--Irvine Welsh, Trainspotting
Then, Renton says, “I chose not to choose life; I chose something else…”
(Which, if you’ve seen Trainspotting or read the book, you discover that “something else” is heroin.)
I’ve never tried heroin, but that’s about the only drug I haven’t tried. Most of the stuff I have tried was experimental, sometimes recreational, only rarely have I used drugs to numb the pain—the haunting hunger for approval, the lonely need for a caressing hand of friendship on my shoulder, the aching wish for someone to be there to tell me things will be alright.
No, I’ve born that sadness, that chain about my neck, sober and awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering how long it would take for the stench of my rotting body to bother the neighbors enough before they’d call the police to break down the door…
Those are the bad days, and I try to have more good than bad, but sometimes—yeah, it gets that bad, and there’s not much to keep me away from the box cutter or a bottle of pills—not much except a big, fuzzy, black and brown friend, who, though he lacks opposable thumbs, finds his own way of reassuring me—that things will be okay. The sun will come out tomorrow, and all that stuff.
Feeling fucked up, in a fucked up time, in a fucked up place, doesn’t necessarily mean you are fucked up, or as one therapist told me, “Dan, you’re not crazy. Crazy people have no grasp of reality, whereas you have both feet firmly planted in reality—you just don’t like it very much.”
So, what is it? Am I fucked up, or just crazy? Or maybe just hypersensitive?
It’s hard to say, but when I look into those golden-brown eyes and he winks as if to say, “Maybe things would be better if we just went outside and rolled around in the grass,” crazy or not, I feel a whole lot better, and I think most of you do too—without picking my brain or vice-versa, Tucson (well, dogs in general) is the best therapy, and I am telling you all now: that bringing him with me to school everyday—that has been my own secret work of art through activism.
Peter Sellars tries to change the world through food and hugs; my medium is dog-oriented. (Hugs help out, though too.)
Dogs make the best socializing agents—far better than alcohol, or even campfires—and I’ve even done a fair amount of research into the evolution and development of our species, which have played complementary roles in the propagation of both humans and dogs on every continent, in nearly every culture.
It always seems ironic to me that here in America we churn out weepy-eyed movies about dogs like “My Dog Skip” and “Old Yeller,” which everybody loves, and there are a zillion books out there alà Chicken Soup for the Soul, which strongly advise people to adopt a dog—you’ll live longer, and with less stress—I swear it’s true—yet, when I take my dog on the bus, people freak out like I’m attached to an alien.
I reassure them by muttering something about being disabled, and there’s this collective sigh of relief (Whew! Glad that guy has a disability and needs a dog to help him out!) (?!?)
Sometimes my grasp of reality slips a bit then, but whatever—I get to take him with me everywhere, and I reckon he makes more people smile that upset (museum security guards, excepted.)
Folks don’t like to talk about mental illness—it makes them uncomfortable—something you whisper like cancer.
Again, I can’t figure this one out, especially when our campus has its own psychological services center, which has to limit the number of sessions any student can receive because the therapists are so back-logged, plus there’s the Center for Men and Women running dozens of workshops and group sessions targeted at dealing with depression and anxiety. There’s a counselor at the LGBT Center to specifically help students deals with those kinds of issues, and let us not forget the giant industrial-hospital complex with entire buildings full of psychologists, psychiatrists, counselors, therapists, researchers, and doctors.
Nevertheless, when I transferred to UCLA two years ago, I was the only person with a dog in class (there weren’t/aren’t even any seeing-eye dogs around!) and most people had never heard of therapy dogs until I explained it to them.
It warms my heart immeasurably to note there are at least three other dogs on campus now, and I’d like to take some small amount of credit for that.
I’ve tried my hand at a lot of charity/non-profit work from in-home health care for mentally retarded adults to roaming the streets looking for homeless people to bring back to a shelter. Most of that work was pretty thankless, and when you throw in the government monitors, paperwork, and bureaucracy, it was enough to make a person crazy. (Which, obviously, in my case, it did.)
So, I quit trying to change the world, quit trying to be the reformer, the follow-up to Martin Luther King, Jr., the next Gandhi, or another Jesus. Besides, look where their efforts got them—all dead at the hands of other people they pissed off.
I have enough problems with pissing people off without trying to take on the world (although I DO have a German Shepherd/Rottweiler who’s got my back, yo!)
So, before our Commencement Commences, I advise the underclassmen, graduate students, and professors to make room in your lives for a dog. Maybe even two dogs. You’ll be glad you did, I promise.
On that note, like Vanessa Williams, “I went and saved the best for last,” and I bid you all a fond farewell.
Dan Tyler & Tuc’s
PS If we’ve made any sort of positive difference in just one of your lives, let us know, and I’ll feel this project has been a success and deserves an “A.” ☺
*Author's note: I got the A and a standing ovation at UCLA's Class of 2007 Graduation.
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