that you’re reading this now means that I am venting and catharsis-ing to you, not to no one. This makes my argument, or so I would have thought had I thought about it.

It was the second dog who proved my dear departed friend right. We are dog-sitting the Baroness of Basset hounds through New Year’s. She is a lovely, floppy, sweet and ungainly little thing who stays at my feet much more than our Jonah does. Jonah considers himself to be the Ruler of the Universe. He has responsibilities. He’s busy with sentry duty in the front window, especially at this time of year when UPS and FedEx trucks invade his territory with increasing regularity. The Baroness has no such aspirations, and is readily available to listen to my ranting. She doesn’t understand a word of it, but she agrees with everything. She knows I’m right. Her universe is whatever room she’s in, and when I’m in it too, she is fascinated by me. It’s an attractive trait in anyone, even an already adorable dog.

But it definitely proves that when you need to vent, it doesn’t matter who hears it.