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The Paradox of Irritation

Don’t you find there is occasionally a mood you’re in that seems difficult to justify, even if probed more closely? And in spite of looking harder to convince yourself of its worth, nothing springs to mind, so you cling stubbornly to its edges in hopes something will come along.

Maybe it’s what happens in retirement when the quotidian responsibilities have dropped away, leaving the day looking pale and bare shortly after the morning shower. Or maybe it’s just the fraying cuffs of neurons miffed at being pastured after a life of faithful service… It’s hard to explain irritation, because it lacks focus. And it’s difficult to resolve when it has no specific target, no identifiable cause whose elimination would salve the wound.

Looking back, though, I don’t think it is simply a dotage issue. I’ve been like this before; we all endure bouts of it from time to time I suppose, but unlike anger or sadness, it usually lacks a credible source. A mood or an emotion, fares better when it can be directed; it is easier to dissipate when those around you can be enlisted in agreement. Without them, without their understanding, it is difficult to be mindful, harder to rationalize, and impossible to defend.

When I think about it now, though, I realize it is too much for me to process. In the old days when I had a job to go to, it was easier to find blame with something, with someone. Nothing was ever perfect, somebody always misspoke, or wandered from their trail of duty enough to justify a righteous irritability. However misplaced, assigning criticism was an acceptable outlet. A daily task. But now, my blame lies fallow and largely undeserved in the solitude of Age. To anyone listening from the street, I suppose I have become the quintessential crotchety elder, constantly muttering to himself or at the radio which plays in the background for company.

Of course, it’s not always like that -sometimes it’s the TV which I impugn. The other day I realized why there were some programs I seldom watch. On one, is a news reader who over-pronounces things, and his teeth stand out like billboards on a country road when he tries to smile; maybe the contrast would be less glaring if he shaved off his ridiculous skimpy beard. But to top it all off, right after the blaring teeth come the inane commercials geared no doubt to the type of audience who would sit through the program. I mean, why do we need commercials? Could we not pay a yearly stipend to fund the programs? Maybe they (who are they anyway?) could solicit funds like the Salvation Army’s Santa Clauses do at Christmas. Or maybe the government could contribute by increasing taxes on the obscene wealth of the oil companies…

Irritable thoughts like these often drive me outside when the weather is good. I like to walk along the seawall whenever I’m in North Vancouver. There’s a leash-free section near the North Shore’s Ambleside Park with benches scattered here and there for tired dog-owners. A bench is a perfect place to watch things: dogs gambolling with each other like far-off quiet children; equally silent tankers moored in the bay patiently waiting their turns to unload their cargo while their heavy friends head carefully under the majestic Lion’s Gate Bridge to deliver theirs. The quiet is a balm. People and ships take their time here; even their smiles as they pass seem to endure. It’s difficult to be irritable.

Still, it simmers just beneath the surface, and little things can prod it into action like a pebble in a shoe. Is it me, though? Is grumpiness genetic, or is it merely the accumulation of unattained goals finally bubbling into a conscious boil? Little things, insufficient to foster reasonable excuses, plague me more nowadays and I fear they may be the outward manifestations of things I am afraid to name.

Thoughts like these were drifting through my mind the other day as I sat beneath a cloudless sky while the ocean gently tugged at the shore in front of my bench. For some reason, the excited barking of a dog running along the rocky beach annoyed me. I suppose it was its leashless freedom, or maybe the taunting of a seagull that stimulated its apparent joy, but whatever the cause, it seemed deaf to its young owner who continued to yell at it from the seawall.

The shouting finally took hold though, because the dog picked up a driftwood stick from the rocks and ran over to her. But it didn’t merely drop it at her feet, but decided to play with her when she tried to grab it. Bark, grab, run, bark, drop… On and on they played, running along the pathway in front of me. Rather than watching it with amusement, I was beginning to feel my irritation rise, so I focussed on a barge being pulled by a tug boat towards the bridge.

Suddenly, I felt a stick being poked into my leg by a tired dog, and its minder, a little girl who couldn’t have been more than 10 years old, asked me if she could sit on my bench and rest.

“Where’s your dog” she asked, glancing at her panting dog lying contentedly at her feet. It’s dark fur was wet and tangled with bits of greenish seaweed that sparkled in the noontime sun.

“I don’t have a dog anymore,” I said, smiling at the two of them.

“What happened to it?” she said, with the unembarrassed curiosity of a child.

“He died,” I answered.

“Oh…” She looked at her dog for a moment. “What was his name?”

It was a simple question, but one that opened a door that had been closed for several years now, a door that I feared might open again. I have always had a dog; even when I was away at university, my dog was still at home with my parents. And later, there was always a dog to play with my kids, and accompany us on our adventures. But in the latter years of my life, I have lived alone…

“Rugal,” I answered with a grin and memories floated around in my head.

The little girl giggled. “That’s a funny name.”

I looked down at the dog lying at her feet. “What’s your dog’s name?”

“Bracken,” she said, “But I call him Brackie…”

The dog looked up, at the sound of his name, his eyes asking her what they were going to do next. “You looked mad when we were playing in front of you, mister,” she said as she reached down and patted the dog. “We’re sorry. We didn’t mean to make you unhappy.”

The dog, as if it understood what she was saying, rubbed his head against my leg and looked up at me.

I smiled at the dog and then at her and shook my head. “I wasn’t mad at either of you,” I tried to explain. “Just at myself, I guess…”

Suddenly, the girl stood up and the dog readied itself by grabbing the stick again. I could see a woman further down the walk waving at them. “That’s my mom. We have to go now, but thanks for letting me rest on your bench,” she said, waving back at the woman. “You look happier now, though… Brackie does that to people all the time.”

She smiled, started to walk away, and then stopped and turned to face me for a second. “You should maybe get another dog,” she added and then scampered along the pavement with the dog and his stick leading the way.

The Biblical psalm ‘Out of the mouths of babes’ suddenly occurred to me, and I smiled to no one in particular, feeling the best I had for a very long time.

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