Staying Connected, Letting Go

Here's an experiment with dogs.

The dog has not eaten for 24 hours, and the owner's been gone for the same amount of time.  A door opens.  At an equal distance from the dog is a bowl of food and the owner.  What does the dog do?

He runs to his owner.  The ecstatic greeting ritual comes first.

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Right now, my cat is sitting on my open notebook and head-butting my pencil.  He lives to go outside. But when we get home after a six-day trip and walk in the door, there’s a moment of hesitation.  He glances outside, maybe even takes a step in that direction.  But he turns back. 
Then there are major head scratches and leg rubbing and crying to be picked up and mad purring and chirping.  Only after about 20 minutes is he ready to leave us behind. 

I want to think the connection between Max and me will survive the looming separation.  But I cut off my own mother for decades.   

Last night we bumped into the mother of one of Max's friends. She had just sent her son off by plane to Chicago, alone, to interview for a full-ride college scholarship.  He did it all himself, she said.  Researched the colleges, sent in the applications, scheduled the interviews.  She looked lost for a moment.  I’m dying to call him, she admitted, just to make sure he got there okay.

But then her face brightened.  It’s exciting, she said.  He’s ready to be out on his own.

It's not exciting at all, I thought.  My heart was breaking.