Canine Christ

Two nights ago, I met Christ in my dog. Not with Rowan but in him--God incarnate in my mutt. I'm aware that might sound a wee bit sacrilegious or a whopping bit insane, but it happened. Like this:

It was about 8:30 and I was utterly exhausted so decided to take the dog for his walk and go to bed. Keith and I had flown in from Dublin the night before and I had spent the entire day feeling jet-lagged and fuzzy and puky and just downright yucky. Keith, in contrast, was up before 6 am, put in a full day of work, and then played basketball as usual--which infuriated me. Not the basketball per se but rather all that productivity and efficiency and grown-up-edness while I, the cranky toddler, staggered around the house the entire day, unable to contemplate composing a grocery list, let alone drawing up my fall semester syllabus or, ye gods, actually working on the book I am supposed to be writing. So, feeling crazed and worthless, and hating every sane and worthwhile fiber in my husband's body, I snapped the leash on the dog and stomped out into the hot, humid night.

The dog's nighttime walk takes us past the home of the Rich People. We live in a middle-class neighborhood, a collection of older, mostly wooden bungalows and two-story houses sitting on 1/4-acre, tree-filled lots. The Rich People, however, dwell within an enormous fenced-in compound: an imposing, many-winged brick house, with an equally huge, glassed-in car garage (the better to show off the many costly vehicles within), a massive yard complete with children's playground, and a built-in swimming pool with a pool house larger than most Normal People's actual house. I've never met the Rich People. Perhaps they are really nice; I have no idea. Perhaps if I met them, I would like them. But in the abstract, I hate the Rich People. Especially during hurricane season when the powerlines are down and everyone in the neighborhood swelters in the subtropical heat and endures in the darkness--except the Rich People, who possess an automatic generator the size of a semi that ensures their uninterruped air-conditioned, illuminated comfort. Even their pool lights remain on and the vast expanse of their yard glows with decorative spotlights, every single one of them mocking the hoi-polloi, the Normal People, as we take our cold tepid showers and eat cold Spaghettios out of the can.

Even in the best of times, a walk past this house can make me a tad tetchy. Picture me, then, trudging along two nights ago, my mood growing ever darker as the roaches scuttled underfoot and the mosquitoes flicked along my hairline. Rowan and I had just turned the corner of the Rich People's compound when--yipyipyipyip--up behind their iron fence bounced a pair of dog-like objects, little moppish creatures who careened against each other and hurtled themselves against the fence, growling and yowling and yipping at Rowan in furious passion. Oh fuck off, I scowled.

And then I looked at Rowan. He's an old dog. Nervous. Usually not very interested in other dogs, particularly small, jumpy dogs. But there he stood in the moonlight, all 65 pounds of him, looking down at these bouncing balls of fluff, with his head cocked, his ears up and friendly, his tail wagging eagerly, even joyfully. To my astonishment, this normally mournful-looking dog actually appeared to be smiling. And then, still smiling, he turned to me, and his gaze contained a look of affection and acceptance so powerful that it embraced these yapping, leaping doggy mops, and me, and the Rich People, and Keith, and the entirety of the universe. For a moment, just for a moment, we were all enfolded, knit together, made one and made well.

Then Rowan peed and we walked on.