I wander into the kitchen, pour a half cup of popcorn kernels into the air popper, plug the thing in and wander out again. I鈥檓 distracted. I鈥檓 feeling sad. I鈥檓 hurting a bit. Just a bit, on my left forearm. Mostly, I鈥檓 wondering what I could have done differently in the moments before my encounter with that beautiful dog. Before I walked past her house. Before she charged out of nowhere, biting my arm and breaking the skin through two sweaters.
Should I not have stopped to look at the photo I鈥檇 just taken of the living sky that evening? Should I not have passed that way? Should I have had Cash (our dog) along? Should I have shouted at her? Would that have stopped her in her tracks?
As I said. Distracted. Sad. Hurting. And humming. 鈥淲hen the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I鈥檓 feelin鈥� sad, I simply remember my favourite things, and then I don鈥檛 feel so bad!鈥�
Dogs are one of my favourite things. Popcorn is too 鈥� except when I forget to put a bowl under the spout and the exploded kernels pile up so high they can no longer settle, so instead tumble off the counter and onto the floor like so many fallen blossoms. 鈥淛esus,鈥� I say, aloud, stuffing a handful into my mouth. 鈥淛esus Christ.鈥� It鈥檚 what I heard the bylaw officer say just before he hung up after I reported what had happened. Only I was praying. 鈥淛esus, peace, please. Bring peace.鈥�
Once, a long while ago, we had to put a beloved dog down because he was too aggressive. It broke our hearts. I know the fear. The loss. The desperation and the tears. 鈥淛esus,鈥� I add, 鈥減lease don鈥檛 let that happen. Show the way.鈥�
I鈥檇 thought twice about reporting the attack. But children live near that house. And sometimes grandbeans walk with me. Always, always, the dog, inside its kennel, lunges and barks. If I鈥檇 had a child along... I shuddered to think of the possibilities. And of what may have happened if someone hadn鈥檛 been on hand to call the dog off. Then I鈥檇 picked up the phone and made the call.
Sometimes life is more thorns than roses. I remember vividly the day our family had to make the fateful decision about our own dog. The heartrending cries from the children and me; the steely (and absolutely necessary) determination of their father. As a last ditch effort, we tried a rescue, a home in the country. Things got worse, and in the end...聽 (Oh, I hate that ending.)
We had eight years together. A continual blur of rapturous red, a million sloppy kisses. Countless calendar photos of large brown eyes framed by droopy, silken ears. That dog gave us the gift of tales still told around our dining table. He loved life, our Chalmer. And we loved him. But dog psychologists aren鈥檛 available to everyone. And when all else fails, people must come before dogs.
Lord, show the way. And come by here.
