Fog, mist, chill in the air.
I visit a friend who just rescued another dog.
She worries aloud that she has no place to permanently keep the sweet dog.
A yellow Lab mix. Beautiful. One leg hobbles as she moves, but the dog still gives and receives love and touch.
What in this busted world makes it so heartbreakingly hard for human beings to give and receive this same love, this same kindness?
I often see and hear people in WalMart, in homes, and on Facebook stinging and condemning each other. It’s everywhere. No place is totally safe from slings and arrows.
I look down into this sweet yellow-white face. She is totally unafraid of being loved. Her leg may be hurt, but she has already overcome one level of brokenness. She gives all she has to give. She limps around in the yard, snuffling and chasing squirrels.
What a great receiver. The dog surrenders as I stroke her ears, back, belly. She can bear to be loved. She can bear tenderness.
A slow understanding unfolds between my head and my heart.
Dogs have no agenda. They just give and receive love. They have no need for power or winning. They only want to give love, to be loved. What goodness. No wonder we fall in love with our dogs.
Someone had deliberately run over the leg of this dog. Abused. Though she knows much about suffering, lostness, and loneliness, there is abundant love in her. And this dog aims to give it.
My friend helps the hurt ones. It’s all ridiculously sacred. Such love. The woman suffers and struggles with her own health issues. Still, she gives. It is a sacrifice. It may sound small, but great love is in the middle of it. She expects no applause. It is just who she is, what she does.
She sees this dog as a fine gift to someone.
As the truth unfurls about the dog, a fog lifts inside of me: I could be part of this rescue mission. The yellow Lab mix could become a member of my own family and another excellent teacher of love and acceptance.
I think I’ll name her Sadie.
Photo by Pat Durmon on Shipps Drive, Norfork, Arkansas. January 15, 2016.