My dog and a spiritual lesson, however cheesy
After my mother’s death, her little dog Bumper came home to live with my husband and me. We were concerned beforehand, knowing we would get him, that he would get along with our pit bull, Nala. Nala is sweet and very smart, but shall we say rambunctious. I call her a “pitbull in a China shop.” She is not conscious of her physical presence. My mother-in-law calls her clumsy; it’s not that because she’s agile. She just takes up a lot of space.
Bumper, an eight-year-old mix of (probably) terrier and Lab on the other hand is a little neurotic. That may have come from living with an ill, elderly woman who couldn’t give him much attention yet spoiled him with cheese and canned dog food. When I was living with her, he became very attached to me because I was now his caregiver, his feeder, and I even put the leash on him and took him for walks (something he hadn’t had since my brother, his proper owner, passed away quickly three years ago). Unfortunately, he poops (or used to) in the house when a thunderstorm is coming; he seems to be having a panic attack. He had some other odd habits. But it didn’t seem right to put him down or try to give him away, so he came home with us the day my mother was buried.
Having to tolerate Nala, no longer getting cheese and canned dog food, having a whole cul-de-sac to traverse, having a flight of stairs he has to climb several times a day, and being forced to sleep in a cage have actually been good for him. “He acts like a dog now,” my husband says, claiming he used to act more like a cat.
(Actually, he and Nala play a good bit, but it's a kind of play that would bother most people. We know she won't hurt him, and she even defers to him, for some reason. She weighs more than twice what he does, and she is very strong. He tries to get tough with her, and she takes it as a game.)
Even now, the two dogs are asleep at my feet. When I am home, that is their position; they follow me around, I guess because I am gone more and my husband rarely is. I am the fun parent; I take them on walks, although I am rethinking it because they tangle up the leashes and I foresee another dog-induced fall that will be even more serious than the last, when I had a nasty black eye for two weeks from landing on my temple on a tennis court (after which Nala and Buddy, our old dog who was very much like Bumper, showed no concern whatsoever).
I also, at least until Friday, often put them in the Volvo station wagon for rides. Since I was going up to my mother’s to do some cleaning out of boxes and to sell a piece of furniture Friday, I took them along. Mom has a nice yard for them to run in. This ultimately was a bad decision, not one I am likely to make again. Nala was put in the back yard where she barked incessantly, “like a redneck dog,” I screamed at her, and Bumper followed me around. He doesn’t bother visitors. However, after I loaded up the wagon and went to put them in the back (in limited space) Bumper apparently decided that the fancy-free world was more to his liking and he was going to explore his old neighborhood, one my mother never let him out to see.
And he refused to come to me. He ran away. I tried to get him for half a block; I would get within five feet, I would do a dance to step unto his leash, and he would elude me. I got in the car to follow him. Again I couldn’t get him. He went another block. Another. I felt like a fool, but worst, he was getting closer and closer to a busy four-lane road. If he got there, I knew he would be killed.
What in the world (and I would like to use stronger language there but won’t) was he thinking. Here I was, the person who fed him. The person who works very hard to keep a nice home for him, who walks him, gives him treats, had done nothing but shower care on him, and he was running away as soon as I got close to him—or even if I was 50 feet off. The smells were too tempting, the opportunity to lift his leg on another plant was too inviting. It didn’t matter that I symbolized safety, life, food, a warm bed (even if it had a gate that closed on it), he was more interested in fleeing all that.
You might at this point be asking, did he live? He did go out onto North Moore Road, the section that borders the Brainerd Golf Course. He went right out into the middle and stopped traffic—a lot of it. He kept running away from me, who like an idiot, was out in the traffic too trying to avoid a splattered mess.
Finally, he was trapped—a young man jumped out of a car, scooped him up, handed him over to me, and I went back to Nala and the Volvo, two blocks away. I threw him in the car and drove home quickly; he was cowering from me, apparently having figured out that running into 40-mile-per-hour traffic in rush hour is not too bright. The twenty or more cars that were nice enough to stop and not kill me or my dog could go on their way, although I am sure there were twenty or more drivers rolling their eyes and shaking their heads at the crazy white woman who couldn’t control her dumb little mutt. That is exactly what I would have thought.
