George Washington’s Dog

So I was sawing away on the cherry tree one day. Untrimmed for at least
30 years, the sucker had just grown too big. Unruly branches sprawled
everywhere. Low hanging branches whacked trucks passing by on the front
road. Horizontal branches scraped against Mrs. Yotsuda's roof. High
reaching branches entangled themselves in power lines. And all of them
dumping prodigious amounts of pretty leaves every fall. Three of my
kindest neighbors, elderly ladies all, complained of clogged rain
gutters, unwanted shade, and wheelbarrows full of wind-blown leaves.
"Would I, the new abbot, kindly do something about this annual
annoyance?" they inquired politely. After the briefest of
consultations, I happily consented. After all, I myself had quickly
tired of sweeping leaves twice a day during the autumn.

Mrs. Suzuki gladly provided the handsaw, a rusty affair with dull
teeth. Mrs. Yotsuda provided tins of canned coffee to quench my thirst,
and Mrs. Daiten provided moral support. So one fine day, I donned my
roughest work clothes and climbed up the rickety handmade ladder. Once
inside the bowels of the tree, I monkeyed my way halfway out fat limbs
and began sawing. I enjoyed the work. Fresh air, sunshine, wholesome
exercise and the remote prospect of falling to my death made for a
stimulating afternoon. Each limb felled represented future days spent
doing something other than sweeping up after this one tree.

And as expected--right on schedule--came the uninviting voice from
below.

"If you trim that tree too much it'll die!"

I ceased sawing, parted a few limbs & peered down. Looking up at me
from the road below, the unhappy, smoke-engraved face of my objector. A
local, no doubt. Goofy clothes, goofy hat, goofy dialect.... Wrapped
around the wrist of his outstretched hand, a leash stretched taut by an
impatient pooch of dubious pedigree. The dog, handsome by comparison,
seemed to be taking his old man out for a walk. (Under wife's orders,
no doubt.) Even the dog peered curiously up at me and seemed to ask:
"Hey. What's that man doing way up there?" Charming mutt, I thought to
myself, before refocusing on the fellow tethered to him--the obstinate
biped. A hangover at least five decades old. How shall I respond to
this vociferous stranger? Politely? Defensively? Possible responses
whirled through my mind like icons on the wheels of a slot machine.
Three cherries appeared.

"Are you volunteering to sweep these leaves every year?" I inquired
with edgy politeness.

As chief priest of a temple that had been abandoned for 26 years, I was
in charge of restoration. The temple was a mess; I largely worked alone
and no one paid me. Yet, advice was free as rain. Total strangers
wandered by on a daily basis, spied me working, and interrupted my
labors with countless tales of other things I should be doing. Most
folks meant well, but many meant nothing at all. Lips flapped but arms
didn't move. Talking totem poles. I even dreamed of making a
suggestion box so I wouldn't have to listen to it anymore. Constructed
of transparent polyglass and mounted on my front gate. At the top of
the box a sign reading "Suggestions", with the standard envelope sized
aperture; and at the bottom of the box, a drawer labeled "Projects for
Volunteers". A savory idea, but I never followed through. Instead,
against my better nature, I learned the art of response.

The man tethered to his dog below pondered the prospect of sweeping the
leaves of my cherry tree for the rest of his life. After a few seconds
of deep thought, his philosophical response--delivered with more force
than before:

"If you trim that tree too much it'll die!"

O clever fellow, I thought. Nary a budge. Man frozen on the street,
tied to his dog. A Mexican standoff, eh? Even fifi wagged his tongue
at me now. I leaned back against a limb & relaxed. A staring contest
perhaps? Okay, fine. I reached deep into my pants pocket and produced a
tin of canned coffee. I popped the top, took a greedy swig--mind
whirring in the process--then rested the half drained can on top of a
recently severed limb. My dining table smelled of sap. Now then, I
thought to myself, I mustn't be cruel. Don't end this in a rout: He
wouldn't follow it anyway. Better to parry with parity....

"Are you volunteering to sweep these leaves every year?" I inquired
with edgy politeness.

!

Fellow walked away, presumably in a huff. Can't be sure about the huff
though, because when he began walking I began sawing. I sawed for two
days & didn't stop until the untamed cherry tree resembled a
well-manicured cherry pop. Nice & round. Less work for me in the
future. Yummy.

"My living room is so much brighter now", exclaimed Mrs. Yotsuda next
door, age 53, her unrestrained breasts as large as wild footballs
happily heaving below her t-shirt. "Thank you so much!"

"Fewer leaves for me to rake!" chimed in Mrs. Suzuki from across the
street, age 72, sparkle in her eye, nimble of foot & tongue. "And my,
how big the sky seems now!"

"True. True. And now the gutters on my roof won't clog", squeaked Mrs.
Daiten, aged 84, back bent down so low with age that her spectacles
dangled from her ears when she walked. Whenever she spoke to me, lovely
lady, she'd straighten herself up as best she could by placing her hands
above the back of her hips, strain a bit, then crane her neck the rest
of the way...until she managed to share facial expressions with big old
American me. Hard to say which one of us smiled the most. Me & my
neighbor ladies. I sometimes ask myself: Are smiles contagious? Or are
we merely reflecting each other?


End of story.


End of story? Hey, where's the meaning? Where's the snappy Zen
dialogue? Where's the spiritual significance that only a select few
enlightened individuals--such as myself--can cleverly divine? What do
you think I'm reading this for anyway! You're a Zen priest. Provide
some Zen guidance! And make it clever! Obscure!

Okay. Okay. Let me see....

A Zen priest is up a tree one day, sawing away with his rusty tool at
the collective request of his neighbors. A man and a dog appear from
below. The man barks up the tree at the priest, who is fully absorbed
in his task. The Zen priest looks down, his concentration busted. The
two men match displeased eyes. The dog wags his tongue. (Is he
smiling?) A conversation ensues.

"Say mister! What are you doing up in that tree?" Nice boy, ever full
of curiosity.

"Well, I'm pruning. This overgrown tree is causing problems, you see."

"I see. That's nice. Looks like fun."

"It is fun. And you look rather handsome yourself...out for a walk on
such a fine day as this."

"Yes, it is nice, isn't it?"

"Sure is. A fine day to be out walking or working. But tell me, where
on earth did you get that human?"

"Yeah, yeah. All my friends ask me the same thing. Not very amusing,
is he? But what can I do? At least his wife feeds me canned food.
It's delicious!"

"That's nice. So tell me, does your human have Buddha-nature?"

"No."