As I write this, Daisy, our small dachshund mix, lies beside me in this chair in a space just wide enough for her stretched-out body. She seems incredibly comfortable and not at all concerned that her presence has me pretty much jammed against the opposite armrest. Should I be concerned? Does that make my dog self-possessed and lacking in empathy? Have I raised her badly? Or was the die cast before we adopted her. I mean, she was pretty much grown by the time I brought her home from the Gilmer County Animal Shelter, and she was clearly suffering from some psychic and physical injuries that left her skittish around strangers and with a distinctively crabbish sideward stride that stirs comments like "She walks funny," or "Is it me, or does she seem to drift a little to the left?" People can be cruel. No wonder she's skittish toward them. What if I made fun of your kid? How would that feel?
But I digress.
The truth is I'm glad to have her sharing this chair. Kathy is in Guatemala with the student mission team, and Matt isn't around, so it's just her and me (She's twitching a little right now, chasing a rabbit through her field of dreams), which I guess brings me to the glaringly obvious point of this meditation:
Dogs are wonderful companions (I never promised you'd learn anything from these eNotes).
Dogs offer a marvelous gift. It's called presence, warm and furry and cold-nosed. Or maybe the gift that is a dog can be summed up in a more theologically appropriate term, grace.
It's in the eyes, that grace. A dog's silent gaze is acceptance pure and simple, and I, who am in the grace-marketing business, often stand in need of it. At the end of pretty much any day, I know how much I have left undone and that disappointments, like breadcrumbs, mark my path, but Daisy never judges. She doesn't care. "Companion!" she says, joyous again to see me. And her expectations are minimal-walk, play, eat, be with, and move over in the chair ... a little more, please. Through the years I have wept with dogs, laughed with dogs, and carried on lengthy and mostly one-sided conversations with dogs. And I have sat in silence, nothing to be said, no obligation of words. Gift. Presence. Grace.
Find a dog; sit with that dog; look into that dog's eyes; then dare to tell me life isn't a gift and our moments miracles. Today I thank God for a dachshund mix with a crabbish stride. She and I share a chair and imperfections and mutual acceptance. And in the sharing, life is good.
