Lessons I Learned From My Dog, Part 2

Hope springs eternal with Moose.

He can be crashed out in my office for literally hours while I work, but if I get up he is up too, like he is on springs or like an instantly inflatable dog. He looks at me with his head erect and his ears up: "Are we going somewhere? Are we? Are we? Maybe ride in the car? Or play ball?" If I just go to the bathroom or pick something up off the printer, he goes and takes a couple of laps around his bed, then settles back down. But you know he is alert for any sign of action.

If I go into the kitchen, he is alert for certain sounds. He knows the sound of the freezer door opening when you go to get ice for a drink, and quickly comes and parks next to the ice tray, where he is locked on every movement from tray to glass, determined not to miss the opportunity for an ice cube or two.

He also knows the sound of salad. What sound does salad make, you say? You got me. But he hears it, whatever it is, and comes to sit patiently behind me as I cut up ingredients for the salad. The vet told me a long time ago that some Labs love fruits and vegetables, and that these foods were much better for him and lower in calories than dog treats. So he has learned that salad = treat.

Slimy part off that cucumber that's been in the fridge a while? Yum.
Cherry tomato with a bad spot? De-lish.
Lettuce...sweet lettuce. Nectar.
Carrots? Crunchy goodness.
Bell pepper innards? The best.

When your standards are low enough that you'll eat socks, plastic bags, toilet paper, cat poop, and used Q-Tips, I guess even the lowest forms of real food must be delightful.

He is extremely polite. While he waits, he sits perfectly still, doing his laser-lock thing on whatever the object of his desire might be. But he never makes a sound, never gets under foot, never makes a pest of himself. That is, unless the sight of him eyeing whatever you're eating bothers you.

And his technique is exquisitely refined. While we're eating dinner, he'll be crashed out near the table, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. But once we're done, maybe sitting and talking and sipping a glass of wine, we'll look up and there he is, locked on to whatever's left on the table. Never makes a move or a sound, but he's hard to miss, 85 lbs. of animal attention, staring intently at the scraps of dinner or the ice in our water glasses.

I confess that sometimes he does gets on my nerves. It IS unnerving. But the fact is, his behavior gets rewarded, not just sometimes but every.single.time. He acts this way because his hope is always rewarded.

So why do we not hope in the Lord the same way, with the same perfect conviction and patience? Yesterday's reading from Sirach said it well:

"...has anyone hoped in the LORD and been disappointed?
Has anyone persevered in his commandments and been forsaken?
has anyone called upon him and been rebuffed?"

Hope in the Lord, steadfast, patient hope, will be rewarded every.single.time. Now that Lent has begun, hope must be deeply ingrained within us, along with patience. We have forty days of preparation ahead of us, and if we work for those forty days, it's not going to be all fun and games.

But we prepare in steadfast hope, knowing that Easter, like Spring, is coming. Christ will take our sin and pain and suffering and work, and transform it through his death and resurrection into new life -- a better way of living in this life, and a better life to come.

Moose, my earthy and earthly teacher, has taught me well the rewards of patience and hope in this life. But in his quiet yet persistent way he teaches me something deeper about how to live this life in a way that leads to the next.