Devotion

By kessia{Sage}

The following essay has been reprinted with permission from it’s writer. As a special favor to lissa, back for this limited showing, is everyone’s favorite columnist, kessia{Sage}

There is a good deal of ownership going on these days: Online, offline, part-time, full-time and combinations ad nauseum thereof. Girls jaunting about taverns proudly showing their collars, those bracketed badges of ownership that they have been given. Who owns whom, how much and for how long are often hot topics in channels and on discussion boards, batted around more often than Mark McGuire’s favorite ball.

With all this variation and discussion, it is easy enough to get snarled up in quantifying ownership without ever thinking about what it really means. “Online is better than offline.”, “No it is not, it is only different.”. “You aren't really a slave unless you live with your master” and so on and so forth. In all of this bandying around, people get lost in what it means to be part of an ownership, as the owner or as the owned.

As I entered the start of adulthood, my father gave me a gift. It was a dog, a German wirehaired pointer, bred to hunt land and water fowl. This dog was mine, to care for and teach. He was cute, smart and endearing, and, being twelve, I promptly fell into my first and last case of puppy love. Some might argue that owning a dog is not the same as owning a slave. Yes, dogs are much easier to care for than women, but by Gorean standards (not to mention the commitment I made to this animal), the analogy is apt. He was bought and paid for, like a slave. He was to be pleasing and obey or suffer punishment, like a slave. He had no expectations of how I might treat him, like a slave. He was trained to please me, his left handed huntress, much like a slave would be trained specifically to please one’s master (or mistress). He was mine, and I cherished him, my prize possession.

Even though I loved my dog, I still demanded perfect obedience and exquisite performance. To do less would have lessened my ownership of him: His behavior (good and bad) spoke directly about my training of him. For me to be lax in teaching, or fail to teach him well would mean I did not care about my ownership of him, that I did not care how my property behaved. Since I loved him, I could not stand to see him be less than I knew he could be. I worked hard with him, and he struggled to learn. He followed me everywhere, learning my movements so he would not overrun me and bump his nose into the back of my knees. For over half of my life, this relationship continued. Him sitting at my feet, adoring me; me stroking his head, adoring him. Even when I went away to college, he was still mine. Though left in the care of my parents, as soon as I walked in the door, he would ‘happy dance’ all the way over to me, and sit at heel, where he belonged.

When he died two years ago, I was devastated. Part of me still thinks to feel him at my feet. On cold nights, I find myself putting a foot down, looking for warn fur under which to stuff my freezing cold foot. I owned him, worked with him, invested so much of myself into teaching and loving him that having him gone feels like a missing limb. Having him at my feet for so many years, caring for him...a piece of me owns him still, keeping him close to my heart. To me, this is the owner part of ownership: Bonded deeply to one‘s property, learning that property, investing of oneself into teaching and reaping the rewards of devotion and service. Yes, this is being an owner.

Now, I own nothing. Master gives me food, clothes, shelter and trains me to be as he likes. Some days, i do very well and he tells me he is pleased. I fight the urge to wiggle happily under such words, understanding better how my dog could be so elated when I would say “Good BOY!” and stroke his head. Other days, the daily grind catches me and I get lost in the minutiae of house and child care, failing to perform as well as I should for my master. As with my dog, beatings are unnecessary; a sigh of disappointment, or that look down as I sit at his feet is enough to devastate and instill and urge to work harder, make tomorrow be perfect for him.

Like the dog I once owned, I do not have a heavy collar of chain. His was nylon, bright orange and lightweight. Mine is the finest of silver chains. It graces my throat, a filament reminder, telling me to whom I belong. The bonds that hold me here, at his feet have nothing to do with force or fear. Simple devotion holds me here, forcing me to do better, BE better, driving me to perform as it once drove my dog to outrun, out hunt and out do every other dog I have seen. Devotion to service and devotion to master: This is the other part of what ownership means.

Thank you kess.

always,
lissa

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