I have told Bumper ever since that I don’t like him. I have ignored him, smacked his butt with the yardstick (very lightly, since I couldn’t find the flyswatter), given Nala a treat but not him, even given Nala a bath and told him he was dirty, and generally acted childish but I am legitimately angry that I was put in that position.
Now, I could make a somewhat cheesy analogy between this experience and our Christian walk. I could—and I will. We distrust God when there is no reason to. We run away from rich and deep relationship with God to smell the poop of other animals and urinate in a new place when all that is disobedience to the deity, the loving Father God who has given us everything richly to enjoy. I am being a little gross here, but maybe not. Yet, unlike me, God doesn’t smack our butts with yardsticks or say he doesn’t like us. He doesn’t even withhold treats or baths.
He gives us our own way.
For the last two nights, my husband has let him out to pee before being put in the crate. My husband stays up much later than me. Both times, Bumper did not come back when called, and both nights, he got left out all night—and it was 39 degrees this morning. I let him in when I got up for church; he ran in the house quickly and went to bed rather quickly, glad, I am sure, to be warm.
OK, he’s a dog. He has no reflexivity. He is just responding to stimuli, and he may stay out every night from now on. I would prefer not, because he could get run over, dogs should not be stray, and he might start barking at 5:00 am. I told my husband to put him on a leash to go out, and he will.
But I can’t help seeing my own behavior in the dog. Especially when it comes to prayer. I marvel that I run away from prayer. I’ll gladly take in the intellectual and spiritual messages of the Bible, but returning that communicating to God? Being willing to spend the time and emotional fervency that prayer demands? I am running into North Moore Road on that one. Very strange. So I find myself out in 39 degree night when I could be home, spiritually speaking, I find it harder and harder to talk to God, to break that habit of running the other way.
Another point: Solitude in life has some joys and blessings, but the friction of having family in your face, even of having to care for a dog, seems infinitely richer to me. Who would I be without husband and child to chafe up against me?
Bumper, an eight-year-old mix of (probably) terrier and Lab on the other hand is a little neurotic. That may have come from living with an ill, elderly woman who couldn’t give him much attention yet spoiled him with cheese and canned dog food. When I was living with her, he became very attached to me because I was now his caregiver, his feeder, and I even put the leash on him and took him for walks (something he hadn’t had since my brother, his proper owner, passed away quickly three years ago). Unfortunately, he poops (or used to) in the house when a thunderstorm is coming; he seems to be having a panic attack. He had some other odd habits. But it didn’t seem right to put him down or try to give him away, so he came home with us the day my mother was buried.
Having to tolerate Nala, no longer getting cheese and canned dog food, having a whole cul-de-sac to traverse, having a flight of stairs he has to climb several times a day, and being forced to sleep in a cage have actually been good for him. “He acts like a dog now,” my husband says, claiming he used to act more like a cat.
(Actually, he and Nala play a good bit, but it's a kind of play that would bother most people. We know she won't hurt him, and she even defers to him, for some reason. She weighs more than twice what he does, and she is very strong. He tries to get tough with her, and she takes it as a game.)
Even now, the two dogs are asleep at my feet. When I am home, that is their position; they follow me around, I guess because I am gone more and my husband rarely is. I am the fun parent; I take them on walks, although I am rethinking it because they tangle up the leashes and I foresee another dog-induced fall that will be even more serious than the last, when I had a nasty black eye for two weeks from landing on my temple on a tennis court (after which Nala and Buddy, our old dog who was very much like Bumper, showed no concern whatsoever).
