I remember, when my grandmother died, my father told me that – with her death – something fundamental changed for him. “You feel alone, in a way you never have before,” he said. “You realize that the one person who could never not love you, no matter what you might do or say ... is gone.”
He’s right about the feeling – about that extra sense of aloneness; I’ve felt that same thing since the passing of my own mom. But, bless him, he was wrong about our parents being the only ones who can offer that kind of unswerving devotion.
Ask anyone who’s ever owned a dog.
Meaning no offense to those who reserve their allegiance for cats, or horses, goldfish, or gerbils. I’m sure they each have their moments. But watch any person, strolling down any sidewalk, with any dog trotting beside them. The allegiance is absolute. The dog cares not a lick whether the one striding or strolling or hobbling beside him is beautiful or homely, beanpole-thin or uncomfortably heavy, fabulously wealthy or looking for a handout.
The dog asks nothing more than some small share in the groceries, and permission to adore this one looming above him.
Countless volumes have been written on this: great poets have sung their pups’ praises, great authors have extolled their adventures, great artists and YouTube posters have done their best to capture their bright eyes, high hopes, and often beleaguered dignity. And yet – while we’re all happy to share in the near-universal appreciation – it’s not really necessary.
A lonely soul doesn’t need wistful songs or pretty words. Only the wonder of being loved.
And a stressed mind or hurting heart doesn’t need breeding papers or “to talk to the animals.” Just those happy paws dancing and pounding her, as she comes through the door at the end of a long day. Or that jaunty trot on the street beside him, full of sweet joy at the prospect of moving toward the scents of adventure together.
Does she need the backyard dirt on her skirt? Does he feel like walking a couple of blocks before supper? No matter. Adoration is its own reward. That whiskery face looks up at me like I look up at God, with no better idea than I have of how to express all the trust, and hope, joy and excitement surging within.
I remember a scene in a TV show my wife is fond of: a man makes an exuberant effort to give his friend and mentor something special for his birthday. The effort falls a little flat. “You don’t like it,” the giver concludes, with chagrin.
“Well, no,” the friend replies, gently, kindly. “But the fact that you wanted so much to please me … pleases me.”
My dog has his sins, but the fact that he wants so much just to be with me – on the passenger seat, with the wind whistling through the window … in the bathroom, while I'm brushing my teeth … in the backyard, where I'm cleaning up his poo … on the couch, one paw on my knee, trying to fathom what I’m watching on the television … at my feet, listening to the tap of computer keys – pleases me.
I have a companion.
I have a friend.
Some dear friends of mine had to put their dog down today. I think of the last time we had to do that, and of the gentle, sad look our little friend gave me, as we drove to the vet, tears flowing, throats tight. As if he was sorry to be putting us to this trouble. As if he was resigned, already, to what was coming … and wanted us to be, too. The brown eyes, tired with pain, but looking deep into ours, trusting, still.
I can’t believe that the God who forged this rare bond between human heart and canine instincts doesn’t carry these creatures gently over to whatever eternity He has for them. Or that a Creator whose eye knows the feathers on sparrows doesn’t have something sweet and good and just right in store.
Men who studied their Bibles and walked with their God far better than I have – Martin Luther, C.S. Lewis, Billy Graham, among them – all declared their confidence that the Lord will have our dogs waiting in heaven. And, o, like every one who’s loved a dog, I yearn to believe it is so.
So, on this sad, blustery day, as He takes our friends’ Brinkley gently home, I am pausing to remember our own sweet Higgins, he of the big ears and bright spirits, who was born and died a puppy. And Jasper, who was born old and never lost his warm dignity.
And Charlie, his white head rising to sniff the whispering breeze.
And Zeibee, who never really believed he was a dog.
To all the good pups gone on before, and waiting, patiently, to walk beside us again: may their sweet devotion find its wondrous reward, at the tender hand of the One who has shown us so much of His goodness – and deeply personal love – through their soft eyes, bright barks, and happy tails, a-wagging.
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