On Ownership

To me, if you’re doing it right, ownership and being owned go hand-in-hand.

I have written this piece over and over this morning, trying to explain it. I have written pages of words that mean little and ramble lots.

I deleted them, and I’m going back to the simplest example I can think of.


Kaizen was my Dogo Argentino, pictured below, to the right.

There is no doubt I owned him. He was mine. Heart and soul. My boy.

And yet, he was 125 pounds (at this prime) of muscle and animal and instinct. He had his own notions about the world in general, and people that didn’t always match well with mine.

He was well-trained. Pleasant. And still a beast, however the veneer may have looked at any time.

In many ways, our 9 1/2 years together was a partnership. I owned him, sure. It was clear that ownership came with strings that he tied around my heart and wove through my life, though.

He was my dog. My boy. My big galoot. I was his owner. His source of food and walkies and fetch and treats and safety and comfort.

He owns a piece of my heart, still, even though he is gone.

It’s the same with the people in my life.

When I own, I am also owned. By duty. By need. By love.