puppy love

This past Sunday I presided at the Blessing of the Animals for the first time. Our little church up the hill was as full as I’ve seen it with humans and their animal companions. We had four dogs, a cat, and a frog. And a lot of barking, laughter, and pauses to regather ourselves.

I’ve never been a big dog person. I mean, I like them, but I’ve never really understood them, not like cats. When I was growing up, we had the most perfect cat you could imagine. I picked him out from a litter a friend’s cat had born, a sweet little ginger boy. On the drive home, he was so scared by the movement of the car that he burrowed into the seat at the small of my back, and from then on we were bonded. The first year we had him, he slept draped around the top of my head.

When I was fourteen, I left home for boarding school, and Redd had to stay behind. He lived another fourteen years with my mom, three times as long as he lived with me. And yet, every time I came to visit, he slept curled into my side, just like when he was a kitten. That cat taught me so much about unconditional love. Not even parents can match the love of a bonded animal.

After this past Sunday, though, I’m a dog convert. A woman who was visiting from out of town brought her two-year-old spaniel, named Briney. She lifted him up to say hello to me, and immediately his tongue connected with my cheek. Normally I’m not one for dog kisses, but this time something shifted. I felt utter delight as I pet his soft fur and he licked all over my face. It was a total God experience: soft, joyful, absolutely present and incarnate.

So much of my theology and spirituality centers on mercy, healing, wholeness, and redemption. It’s right that it should, particularly given the ever-increasing darkness of the world in which we live. And yet, there was something in Briney’s sloppy kisses that cut right through the heaviness I often recognize in my heart and in the world around me. There is still delight, still joy, still utter abandonment to the moment.

I’m reminded of a line from Rebecca Solnit’s book Hope in the Dark: “Joy doesn’t betray, but sustains activism. And when you face a politics that aspires to make you fearful, alienated, and isolated, joy is a fine initial act of insurrection.” (p. 24)

There is so much to mourn, to worry over, to fear. But still, the world remains stubbornly beautiful. There are moments when the softest little dog licks your face, and suddenly you’re giggling like a kid, dissolved into the joy of being right where you are. That’s mercy, too.