St Francis of Assisi had that wonderful ability to see the presence of God in all of God’s creation, whether it be the lowly worm to the wolf of Gubbio. This poem is my attempt of expressing how I find God embodied in our pet dog, Belle. The one attribute that dogs have over human beings is that dogs never put on airs. They live authentic lives, always being true to themselves.
My family has had three “official” pets over the years. FloydRMoose, and Henri “Puppyboy”, both AKC Great Pyrenees dogs, very loving and sadly, short lived. And, now Belle E Button, a rescue pooch who is officially a “Boxerdore” part Boxer and part Labrador. Unlike the Pyrs, who were pretty laid back, Belle has the high strung character of the Boxer. She is a very loving dog, but needs a lot of attention. The joy of having this dog in my house is that I am reminded of two things: One, I am always loved. This dog reminds me how well I am loved pretty much most of the time. Secondly, because of her own needs, I am reminded that as she serves me, I need to serve her needs equally, even at times when it can be very inconvenient. Here is my poem.
BELLE
You sit by my chair,
anticipating a tossed,
discarded crumb
of toast, cracker, or popcorn kernel.
I acknowledged my failure,
reinforcing habits frowned upon
in polite canine etiquette.
You, not highly born of breed,
but more the result of unsafe sex,
your parents’ careless passion
resulting in your spindly legs,
your Boxer disposition,
your “house elf” ears and Labrador face.
Your life more shaped by the cats
than the dogs at the animal rescue.
You are a living contradiction,
facing down thunder storms
with a lion’s courage, yet
cowering in your safe place
behind the chair in dread fear
of the vacuum cleaner.
Are you cat or dog burglar?
I remember well the purloined steak
marinating on the kitchen counter,
one of those nights of infamy,
in which the question was
whether the steak was worth
the discomfort and diarrhea
in which we all had an unfortunate
share, the wee hours of that night.
In love with forbidden fruit,
should I have named you Eve?
Chocolate, dark or milk, no matter,
you consume and savor equally
with great relish this canine poison.
Just why is it that you are still alive?
Did the cats with whom
You were raised as a puppy,
bequeath to you a portion
of their nine lives?
Discreteness, not one of your fortes,
the evidence of your kitchen counter thefts
strewn behind the coffee table,
your fortress of naughtiness,
torn, stolen bags of licorice,
chips, candy wrappers and paper.
Yet, for all the theft,
your life and mine strewn
about the house,
you remain for me a living metaphor
of God’s unconditional love.
For all your incessant barking,
I am reminded of your constant
love and protection, your willingness
to ward off the forces of evil
perpetrated by the children
and the elderly walking by my house.
You greet me with unbridled joy
every time I walk through the door
excitedly offering to me a
treasured bone, a sign of God’s
unlimited hospitality toward all.
In your crying to be let out in the yard,
the potty breaks in the middle of the night,
and, yes, waiting by my chair in hope
of getting a crumb of bread or snack,
you remind me of my need to embody Christ,
to serve and not to be served.
As I scratch under your muzzle,
and that spot you can’t reach
just above your tail;
as I rub your belly,
and you stretch out your legs
and hear that sound of contentment
only you can make, I remember
that it is giving that I receive,
and in dying to myself I find everlasting life.
