What Cannot be Measured

George knew his time was almost over. Pain was a part of his daily life. 

He’d spent a fortune on multiple doctors to pinpoint and confirm his diagnosis. Even before the doctors sat him down and used the words “cancer” and “brain,” he could tell from the way they distanced themselves from him, the pitied glances they snuck at him, and from their careful pauses that George had little time to live.

George refused treatment, to the shock of his doctors.

“This could give you one, two years,” they urged. “You can definitely afford it.”

“I’m already old. And the treatment will make me bedridden, probably for most of that time. I’d rather spend my remaining months enjoying life while I can, before my mind goes,” he explained.

George looked around his large home, probably for truly the first time, noticing the rhino tusks he’d acquired from an illegal hunt during an African safari. A chunk of the Roman Colosseum he’d place in the corner of a room. Illegal souvenirs from historical sites in Athens, Paris, Spain, and more. A slipped bill here to a man who looked the other way because George had more money than he’d ever need in a lifetime and a thrill to collect what others didn’t have. He could purchase so many things, but time was no longer one of them.

He had purchased the finest food and the finest cars, and slept with beautiful women in exchange for an expensive dinner or trip, but now he realized how empty his life truly was. He had never found true love, didn’t have kids, and his only friends were the ones who surrounded him as long as he paid the bill. George struggled to remember the last time he truly felt joy.

George recalled, during several travels, rumors and tales of a special sand dune in the Sahara Desert.

“Buried beneath the dune is treasure. It’s the only thing that cannot be measured,” he finally remembered the rhyme. George used his connections and money to obtain a map leading to a hut in the Sahara Desert, then flew to North Africa.

Using the map and the kindness of strangers – with a slipped bill to them here and there – he found the tiny hut, in a far corner of the desert.

“I’m trying to find a dune, the one that holds treasure,” George explained to the middle-aged woman in the hut. “I’m told you know the way.”

The woman hesitated, then spoke, “I know what you speak of, but I don’t know the way.”

“Listen, I have money. I’ll pay you whatever you like,” George demanded.

“I don’t know the way,” the woman repeated. “But Luna does.” The woman pointed at a dog resting in the corner.

Luna, with warm, honey-colored fur, lifted her head and stood up at the sound of her name. She turned to face George, and it was only then that he noticed her eyes were milky and unfocused.

Incredulously, George asked, “A dog knows the way? A blind dog?”

“Luna may be blind, but she knows what you seek,” the woman answered.

George blinked, then asked: “How much? How much for Luna?”

“She’s not for sale,” the woman snapped. “But if Luna wants to, she’ll show you the way.”

“How do I know if Luna will show me the way?” George questioned.

“Ask her,” the woman said, shrugging.

George slowly walked over to the corner, where Luna now stood.

“Will you show me the way to the special dune? Please, Luna?” he requested.

Luna stayed still.

“Listen, I’m not proud of the life I’ve led,” he explained, facing Luna, feeling a little silly for talking to a dog. “I’m an old man now. But I also don’t have anyone important in my life. And I deserve it. And well, maybe before I die, which is soon, maybe the treasure will help me find the joy I lost decades ago.”

Wagging her tail, Luna put her paw up. George took it.

“It’ll take most of the day to get there,” the woman said. “Try to keep up with Luna.”

“Thank you. And I’ll bring her back as soon as I find the treasure,” George said.

“No need,” the woman responded, smiling. “Luna knows her way back.”

At sundown, they left. George kept his flashlight trained on Luna as he hurried to keep up with the surprisingly agile dog. Every now and then, she’d lift her head to sniff the air and adjust her direction.

They continued walking into dusk, then rested and hydrated in the suffocating heat of midday. The dunes rose like waves, each one identical to the last. Luna’s golden fur blended into the warm, sun-bleached tones of the sand as she walked, causing George to lose her a few times before refocusing on her moving body.

Finally, Luna stood near a small, unique-looking dune. She whined.

“Is this it?” he asked Luna.

She whined again.

His heart pounding, George stared at it and began digging at the spot where Luna stood, using his hands as scoops.

After digging a small hole, George pulled out a plain, tiny chest.

“Let’s see this treasure,” he breathed as he opened it. Light spilled out, something warm.

He was young again. Pain-free.

His mom’s arms wrapped around him. His father’s laugh echoed through the yard, and he embraced George and his mom as well. Max, his childhood dog, barked and wagged his tail, running in circles around them.

“You’re finally home,” his father said, tightening his embrace.

“I thought I had lost this,” George cried.

“Of course not,” his mom responded. “You only forgot.”

George’s eyes began to water. “I love you.”

An old man lay motionless in the desert, clutching a photograph of a boy, a woman, a man, and a dog.

Luna sat beside the body for a long time before she finally stood up and turned the way she came. She blended back into the warm desert landscape, leaving no footprints behind.