First pooches

He's sitting in my lap now, purring as if I'm the best thing since a great night with the mice out in the garage. I should appreciate his attention--and I do; but, doggone it, he makes it difficult for me to hit the keys. In a minute--there!--he'll get tired of my moving, then leave, survey a place close by, and lie down, snooze a little. 

I, for one, am happy to know that dogs are coming back to the White House. I know, I know--a pair of rangy German shepherds, Major and Champ, doesn't guarantee Pax Americana, but it's reassuring to know this particular Presidential couple like having pets around. Good night, they can aggravate us, but far more often than not they're worthy subjects for our love because, dang it, they give lots of it back. Mostly.

In The End of the Christian Life, Todd Billings tells a story as sweet as dark chocolate. "Max," Billings says, "was a furry, red-and-white Welsh corgi, one of the friendliest creatures on planet Earth." Alas, like every other breathing thing, he began to show symptoms of mortality. The vet said it was dementia actually--Max had started bumping into things. When the vet put him to sleep, as they say, Billings was holding Max as lovingly as he'd ever done.

Then, marvelously, the vet, who knew Billings was a believer, asked, simply, "Can I pray right now?" and he did, "a blessing," Billings says, "a benediction."

There's more to the story of the death of Max, but that particular moment is immensely rich, in part because it reminds me of a thousand stories from Native life, stories of the old ones praying over buffalo, simply giving thanks for the four-leggeds--rabbits, squirrels, even dogs-- who give life itself to the people. 

I know a kid, a big-time hunter who told me about a time he went hunting with a Native buddy he'd known for a lifetime, went to school together--a Christian school--and church. They were believers, both of them. When the Native kid downed a nice buck, he was thrilled. But his buddy, a white guy, was shocked, he told me, when his friend reached into his pocket for a animal fetish he'd carried with, and carefully--even prayerfully--dipped it in the blood of that big buck. Seemed to the white kid so, well, heathenish.

I'll let a real theologian determine whether it was or wasn't heathenish, but I couldn't help thinking of that odd sacrament, out in the field, when Billings told that story of the vet's benediction for Max.  

I suppose it isn't a bit "Christian evangelical" to say it, but I'm happy Major and Champ are moving into the White House, family pets in a long line of First Pets. They're not just "animals."

You're wondering about Smokey? He's behind me, fast asleep on a wooden chair, of all things. He's close. That's the way he likes it. 

Me too.