Life With Dogs

     Do not underestimate the value of life with dogs.

     As I attempt to write this, Ivy, the white and tan Chihuahua, is licking my face and neck. Kiki, the older black and tan pup, has squeezed herself in the space between my hip and the chair arm. Seconds before, Ivy was bringing me a blue rope over and over again to throw, and Kiki was pawing at my leg repeatedly to let me know she wanted in my lap.

     I do not pretend to understand why God chose to create this connection between man and canine. I don’t know why He decided that men would need and enjoy the companionship of dogs, but I have no doubt that there is a divine reason.

     At the end of a long, rough day, they are there, offering unconditional love, kisses and snuggles. When a member of our family is under the weather, you can bet that either Kiki or Ivy, or both will do their best to lay on the body part that hurts. When there’s nothing on TV worth watching, Ivy is sure to bring a ball or another toy for you to throw.

     Clearly, dogs were created with an intuitive sense that is adaptable. They give affection when love is required, a snuggle when comfort is indicated and humor when a laugh is just what you need. It’s happening right now. Ivy has traded the blue rope for a blue and orange miniature tennis ball. She hoped in my wife’s lap and tossed the ball at her. If she could have said, “Play with me,” she would have. I can’t write for laughing.

     These dogs also connect me to my past in a way I had not expected.

     I did not pick either of them out. Kiki was a rescue from an animal shelter. My daughter chose her based on her picture and a brief description. Ivy was a pup who needed a home. My wife and daughter chose her. It didn’t take long before Kiki was spending her evenings on my shoulder, her body wrapped around the back of my neck. That was exactly what Lady, my grandfather’s faithful Chihuahua, would do nearly 50 years ago. And, curiously, Kiki’s markings are nearly identical to Lady’s.

     My grandfather died when I was five, maybe six. He was in the hospital several days or weeks before he passed, and Lady seemed to know something was wrong. She disappeared, and my grandmother was devastated. I remember walking the hilltop they lived on all the way back to the river with my cousin and my mama looking for Lady. She was nowhere to be found—until it was time to bring a change of pajamas to my grandfather.

     My grandmother pulled out the bottom drawer in their bedroom and there, curled up on top of my grandfather’s pajamas, was Lady, waiting patiently for her master to return.

     No, I don’t understand it, but even as I attempt to finish this post, Kiki is beside me, reminding me that on the days when I need a tangible reminder that God’s plan is much more intricate than I could ever imagine, I can count on her to be there. Dependable, reassuring and loving.

     And that makes me smile.