A Gospel for Dogs

My dog.

I love him so much that I make sure he's fed, watered, gets his shots and I shower him with attention and affection. I tell him I love him and find myself hoping that he knows.

He's skittish. He's a rescue.

It's obvious that he must have experienced a huge scare when he was young or maybe he was born with a weak constitution for he will not come to me when called (I had ascribed this to stubbornness but now I suspect otherwise). So when I want to love on him, give him pets and bask in his otherworldly cuteness I have to go to him, put him on my lap and rub my fingers through his fur to assure him and maybe remind him that I'm the good guy. I'm not the one who would ever hurt him. He's been abandoned once, I would that he knew he'll never be abandoned again, especially not by the one who cares about him the most. He's not always an obedient dog but that's the nature of dogs, isn't it? Being a human, of a higher nature, I can perceive this and I don't count it against him because he could never comprehend my perspective.

He doesn't have that chip.

For there isn't a gospel for dogs.

...or is there? Sometimes I think I see in his eyes the desire, bordering on need, to accept my love and return it in kind. But such heavenly things are far beyond the scope of his canine mind. So he snuggles up against me, comfortable and secure, and does the thing he does best.

He sleeps.

As I watch him dream, wishing my divine-to-dogs human mind could know what he was dreaming about.