I also, at least until Friday, often put them in the Volvo station wagon for rides. Since I was going up to my mother’s to do some cleaning out of boxes and to sell a piece of furniture Friday, I took them along. Mom has a nice yard for them to run in. This ultimately was a bad decision, not one I am likely to make again. Nala was put in the back yard where she barked incessantly, “like a redneck dog,” I screamed at her, and Bumper followed me around. He doesn’t bother visitors. However, after I loaded up the wagon and went to put them in the back (in limited space) Bumper apparently decided that the fancy-free world was more to his liking and he was going to explore his old neighborhood, one my mother never let him out to see.
And he refused to come to me. He ran away. I tried to get him for half a block; I would get within five feet, I would do a dance to step unto his leash, and he would elude me. I got in the car to follow him. Again I couldn’t get him. He went another block. Another. I felt like a fool, but worst, he was getting closer and closer to a busy four-lane road. If he got there, I knew he would be killed.
What in the world (and I would like to use stronger language there but won’t) was he thinking. Here I was, the person who fed him. The person who works very hard to keep a nice home for him, who walks him, gives him treats, had done nothing but shower care on him, and he was running away as soon as I got close to him—or even if I was 50 feet off. The smells were too tempting, the opportunity to lift his leg on another plant was too inviting. It didn’t matter that I symbolized safety, life, food, a warm bed (even if it had a gate that closed on it), he was more interested in fleeing all that.
You might at this point be asking, did he live? He did go out onto North Moore Road, the section that borders the Brainerd Golf Course. He went right out into the middle and stopped traffic—a lot of it. He kept running away from me, who like an idiot, was out in the traffic too trying to avoid a splattered mess.
Finally, he was trapped—a young man jumped out of a car, scooped him up, handed him over to me, and I went back to Nala and the Volvo, two blocks away. I threw him in the car and drove home quickly; he was cowering from me, apparently having figured out that running into 40-mile-per-hour traffic in rush hour is not too bright. The twenty or more cars that were nice enough to stop and not kill me or my dog could go on their way, although I am sure there were twenty or more drivers rolling their eyes and shaking their heads at the crazy white woman who couldn’t control her dumb little mutt. That is exactly what I would have thought.
I have told Bumper ever since that I don’t like him. I have ignored him, smacked his butt with the yardstick (very lightly, since I couldn’t find the flyswatter), given Nala a treat but not him, even given Nala a bath and told him he was dirty, and generally acted childish but I am legitimately angry that I was put in that position.
Now, I could make a somewhat cheesy analogy between this experience and our Christian walk. I could—and I will. We distrust God when there is no reason to. We run away from rich and deep relationship with God to smell the poop of other animals and urinate in a new place when all that is disobedience to the deity, the loving Father God who has given us everything richly to enjoy. I am being a little gross here, but maybe not. Yet, unlike me, God doesn’t smack our butts with yardsticks or say he doesn’t like us. He doesn’t even withhold treats or baths.
He gives us our own way.
For the last two nights, my husband has let him out to pee before being put in the crate. My husband stays up much later than me. Both times, Bumper did not come back when called, and both nights, he got left out all night—and it was 39 degrees this morning. I let him in when I got up for church; he ran in the house quickly and went to bed rather quickly, glad, I am sure, to be warm.
OK, he’s a dog. He has no reflexivity. He is just responding to stimuli, and he may stay out every night from now on. I would prefer not, because he could get run over, dogs should not be stray, and he might start barking at 5:00 am. I told my husband to put him on a leash to go out, and he will.
But I can’t help seeing my own behavior in the dog. Especially when it comes to prayer. I marvel that I run away from prayer. I’ll gladly take in the intellectual and spiritual messages of the Bible, but returning that communicating to God? Being willing to spend the time and emotional fervency that prayer demands? I am running into North Moore Road on that one. Very strange. So I find myself out in 39 degree night when I could be home, spiritually speaking, I find it harder and harder to talk to God, to break that habit of running the other way.
Another point: Solitude in life has some joys and blessings, but the friction of having family in your face, even of having to care for a dog, seems infinitely richer to me. Who would I be without husband and child to chafe up against me?
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