The first time Hopeful met our neighbors' new dog, I thought I was seeing an encounter between the Dionysian and Apollonian worldviews--and not just because the neighbors named their new dog Apollo.
Hopeful the plump, cheerful mutt who loves rolling in the mud, splashing in the creek, and gobbling down any tasty treat that comes her way (from dead groundhogs to chunks of ripe deer carcass the mold-encrusted wad of sofa cushion she found in the woods last week) gambols up the road to encounter a dog that looks like a statue standing on a plinth, with lordly mien surveying his vast domain.
Apollo is tall and lean with clean, crisp lines and pointy teeth; if he had come running toward me unencumbered by his master, I would surely have run screaming for the woods. He looks like a king of the dog world, a stern, godlike figure of power and self-control.
But then Hopeful bounces up with her girls-just-wanna-have-fun attitude and issues an invitation to play, and Apollo comes down from the plinth. It took two strong adults to remove Apollo from the muddy Dionysian revels and restore him to his place of stern dignity.
That was two weeks ago and I haven't seen Apollo outside his house again. Sometimes when we walk by we hear him barking as if begging to come out and play, but he remains behind closed doors safely separated from mud and mold and road kill. I hope he's happy there, but Hopeful shows no desire to join him. Why live on a pedestal when you can roll in the mud?
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