If I listen to a sermon on Sunday morning and don’t, at some point, wish I’d worn some Red Wing steel-reinforced boots because my toes are getting stepped on so much, then I don’t feel like I got nearly my money’s worth from the experience. I don’t have a streak of masochism, I promise; I just know that I need regular reminders of ways to be and do better. There are plenty of times during the week that I get those, but I receive none as gratefully as the ones dogs share. There’s a saying that goes something like, “You should spend 20 minutes each day in prayer, unless you’re too busy. In that case, you should spend an hour.” I’d say that my version of the aphorism is, “You should spend 20 minutes a day with a dog, unless you’re too busy. In that case, you should spend an hour,” but anyone who knows and loves dogs would agree that spending time with a dog is very much like prayer, if you do it right.
For years I’ve held my dogs’ bowls when they eat. I started doing that when my dear Dutch Shepherd Remo developed spinal issues and later osteosarcoma and could not lower his head very far to eat or drink. Sure, I bought stands to elevate the water bowls and could have done the same with the food dishes, but I loved the connection between us that was strengthened by the ritual of quietly holding the bowls for Remo and his brother Rico to lick clean. They were always so excited and grateful for their meals, like it was the first time they’d ever seen such a feast. Their eyelids lowered in ecstasy, their tongues chasing down every last smear of yogurt, it was a twice-a-day lesson for me in pausing to enjoy the gifts we’re given, no matter how insignificant they might seem compared to all the “important” things demanding our attention.
This past week has given me several opportunities to observe the divinity of dogs, and it’s worked on my heart like few things do. I saw a posting of several dogs who had been rescued from inhumane circumstances and were being sheltered in a local kennel. They were given ten days to find homes before they were euthanized due to the overcrowding of every humane society in the area (and, I suspect, nationwide). Knowing that visiting the shelter and seeing the dozens of dogs waiting for someone to save their lives would stay in my mind’s eye and weigh on my heart indefinitely, I went. Sure enough, it was every bit as heartbreaking as I anticipated. I was escorted down the row of kennels housing dogs who were confused, scared, desperate, and precious, to the ones housing the latest rescues. Behind the fear in their soft, brown eyes I saw love. Despite their protruding hipbones and ribs; despite their ears that were mangled and raw from being ravaged by hungry flies; despite their teeth that had to be pulled due to being broken off from chewing on the iron gates of their small kennels; the two dogs I visited gently took the offered kibble from my hand and sniffed my pockets eagerly for more. As I stood in the play yard where potential adopters meet dogs, they tentatively approached, heads lowered, to sniff my legs and nudge their heads under hands that I held calmly at my sides. Their ability and willingness to trust and begin anew humbled and shamed me. I marveled at their grace and stoicism and wondered, for the billionth time, how humans rated the title “superior being” when we are the very cause of so much pain and suffering.
Several days after my visit to the humane society, Best somehow injured his back and was in a great deal of pain. I’m so accustomed to his open-mouthed, wide-eyed laughing expression that when I saw him panting, ears back and tail tucked, I panicked. I immediately thought of his predecessors, whose cancers had seemingly occurred overnight and stolen them from me. The guilt of possibly missing the warning signs before caused me to be hyper-vigilant about Best’s condition. What I saw in him during the few days he was hurting was the same as what I observed in Remo and Rico before him: devotion and trust, with not one hint of recrimination over my potential negligence. While I sat, shoulders slumped, on the floor near Best, he crawled closer so that he could rest his head on my leg. As with his two Dutch brothers before him, he seemed intent on comforting me during his time of need.
I’ve been told by people who surely don’t know me as well as they should that I’m kind, understanding, patient. When I hear these generous assessments I am compelled to say that I might indeed possess those qualities at times; however, they do not extend to everyone. I know this is an area of my life where I desperately need personal growth but I’m also not terribly motivated to change my current mindset when I see evidence of human cruelty directed at vulnerable beings who are unable to resist. Anyone who has deemed me tolerant and gracious would walk away with a different opinion altogether if they somehow accessed my thoughts about people who use their power to inflict inexcusable harm to beings who deserve it the very least.
We don’t deserve dogs, at least I don’t. When Best forgives me my impatience or failure to notice his pain, it brings me to my knees. Often literally. Those who are able to cast aside or utterly neglect any living being for whom they pledged to offer protection, or, at the very least, sustenance, will forever be a mystery to me. I’ve never been blessed with a dog who doesn’t offer me a glimpse of heaven or who has run short on forgiveness of my countless shortcomings. Luke Combs may have warm, fuzzy feelings about his long-neck, ice-cold beer, but for me, brown-eyed, wet-nosed dogs have never and will never break my heart. And I’ll spend my whole life working to deserve that kind of grace.
PartWolf 