Fido 2

In our last post we wrote about the dog biscuits and water we leave out for our four legged friends walking through downtown.  Not only did I receive more comment on that post than any other, but many shared it with others.  It was the highest readership ever for What Would Thoreau Say?

This morning, now that Bapu has returned (more below) I began to think about the relationship between animals and their owners.  Why did the story about Camo and Riley get such a reaction?  Why did people tell me of their pets or that perhaps they would now leave treats for dogs near their home?  What is it that binds us so to our pets?

I think it's the unconditional love and loyalty that we get from them.

In the church I served until recently as Lay Pastor, (you can find the post How the Hell Did I Become Pastor? if you scroll down on this blog) I used to say sometimes before services that in this church we celebrated the "unlimited welcome, unwavering hope and unconditional love of God " as our primary source and form of worship.  That church, over a three year period, became what we all began to call a 'simple church,' because our theology eschewed all the esoteric stuff the church tried to force on us and preached a simple compassionate love, as all that was needed.

So in my pondering after the Fido post, I thought:  isn't that what our pets give us?  Our pets offer us the same unwavering hope (are they ever sad?), unlimited welcome (do we love coming home to them?) and unconditional love (they never see ulterior motives or underhanded practices from us; they just see through naïve eyes that we love them).  

I mentioned Bapu in the last post.  He is a beautiful black cat with white markings, including an off center white stripe between his eyes down to his nose that is so unique.  He doesn't belong to us.  We belong to him, however.  Because he has adopted us.

One day he just, literally, showed up while I was sitting in the Peace Garden reading.  And once Anna opened the door, like a bullet he was inside.

[Bapu sitting on my desk]

After some investigation we found out he is owned by one of the mechanics in the garage down the street from our home.  He is an outdoor cat, and they call him Diesel.  Anna and I figured out right away he needed a more gentle name, so we named with Gandhi's nickname, Bapu.

Everyday he arrives at around 5:30am, has breakfast, sleeps the rest of the day in the cat bed we bought him (when he isn't being mischievous and climbing through the Christmas tree).  Then around noon he stands at the front door when we let him out, because we are convinced he knows he is to do his business outdoors.  We tried a litter box, but he would have none of it.  So like a dog, we let him out, he disappears and then returns a couple hours later in time for dinner.

After dinner Bapu spends time climbing on us, sleeping in our laps and purring.  Then when we go to bed, we let him out.  Gone.

Thinking about this simple creature it isn't a stretch to see hope, welcome and love in both his arrival and his presence in our house.  

There really isn't anything more hopeful than a simple little animal living his life and showing us that what's happened in the past can't be fixed, what will happen in the future can't be predicted, and that all Bapu (and you and I) have is the present.  Right now.  Animals live in the right now.  Living that way is hopeful to me.

He clearly decided he was welcome in our home, even though we didn't invite him.  In the beginning we figured the reason he continued to show up was he was getting fed.  He felt welcome in our home, but it is the breakfast and dinner he received that brought him back.  

Now I'm not so sure.  As he has become part of our family, we know it is more than that.  Bapu is very affectionate and regularly will climb on us, nuzzle our chin for a scratch, and purr so loud he could wake the dead.  Yes, Bapu is getting fed.  But Bapu is getting love and he's returning it.  Unconditionally.

Finally, really is there anything more unconditionally loving than a pet that lives for right now?  And it is loving that he nuzzles under our chin while sitting in our lap and falls asleep in Anna's arms in the afternoon?

Our world lives in a state of what NY Times columnist David Brooks calls hyper-individualism.  Me, mine, more.  Bapu lives in the loving, welcoming, hopeful right now.  

I long to have humans in my life who are like Bapu. Not only being unconditionally loving, but also just living in the right now.  Not seeking to accumulate more. Not seeking to divide me and everyone else in their life into tribes, loving some, hating others.  Just, well, being.

And, may I add, not using a litter box.