D-O-G/G-O-D

I recently got back on Facebook after years away. I haven’t regretted it. Although, I really don’t remember all the soliciting before. It’s everywhere! And if someone asks me to type ‘Amen’ one more time, I might die. 

What I remember the most about my time on social media before my hiatus was the celebrating.

I celebrated with people. Anniversaries, birthdays, new jobs, promotions, vacations, adorable kids. And I loved that. I really did. It was a perfectly efficient way to say “Way to go!” or “You are STUNNING!” or “Wish I was there!”

What I don’t remember about my time on social media before my hiatus was the shared grieving.

Sitting beside mourning.

Or, maybe I’m just better at that this go ‘round. Linking elbows with my friends and doing life together, come what may.​

Recently several of my friends have lost their dogs. Some, under tragic circumstances, and I have wept real tears with some friends online lately.

Horrific stories with no good endings.

A tubby yellow lab shot in cold blood because he didn’t understand property lines or a neighbor with a twitchy finger who probably just got a new gun.

Pictures of a sweet mutt eating all the Blue Bell her tired heart desired because the day, the dreaded day, was Friday. The day to take her in. The day to say goodbye.

Just this morning, my mom and dad lost the junk yard dog they rescued, Ringo. Sleeping peacefully in his favorite spot. A body that just finally tuckered out.

It is everywhere it seems. And it has got me thinking…

And remembering…

My boxer/pitt rescue, Maya, was very sick and we weren’t sure why. On the third day of not eating or drinking much and occasionally vomiting, she lifted her head to go outside. When I let her out, she made it about ten feet and then lay down in the rain, too weary to come back in. 

I called the emergency vet clinic as quickly as I could, scrolling, and clicking, and dialing with panicky fingers. 

When we got there, they gave me the bad news. She was internally bleeding. She was in shock. And putting her down was the reasonable thing to do.

After they told me it was time for Maya to go, they wheeled her in on a cart, covered in a blanket. She tried to get up when she saw me. She licked my face. Her tail thumped on the cold metal.

Although I cried like a baby waiting for news from the vet and then again while he delivered it, when I saw her rolled in like that, I smiled. I told her how pretty she looked, and how brave she was. The vet said we could have as much time with her as we needed, but I could see that she was scared, and I just wanted her to rest.

“Let’s just hurry up,” I said.

Seth, my husband, hugged her tight, wept into her neck, told her what a good girl she was, and then he left with our two year old little girl.

In the end it was just me and Maya.

I whispered into her ear the whole time thanking her for choosing me at the animal shelter, how blessed we all were because of it. I told her we loved her and that she was a good, good girl, the best girl. I told her to not be scared.

She went peacefully, just slipped away really, but I could tell when she was gone and I needed to leave. 

I needed out of that room.

I asked the vet for her collar. I couldn't take it off myself.

There are a couple of thoughts that can still undo me and one of them is that Maya was uncomfortable if she was away from me for longer than fifteen minutes, and I went about my daily business for three days while she lay there dying. She could tell when my heart hurt and I couldn't tell when her body was quitting.

I was the center of her universe for so very little in return.

At any moment in time, I can cry thinking about it. While driving down the road, on a sunny day when the weather is just right, walking down the dog aisle of the grocery store. It doesn’t take much. Just some uninterrupted thoughts of her.

I understand how all of this emotion might be confusing to someone who has never loved a dog before, or to someone who has never been loved by a dog. But, like I said, I’ve been doing some thinking and actually, I think it makes perfect sense.

The book of Romans tells us that we can learn things about God, about His divine nature, by the things that He has created, and in that way we are without excuse. (Rom 1:20)

I guess I always thought that meant that nature was beautiful and therefore so was God. You know, I look around and I see the beauty of God-- wildflowers, seashells, thunderstorms, crashing waves, the sun in my baby's hair-- whenever I see something beautiful that overwhelms me, it's those moments that I know that God is real and that is how I am without excuse.

I thought I had this verse all figured out with the seashells. But it has recently taken on a new meaning. With the dogs and all.

When I was in dog school (I have a masters in dog stuff), the school would often boast “In Dog We Trust”. And I never liked it. It felt irreverent. I mean, sure, it’s hard to ignore the coincidence of God and Dog being the same but backwards, but let’s not get carried away with the similarities and let’s certainly not exchange one for the other. I rolled my eyes inside every time they said it.

But maybe this similarity is more than coincidence.

Maybe God is trying to tell us something about His divine nature. 

Maybe the dogs that we love, that love us so dearly, are revealing some of God’s finest invisible qualities.

We look right and see God. We look left and see Dog. We look up and see God. We look down and see Dog. And in the middle of all of that lavishing love is our broken humanity, our needy and selfish imperfection. And despite it all-- our depravity, and greed, and independence-- there we are, right smack dab in the middle of such perfect loyalty, such enduring love. Maybe it’s no coincidence after all.

Maya was in no way perfect but she certainly had loyalty down to an art. She just knew that the mail man was an axe murderer, that the garbage men were stealing our stuff, that the squirrels in the backyard were cutely frolicking now but would probably one day grow into man-eating, rabid rodents. She was determined to rescue me from any threat, real or perceived. On guard always on our behalf. Our whole family under her skeptical gaze. She would have done anything for us.

There were days that I could be mad at Seth and so bone-weary of being a mom where I convinced myself that all would be right in the world if Maya and I ran away together and lived on a deserted island somewhere. Just the two of us. No complications. She would kill the rabbits and I would cook them. And peace would reign. Just me and Maya.

Maya waited for me in the window. She greeted me with her wagging body. Even if I was just returning from the mailbox. An opportunity to celebrate my return was never wasted. I told her my secrets and she convinced me that I was perfect just the way I was. I gave her the foot of the bed and she gave me her life.

And now that I think about it, now that I really notice, now that I look around and inspect what has been created, that sounds a lot like Someone I worship.

That verse in Romans has taken on new meaning for me.

I look at my dog and I am reminded of my God.

His steadfast devotion. His unfailing love that is completely without reason. His pure excitement for my every return.

You know it’s easy to picture God as an untouchable mythical creature in the sky, keeping calculated lists of my latest doings and not doings, His disappointed hands on His holy hips, tapping a really, really ticked off toe. But maybe Romans is a reminder to look around a little more closely. Look left, look right, look up, look down. Look at what has been made!

When I look around at the dogs in my life, I will be reminded how simple love can be.

When I stay gone too long and Pax has had to wait for me longer than he’d care to, but bounds to meet me at the door anyway, I will be reminded of the Prodigal Son finally coming home and his father lifting up his robe to run and meet him and cover him with kisses.

My dogs will help me finally understand that God isn’t mad at me.

My dogs will help me understand that God doesn’t demand perfection from me.

All He really wants is my attention.

Maybe the purest of loves really is that simple.

And now I can see it with my own eyes. It is sitting patiently in the window, it is wagging for me at the door, and it is resting at the foot of my bed.

Dog. God. Their love for me, I don’t know if I will ever be able to match it. I’m going to have to keep working on that one. But, in the meantime, I am going to live in great, great thanks of it.
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