Alas, I borrow the title of this post from a psychology book of long ago, of days gone by, of yesteryear. Its message rings true in my latest desire to find a suitable hobby. I know, my dear readers, that you think this is my hobby, and a viable one at that, since it is something that I love to do, and I know that it brings joy to so many. What I presently seek, however, is a hobby that will let me delve into the richest pathways of my soul, a hobby ripe in meaning and purpose.
Undoubtedly there are many options available to me. I thought of learning to play bridge, since it seems to be something one masters as one matures. I could bake, but that might seem just too common… and, as an aside, I don’t need to put on the extra girth! Horses do interest me, but Daddy says we are limited to two animals in our condo. Herding would be remarkably brilliant, and I’d be excellent, but around here we’re kind of reduced to chasing the geese in the park. (I’ve heard it mentioned that the Stanley Park zoo may have sheep. Perhaps a journey there would be wise.)
Oh, dear readers, I long to find something a little more artistic — you know, something that truly lets me express myself. I’m good with my paws. I’m skilled at visualizing things. I see honesty and irony in the world around me, and I long to make a statement about the condition, nay the plight of dogs in the city. Yet I shan’t be political or else I will once again be hounded (odd word) by people who want to take my picture and get my latest thoughts on anything newsworthy or gossipy. No, let’s leave politics out of this.
I know that once I find a meaningful hobby, I will be delighted to let you know. This is something, though, that may take considerable ponderation. The search for self continues.