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“Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice.” — Steve Jobs
The little guy and the old man were sitting on a park bench in Veterans Plaza. I saw them when I paused there during an after-work stroll, taking in the beauty and cooler days of a Hill Country fall when I published the newspaper in Boerne 30 years ago.
They were not far away. Close enough that I saw a young face staring at the fountain, dejection written all over it.
“Like to watch water?” the old timer quizzed him. Getting no response, the aged gentleman followed with, “Dogs been barkin’ at you again?”
“I don’t hear any dogs,” the youngster said softly as they both looked straight ahead.
The old man chuckled. “I ’m talkin’ about them two-legged kind. People that give you a hard time, try to tear you down. They’re just like ol’ barkin’ dogs.”
Pausing for a moment, he continued, “I like to watch water when I’ve got something on my mind. Did you ever watch fish in a fishbowl? Now that’s really relaxin’ when somethin’s eatin’ at you.’’
“I had a fish one time,” the boy spoke up. “It died.”
“They’ll do that,” the old fellow said sympathetically.
“My friend made fun of me,” the little guy suddenly opened up, as if there were some connection between friends and fish.
“ You know, that ’s something else I’ve never understood,” the weathered old gent said. “Let’s see if we can figure it out together.”
The youngster related a story about an honor he’d earned when a teacher recognized his achievement, praising him before his classmates.
“Most of my friends were happy for me, but my best friend made fun of me,” the boy said. “Asked me if I thought I was smarter than him or something. Said the teacher was dumb for bragging on me.”
The old man was silent a moment, then offered, “Those people are like th’ barkin’ dogs I was telling you about. Ever tried to figure out why they’re makin’ so much racket? Dogs, they bark at cars, other dogs, at people, at bugs or sticks. It’s just what dogs do. But you ever wonder what people are barkin’ at when they say hurtful things about good people?”
The boy took his eyes off the flowing water and looked up at the man. “No. What are they barking at?”
“Let me tell you a story my father told me,” the man said. “He loved the circus when he was your age. The circus traveled by wagons back then, and when they rolled into town, it was a parade. Everybody came to see the animals, the clowns, the brightly covered wagons.”
“The dogs,” the old fellow added. “They just barked at the wagon wheels, the horse’s hooves, dust from the wagon wheels, ‘causin’ havoc, distractin’ lookers from the joy of the parade. But when the parade rolled on, when it ended, everybody left and forgot the dogs. And they just went and found a shady resting spot.
“ B a rk i n’ people? They’re worse than barkin’ dogs. Just selfish, afraid somebody’s thinkin’ you’re smarter ‘n they are. All they know to do is distract with a ruckus, tear somebody down to make them look better. Pure and simple. They just like the sound of their own bark,” the old sage continued.
“But you know what?” the man said.
“What?” said the boy.
“When they’re done making useless noise, life goes right on without ‘em, and they’re soon forgotten.”
The youngster, still looking up at him, asked “So, you’re saying I should just ignore my friend?”
“Just like you ignore barkin’ dogs,” the old man responded. “Ignore people with nothin’ better to do than criticize and complain. Don’t let their useless noise steal your dreams or your joy.”
“OK,” the boy said with a smile. “Well, I’ve got to go home for supper now.”
The youngster walked north toward town, and the old man ambled slowly across the street toward the Catholic church.
The old man’s parable means more every time it crosses my mind, every time I hear a barking dog — twoor four-legged — and every time I see talking heads on television, barking about how I’m supposed to think and live my life.
I hope that lesson stuck with the young man.
And I wish the old gentleman knew how many times I’ve shared his story.
— Contact Aldridge at leonaldridge@gmail. com. Other columns are archived at leonaldridge. com
