June 29

If there is one thing I learned from Kinsale, it’s that the life I should be striving for, and probably should have been living this whole time, is that of an Irish dog. I would even forego the ability to see in color for the days of long walks next to fuzzy grass, splashing on rocky beaches, and lying on the warm floors of hillside cottages. Okay, maybe they don’t all live in hillside cottages. But just about every tenth person I encounter walking on the street is accompanied by a furry friend, and I can’t help but envy how loved these animals seem to be.

There are big, shaggy dogs. Small, fluffy dogs. Short dogs with black, wavy hair and half-folded ears. Skinny dogs with slender noses and muted splotches. There are old dogs, and young dogs. Dogs on leashes, dogs in laps on buses, dogs napping next to restaurants. Even more amazing than the abundance and beautiful array of these animals, is their collective behavior. Not once have I been, or seen someone, accosted by one of these dogs. A few show interest with a couple quick, exploratory sniffs, but not a single one has tried to smuggle their way onto my bus seat, or into my purse, or tried to eat my face off when I pet them (unlike my psychopathic puppy).

They must feed these dogs something special over here.

In all seriousness, they have it made. Every dog I’ve seen is attentive, curious, tongue-slopping-out-content. And why shouldn’t they be?

For them, the present moment is never anything more, never anything less than simply that: right now. Every meal is completely and totally welcome, satisfying that immediate sensation of emptiness. Dogs never eat because they are bored, or lonely, or stressed, or procrastinating, they eat because that’s exactly what their body tells them they need at the moment. Every walk is an adventure, every sniff a hunt for buried treasure. I can only imagine that the wind smells sweeter, the sun feels toasty, the ocean tastes saltier when you aren’t anticipating it, you aren’t lamenting yesterday’s greatness. And this is exactly how I imagine an Irish dog to approach life.

Based on the very limited observations I’ve made so far, their days consist of waking up to the smell of coffee drip drip dropping in the kitchen, followed by a sufficient romp around fluorescent green gardens. There is probably some eating, some running, maybe some more romping, until their owners decide to take them to the sandy or rocky beaches (either one will work) of the Irish countryside. The next few hours include racing up and down the shoreline, sopping wet, maniacally happy, chasing items of interest in and out of the water. Of course there are several, if not a bunch, of other dogs and puppies to play with who are all equally excited and encourage them to run their hardest, jump their highest, bark their loudest. And according to a recent theater show I attended at the Cork Midsummer Festival, nearly 44 percent of dogs sleep in a bed with their owner at the end of the day.

These dogs have the right idea. The more I can learn from them, the better. Less conscientious, more content. Less neurotic 20-something trying to figure out life, more trusting, appreciative, tongue-slopping-out-panting, happy Irish dog. (558 words)