The first family dog I can remember was a basset hound by the name of Cleopatra. Judging from stories and photos, Cleopatra had been a bouncy, cute dog – perhaps not as dignified as my Linus, but adorable in her own bumbling way. That, however, was before I was born. By the time I came on the scene Cleopatra was a more mature animal, and bouncy wouldn't be the first term that would spring to mind when describing her. She had become a tad overweight – it happens, how well I know – and, if she could muster the energy to walk, the most one could hope from her would be a sort of resigned galumph. She had developed a skin condition that had made the hair on her left hip fall out, leaving a mottled pink patch of skin that kind of looked like the face of Thomas Jefferson if one squinted. She slobbered by the gallon, and – how can I put this delicately? – was possessed of a gastric condition which produced the most pungent by-products of both matter and air.
As little boys tend to do with dogs, I loved Cleopatra. We had an old black and white telly in the basement where each Saturday morning I would sit on a ratty ancient old sofa watching the old movies and programmes which I so loved. Cleopatra would stumble into the room, stand looking at me with her sad, sad eyes, and whimper. This was my cue to pull a wooden box over to the sofa that was there so that she could at least make it part of the way up, relying on me to scootch her backside up and around (me praying the whole time that that particular manoeuvre could be effected without producing a malodorous fog). This palaver awkwardly completed, she would then collapse next to me, falling into a deep, slobbery, snore-y sleep in a matter of minutes. We would sit and watch old episodes of Flipper, where the eponymous dolphin could always be relied on to, say, save his boy companion Bud from drowning after he – Bud, not Flipper – got trapped in an underwater net; or Lassie, who, though she couldn't actually physically extract Timmy from the well into which he had fallen (presumably due to Lassie's – not Timmy's – lack of opposable thumbs), could nonetheless rush home and communicate to Paul and Ruth Martin that not only had their foster child fallen down the well, but Lassie would lead them to where he was.
But I alsoI have to admit that I was disappointed that my dog was neither cinematic nor particularly helpful. I would sit, my t-shirt placed over my nose and mouth to fend off any sudden unpleasant odours and look down at the snorting gobbet next to me, sadly resigning myself to the fact that if I ever fell down a well, I was a goner.
I once complained to my mother about Cleopatra and broached the subject of perhaps getting another dog so that I could do things like take it for long walks or play fetch with it. But my mother wouldn't even consider it – and told me so in no uncertain terms. Whilst admitting that Cleopatra was not, perhaps, like the dogs one saw on the telly, she pointed out to me that she was always there, always loving me, and that I needed to be grateful for who she was, and not for what she did. “Caring for someone because of what they can do for us is not caring at all. You're better than that,” she told me.
From her lips more than half a century ago to today. We care for our pets because they are creatures of unbridled love whose very being taps into our own, not because they can sit or roll over or extract us from nets. We care for our planet because it is a gift of unbridled love from our Creator, not because it can bring us convenience or comfort. The very nature of the created universe is that we care for it, not because of what it can give us (although what it can give us is astounding in its breadth) but because we should all be connected in care: care for the wonders of the planet on which we live to the sublime joy of animals to the beauty of luscious humanity itself. And if we have any self-awareness at all, we can easily see how we have fallen short time and time again in our call and commitment to this care.
But looking into the eyes of our trusted companions, we can see icons of the grace and promise of a caring Creator who lets us know it's not too late; we can do this. We are, indeed, better than this.
Thank God for the creation which sustains us and thank God for the animals who care for us. If my mother was right, if we are better than those who would harm either, then this, our gratitude, will be our power, a force that will lead us in the right direction.
(And hopefully permit me to avoid falling down any wells because – no offence to lovely Linus – I don't see him being of much more assistance in that area than was dear departed Cleopatra.)
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