A Candle Burned

Today I've been pondering Boris Pasternak. What you think because I'm a dog my interests go no further than peanut butter and cheese biscuits?

Well think again ya shark-livered varmit!

Pasternak's protagonist in Doctor Zhivago — Yuri Zhivago — a poet and physician, wrote this bewitching poem about seeing a lighted candle through a frosty window one winter night. Yuri noticed the flickering candle although unaware that inside the room was a woman who would become the love of his life. Inside the darkened room, she was making a life-altering decision that would shape his destiny.

Winter Night

It snowed and snowed, the whole world over,
Snow swept the world from end to end.
A candle burned on the table;
A candle burned.

As during summer midges swarm
To beat their wings against a flame
Out in the yard the snowflakes swarmed
To beat against the window pane

The blizzard sculptured on the glass
Designs of arrows and of whorls.
A candle burned on the table;
A candle burned.

Distorted shadows fell
Upon the lighted ceiling:
Shadows of crossed arms, of crossed legs
Of crossed destiny.

Two tiny shoes fell to the floor
And thudded.
A candle on a nightstand shed wax tears
Upon a dress.

All things vanished within
The snowy murk-white, hoary.
A candle burned on the table;
A candle burned.

A corner draft fluttered the flame
And the white fever of temptation
Upswept its angel wings that cast
A cruciform shadow

It snowed hard throughout the month
Of February, and almost constantly
A candle burned on the table;
A candle burned.

So why am I laying here on my suitcase, watching the hummingbirds at the feeder through a window and thinking about Pasternak and his poem about destiny?

I was just thinking what are the odds that I would be born at exactly the time and place my mom was looking for a Griffon to adopt. I was thinking about how lucky we are that our destiny's crossed. I was thinking about my BARF and how much I appreciate his belly rubs.

I love life!

I was thinking about how unfair it was that Pasternak was not allowed to collect his Nobel Prize in Literature. How he was stripped of his rights yet he kept on writing.

There is a small dog in the San Fernando Valley who remembers how you were able to fight the good fight in the face of adversity Boris Pasternak. I'll remember real sacrifices like the ones you made every time I quibble over having to walk, or my sister pestering me. I really will.

But right now I could really use a peanut butter and cheese biscuit.