Frisco the Mountain-Goat
January 23, 2001
Frisco the Mountain-Goat
I’m sitting on the edge of a cliff, working on my dissertation. This is an idyllic spot. Someone seems to have begun construction on a house, then stopped in the middle. The slab has been poured, some masonry done on the edge of the cliff, but there is no sign of life. A neighbor speculated that a cavern underneath the limestone base may have rendered the ground too unstable for building.
The result of the masonry on the precipice is a perfect enclave for writing. There are two concentric arcs a few feet from the edge, creating something like an amphitheater seat against which I can rest my back. About ten feet below is the mouth of the cavern, from which a spring emerges, then plunges down through another stoned-in arc. A hundred-foot cliff, punctuated by scruffy trees, drops straight into the lake from here. The lake is not very wide at this bend, so the houses across from me might be as little as a half-mile away. The barking of dogs occasionally ricochets across the water, the springs crackle down the rock face on either side of me, and once in a great, great while I hear the distant hum of a motor vehicle. Otherwise, it is as silent as the hawks gliding in slow circles overhead. It is a creator’s paradise.
Frisco has no appreciation for the sanctity of such moments. To him, all this is just a really, really cool place to chase a ball.
Just as I’m engrossed in some particularly important point about the difference between John Stuart Mill and James Mill, Frisco comes crashing through the underbrush, panting and loudly munching his ball in my ear, an unsubtle signal that I’m not doing my job. If eventually I acquiesce, he bounds noisily through the thorny vines and the evergreen shrubs, his tail knocking leaves in all directions. He brings it back to me and starts again.
Finally I decide to ignore the dog. At home, this always works. He pesters me a few times, maybe throws the ball so it hits me with a little “pock” sound and bounces onto my keyboard, then gives up with a disgusted “huff,” lying down demonstratively. A few minutes later he’s asleep.
Not here. Here, there is too much to explore. He is acutely aware of the hawks overhead, and even more acutely aware of the ones flying past the cliff face below us. “I could get that one,” he thinks, his brow furrowing, “if only I were down where he is.” Perhaps more enticing still, he knows that somewhere down that rock face is a vast, swimmable body of water.
My pondering of the significance of John Stuart Mill’s attempt to incorporate conventional moral principles into utilitarianism, in the light of his father’s overall rejection and even contempt for such moral principles, is disturbed a suspicious rustle in the trees thirty feet below me.
“Hey Frisco, where are you?” The rustling stops. Nailed him!
I walk over to the place where he must have started his descent. There is no earthly path by means of which a sane animal could get from where I stand to where he was rustling. Were he unable to make his own way up, he’s on his own!
As I stand there wondering how quickly one could rent a helicopter at the nearby air field, he pops into view, all four legs splayed and straining like a rock climber, tail wagging ferociously as he propels himself up and over the edge. In the future, I think I’ll choose a less mountainous grotto if I’m to bring Frisco.
--RG
Frisco the Mountain-Goat
I’m sitting on the edge of a cliff, working on my dissertation. This is an idyllic spot. Someone seems to have begun construction on a house, then stopped in the middle. The slab has been poured, some masonry done on the edge of the cliff, but there is no sign of life. A neighbor speculated that a cavern underneath the limestone base may have rendered the ground too unstable for building.
The result of the masonry on the precipice is a perfect enclave for writing. There are two concentric arcs a few feet from the edge, creating something like an amphitheater seat against which I can rest my back. About ten feet below is the mouth of the cavern, from which a spring emerges, then plunges down through another stoned-in arc. A hundred-foot cliff, punctuated by scruffy trees, drops straight into the lake from here. The lake is not very wide at this bend, so the houses across from me might be as little as a half-mile away. The barking of dogs occasionally ricochets across the water, the springs crackle down the rock face on either side of me, and once in a great, great while I hear the distant hum of a motor vehicle. Otherwise, it is as silent as the hawks gliding in slow circles overhead. It is a creator’s paradise.
Frisco has no appreciation for the sanctity of such moments. To him, all this is just a really, really cool place to chase a ball.
Just as I’m engrossed in some particularly important point about the difference between John Stuart Mill and James Mill, Frisco comes crashing through the underbrush, panting and loudly munching his ball in my ear, an unsubtle signal that I’m not doing my job. If eventually I acquiesce, he bounds noisily through the thorny vines and the evergreen shrubs, his tail knocking leaves in all directions. He brings it back to me and starts again.
Finally I decide to ignore the dog. At home, this always works. He pesters me a few times, maybe throws the ball so it hits me with a little “pock” sound and bounces onto my keyboard, then gives up with a disgusted “huff,” lying down demonstratively. A few minutes later he’s asleep.
Not here. Here, there is too much to explore. He is acutely aware of the hawks overhead, and even more acutely aware of the ones flying past the cliff face below us. “I could get that one,” he thinks, his brow furrowing, “if only I were down where he is.” Perhaps more enticing still, he knows that somewhere down that rock face is a vast, swimmable body of water.
My pondering of the significance of John Stuart Mill’s attempt to incorporate conventional moral principles into utilitarianism, in the light of his father’s overall rejection and even contempt for such moral principles, is disturbed a suspicious rustle in the trees thirty feet below me.
“Hey Frisco, where are you?” The rustling stops. Nailed him!
I walk over to the place where he must have started his descent. There is no earthly path by means of which a sane animal could get from where I stand to where he was rustling. Were he unable to make his own way up, he’s on his own!
As I stand there wondering how quickly one could rent a helicopter at the nearby air field, he pops into view, all four legs splayed and straining like a rock climber, tail wagging ferociously as he propels himself up and over the edge. In the future, I think I’ll choose a less mountainous grotto if I’m to bring Frisco.
--RG
posted by Unknown at 8:43 PM
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