When Everything Conspires To Teach You Everything.
My dad and I were fishing at Cascade Lake. (He was good at it; I was not). We were packing up to come home and stopped by a field of clover, a pasture, full of milky-brown cows and some bulls, just to look at them. I grew up with bulls and cows, but these were mammoth, peaceful, full.
I had a little dog, Tink, part chihuahua, part dachshund, no bigger than a minute. She was amazingly cute, full of pep and vinegar, would not, could not be potty-trained. The world was her oyster. She was also a compete love, taking her naps stretched out on the nearest lap.
She'd been my dog, until I took a long trip and I gave her to my Dad. They became fast buddies, really happy together. My dad could manage her, given her tiny size and her tendency to snuggle. I'd come weekly to scoop up the poop and hose down the carpets. As I said, happy.
So we were off fishing. She'd had the run of the beach, loved the sand, pooped everywhere. She spied the bulls, she spied the pasture, she spied the deep green of clover, and off she went on a dead run. Not knowing the bulls, I didn't get into the pasture. They might have been fine with company, they might not have.
Tink was not bothered, leaping over the greenery, as full of joy as a pup can be, on a rip-snorting tear. She got nose to nose with a massive bull and barked as if her life depended upon it. I waited a long minute to see how that was going to go.
The bull reared his head up, took a little leap, snorted, bawled, and ran away.
That only propelled little Tink onto the next one.
Same thing happened, then happened again.
At the launch of the third massive bull, Tink was finally satisfied with her work. She's vanquished three animals with a combined weight in the tons. A couple anyway.
That little baby girl ran back to us, literally jumping with the pride of accomplishment; eyes dancing, sparkling.
Must be a universal need. To do something grand every once in a while.