What my dog taught me about pessimism
There is more than one type of pessimism, but perhaps there's a better option than either of them.
I'm in a cafe looking across the largely empty car park at the ruins of Melrose Abbey obscured by scaffolding, although it seems a bit late to try and renovate it now.
I've just dropped my dog, Daisy, at the vet whom we've driven seven hours to see and now I have to find a way of keeping myself busy for six hours until I can have her back and begin the seven-hour drive home.
So far, I've drunk one coffee and eaten the best porridge I've ever had in another cafe around the corner, and now I find myself with a second cup feeling decidedly pessimistic about the scrambled eggs I only ordered because the owner asked me so enthusiastically if I wanted breakfast.
The last time we were here, I ordered scrambled eggs for breakfast in the hotel and they were disappointingly rubbery.
I've prepared myself for rubbery scrambled eggs because I have discovered, over the years, that good scrambled eggs are as rare as the teeth from the hens who laid them.
My egg-related pessimism is the dangerous type. It's the pessimism where you tell yourself you don't expect anything good but secretly hope to be proven wrong and dazzled with the best scrambled eggs you ever tasted (see "porridge" in paragraph 3).
The emotional manifestation of "If I expect the worst and it doesn't happen, it's a bonus", is, in practice, much worse than it sounds.
By always expecting the worst, you suffer from the point at which you start to think about the subject of your pessimism. If the worst does happen, you suffer all over again, for real. If the worst doesn't happen it may as well have done because you already did some suffering that wasn't necessary.
The joyful version of pessimism looks different because it involves genuinely being unable to see a positive outcome, even unconsciously, and so when one suddenly appears to your delighted astonishment it's a genuinely unexpected bonus.
Daisy has been the source of two such experiences of pessimism turning into unbridled joy, which is partly why I'm prepared to drive 15 hours out of 36 to bring her to a vet in Scotland. It's also partly because we don't deserve dogs and ought therefore to do everything in our power to honour and protect them.
We originally chose her because she had "sad eyes".
It turned out that the reason she had sad eyes was because she couldn't see out of them having been born with multiple ocular abnormalities including cataracts sitting pretty centrally over both pupils.
We thought she was just clumsy that time she fell into a stream and couldn't get out, requiring me to jump in, fully clothed, to haul her out.
When a trainer pointed out to me that the constant sniffing with her nose stuck to the floor was because she couldn't see where she was going, my heart dropped.
At our first appointment with the opthalmologist, she told me the prognosis wasn't good.
"When dogs are born with poor eyesight it's common for there to be poor connection between the eyes and the brain."
In short, even if she could see through her eyes they may not be wired with the rest of her correctly anyway.
I resigned myself to life with a blind pup.
The opthalmologist gave me some drops to fully dilate her pupils to discover if the extra vision it enabled could be processed.
"Give it a week and let me know if you notice any difference", the vet told me.
She didn't seem confident and my pessimism was unshakable.
A few days later, we were walking in the woods, Daisy trotting somewhere behind as we made our way up a sandy track and back to the tree line.
A big branch had fallen in a recent storm and laid across the path.
Assuming Daisy would stumble straight into it I turned to guide her around it but, as I did so, she came rushing past me at full tilt and leapt effortlessly over the obstacle and disappeared into the distance.
It felt like a miracle.
Last year, six years after my previous pessimism had been so gracefully dismantled, Dasiy developed a persistent lameness.
Following months of failed interventions, medications and eyewatering amounts of money on tests she was diagnosed with osteoarthritis, but even the painkillers prescribed to make her more comfortable couldn't shift her limp.
She lost interest in going for walks and I'd find myself staring longingly into the distance over the downs at the routes we used to take that she could no longer manage.
"We need a miracle," my sister said one morning when we met her in the park on a particularly laboured stroll.
"There won't be any miracles, it's a progressive condition. She's just going to get worse."
My pessimism was in full flight.
Stem cell therapy sounded like a lot of hokum and when I suggested it to my vet he told me, in his thick Italian accent, what his professional opinion of it was.
"Bullsheeet"
I didn't take his advice.
On our first visit to Scotland she was diagnosed with hip dysplasia, spinal problems, signs of arthritis in her elbows, wrists, toes, shoulders, and hips and tendons so inflamed that they were pressing into other muscles creating constant discomfort.
On the trip home, I cried most of the way through the Northumbria National Park which is not the best way to see it. I wasn't sad or even despondent but relieved because I finally had some answers.
My pessimism was starting to shift.
Four months later, after two rounds of stem cell implants, Daisy is no longer lame. She's walking and enjoying life the way that she used to. I don't know how long it will last but we're going to enjoy it for as long as it does.
It's unhelpful to feign pessimism whilst secretly expecting things to go well, although genuine feelings of gloom are sometimes inevitable. But my experiences with Daisy always make me think about the expression, "It's the hope that kills you," and that maintaining an open mind about how things will turn out is the best route through whatever challenge you face and how, in that sense at least, hope very much keeps me alive.
My eggs have arrived now and they are, if anything, more inedible than the last plateful. But I'll have another go somewhere else next time we're here, and I'll try to remain inquisitive and hopeful rather than laden with expectation or pessimism.
On Sideways this week we’re talking about platitudes, uses for super-glue, and whether it’s useful to be able to execute a “fireman’s carry”.
Thanks for being here. I appreciate you.
Until next time.
I share my dog with my ex and I get crap from people because "it's a dog, not a kid". So, stem cell treatments for your dog, I commend you! (Though I'm probably extra biased because I used to be in stem cell research haha.) Bless Daisy and bless you.