Dog and God

By Debie Thomas

           I didn’t intend to become a person who gushes about her dog. Or worse, a person who gushes about her dog and God. I used to pride myself on being the kind of person who’d smirk when other people gushed about their dogs and God. (Those unfortunate folks being the same ones who brush their dogs’ teeth, make their pets yogurt-and-banana-popsicles, collect coupons for PetSmart’s toy sales, and pay more for their dogs’ haircuts than they do for their own.)

           Sentimental freaks, all of them. Until this happened: a week or two after we adopted our now six-month-old labradoodle, my spiritual director told me to “pay careful attention” to my puppy. “I haven’t met a person yet,” she said, “who hasn’t experienced God through her dog.”

           I must have laughed — or smirked — because she pressed in. “D-O-G, Debie? G-O-D? It’s not a coincidence. Pay attention.”

           So, I’ve been paying attention. And (surprise, surprise — what is it about the uncanny wisdom of spiritual directors?), I’ve learned a lot, both about God’s way of being in the world, and about mine.

           I suppose the boring way to explain would be to compose lists like these:

           God? He can’t wait to play. He’s endlessly curious. His forgiveness has no bounds. He doesn’t hurry — unless there’s feasting involved. He’s more than okay with repetition. He thrives on my companionship. His love is big, warm, and slobbery. And he’s laugh-out-loud funny.

           Me? I hurry too much. I’m better when I spend time outside. I can afford to smile more. I often miss the trees (and the leaves, the bark, the caterpillar, and the fuzz on the caterpillar) for the forest. I’m afraid to look goofy. I’m afraid to make a mess. I put way too much stock in dignity. But I throw a mean Frisbee. And I always win at Tug of War.

           Here’s a better way to explain. Here’s D-O-G – G-O-D.

           My puppy’s name is Luna and her mantra is gusto. She adores peanut butter, string cheese, Kleenex, and socks. She eats all things with pleasure, as human girls will in heaven — not giving a rip about their BMIs.

           When I sit down to write, she rests her curly head on my bare feet — warmer than space heaters, warmer than Uggs. When I mash bananas for her popsicles, she quivers like Jello. When I ignore her for too long, she presses all manner of diabolical squeaking toys against my ankles. “Can you play now? How about now?”

           Luna looks like hot fudge, feels like silk, and barks like she owns this place — which she does. She runs like the wind, but when I take her for a walk, she slows to a mind-boggling crawl, her nose paying slow-motion homage to every twig, gum wrapper, stone, and ant within reach of her leash.

           When I scold her, she withers. When I accidentally hurt her, she moves in closer to snuggle. When I’ve just washed my face and put on makeup, she loves it all off with her slobbery tongue. When I leave her for a bathroom break, she receives me back as if I’d been away on a treacherous sea voyage. “Oh, oh, oh! It’s YOU!!!! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?! I’ve missed you!”

           When I’m with her, I’m embarrassingly silly. I coo and cuddle, tease and kiss. “Luna” being too short a name to gush over, I come up with ridiculous nicknames: Lunosity, Luna-bin, Monkey-Baby, and Chocolate Chicken. When she drops into play posture, I melt and drop, too. When I throw her a ball for the 2,356, 875th time in one morning — “Again! Again! Please throw it again!” — I learn what Martha long ago learned from Jesus: Dearest, only one thing is needed. Only one. Only one.

           Luna’s paws — second in perfection only to her ears — smell like warm rice. Also like wheat. Also like popcorn. I know, because I lift them to my face every day, close my eyes, and inhale. This, I understand now, is prayer.