go fetch

There was a time when I thought I’d “found” myself, as if the core of my being was a misplaced set of keys or a new hairstyle. I stumbled across the mysterious gift of self-knowledge, not quite understanding how it tangled itself under my feet but gladly accepting its wrapping of confidence and charm. I knew and loved who I was, I thought, and with a sunny disposition I plunged into the future—a future I was blithely convinced would be grounded in the solidity of permanent self-love.

Identity, unfortunately, is slightly more elusive than a Prius fob or a pixie cut. I woke up one day to find it gone, a conspicuously empty space on the pillow next to me. I looked under the bed, behind the couch, but it had slipped away in the dawn like the abashed subject of a one-night stand. Lost again. This was not something I had counted on, and the first instinct was anger. Hollywood had made me promises, after all: self-discovery was a 2-hour journey, fraught with dangers and challenges but capped with a happy ending, or at least a stable one. I was not informed that my warranty had an expiration date.

Disheartened, I moped. Perhaps, I mused, it was my destiny to be developmentally challenged. Abandonment was not supposed to happen after the end credits. How had I regressed after making so much progress? Was it not a simple task to keep track of my self-regard, my allegorical car keys?

It took several months of musing before I realized that such a metaphor was no more than a misnomer. Those keys were never keys at all. Nor were they merely misplaced. Their file names now referred to empty directories, folders and extensions that no longer exist. There was never any guarantee of constancy. Understanding of self was never assigned a finite ending. It was not paid ten million to sit on a bench and smile at the sky beatifically until the screen faded to black. Identity, in fact, has a severe allergy to stagnation. In truth, I concluded, it was a moving target—one I could never hope to truly keep.

So, what then?

Cats have been known to spend hours upon hours chasing a small red dot on the wall, fixated on an eternally unattainable prey, which a nihilist might say is not far from the human condition. Animal rights activists have argued that such futile hunting may ultimately drive the animal to mental illness. I would contest that the impact on a feline psyche might depend on the perspective of the feline itself: is the kitten in question indeed desperate to claim the red dot, or does it simply enjoy the chase?

Similarly, gerbils often obtain exercise from scurrying on a spinning wheel, the rodent equivalent of a treadmill. Are they genuinely disturbed by the idea that they are not going anywhere? Or do they simply enjoy the stimulation, the adrenaline-laced challenge, of racing as fast as they can?

Meanwhile, dogs seem to take great pleasure in the age-old game known as “fetch,” which at first glance seems like an exercise in futility. For the pup, however, it is anything but meaningless. The goal is not to own the stick; on the contrary, most canines hurry to bring the stick back to a human to be thrown again. No, a dog takes blissful enjoyment in chasing after the stick, clasping it in its mouth for a precious few moments before dashing back to willingly hand over the precious cargo. Humans might take note: Fido might occasionally hang on to the stick a few more seconds, might even resist an effort to take it from his mouth, but in true dog fashion, he ultimately and cheerfully accepts the reality that the point of “fetch” is for him to let go, and chase after the stick once again.

Identity and the situations surrounding it are in constant flux; the stick is always being tossed somewhere else. But, as a dog might say, is that not the fun of the game? Self, like the location of the stick, was never meant to stagnate, and we were never meant to hold it still for long. Hanging on to it stubbornly does no good, because then there is no game, and no excitement, and no moving forward. The obese pug who refuses to move will never experience the joy of the chase, the exhilaration of attainment, the refreshment of a new beginning. Don’t be that dog.

Perhaps, for the moment, I am still chasing after the stick. The cosmic thrower has outdone himself this time. But losing the stick isn’t a loss at all, not a setback or a failure. Only another reason to bound forward to find it again. It’s just another round of the game, and I know what I’m looking for. If “fetch” is the human condition—well, there are worse games to play.