Until recently, Allie hasn't been much of a literal couch potato. When I watch TV, she's usually nearby on the floor at my feet or on a little fleece rug next to the fireplace. But lately, she's been hopping up onto the couch where I'm sitting, with my permission. Once she's on the couch, she'll generally curl up in one of the corners and snooze awhile--unless she needs a potty break or thinks it's time for her dinner, in which case she'll paw me and/or stare at me.
But last night was different.
Last night, I gave myself over to the finale of that sci-fi/spirituality mash-up known as Lost, which certainly lived up to the hype that had preceded it (rare for a series finale. Case in point: The Sopranos.) Not everything about Lost's denouement was perfect, but at a number of intervals, I certainly cried. The whole thing was very emotional--and, on an emotional level, was wholly satisfying. And part of that emotional satisfaction was that during a good chunk of the two-and-a-half finale, Allie was not only on the couch but was stretched out next to me with her head in my lap.
I've always loved the Jungian idea of animals serving as spiritual guides--and while I'm not ready to say that watching Lost last night was a spiritual experience, it was really good to have Allie there with me while I was undergoing my various stages of emotional catharsis.
By the time the episode was over, Allie had gone upstairs to bed. But I was still very happy from having had her there with me like that for awhile. That happiness doubled when I saw the final scenes of the episode: our hero Jack finally letting go, finally able to cross over to the other side, looking skyward to see the plane carry his friends away--and with Vincent the dog by his side. That's the image staying with me now, the morning after.
Pictured above: Madison, the dog who portrayed Vincent on Lost.