What Dogs Willingly Give

“Where did this come from?” I exclaimed. Reflexes forced the weight of my body on the brake pedal, and my neck snapped back as we came to a stop. I muttered an expletive and thanked my luck for the near miss. The dog’s snout, framed by pricked ears, was inches from the muddy front grill of my truck.  

“You mean Patches?” my wife shouted over the noisy engine as she lept out. Kneeling on the ground and wrapping her arms around the latest addition to our family, she said, “she’s been with us for two months,” The dog’s moist breath was fogging up my wife’s glasses as the canine snorted and lurched forward. 

Patches had a narrow bony tail, as straight as a music conductor’s baton, which she swung around in wide circles. Her whole body, except her head, shook with each swing of her tail. Her mocha brown eyes, dripping with the delicate innocence of a newborn’s eyes, stared back at me as I scanned her from nose to tail. I could see why she got that name. Mange had left bald spots on her black fur. 

Much fanfare preceded each time a rescue dog arrived home—a plush dog bed, custom collars, tags, medications, supplements to treat various ailments, and a bowl of welcome home treats. I chuckled each time I saw one of the medication bottles. Each animal had adopted my surname. My wife’s speciality was picking out the sickest dog to rescue, and I could never tell what illness walked through the door. Two months prior, Patches arrived at night and was living in near darkness at the barn to complete a course of medications for a severe heartworm infestation. Those medications made her sensitive to light. 

Patches trotted around the house with her tail in near-perpetual motion, her magnet-like eyes looking to leach negativity from the minds of any human she met. Whenever I see the open collar with “Patches” printed on it hanging from a peg in the tack room where she spent the first two months of her life with us, I smile. A reminder of how Patches helped me realize that there is something within myself I can embrace without fear. 

Scars, blemishes, weaknesses, and tragic flaws. My shortcomings stare back whenever I try to look under the thick veneer of my thoughts. I’m afraid to face them. Instead, I cannot resist the sweet comfort of looking at the world through the eyes of my ego. It shows me so many fault lines in other people and the world around me that I can spend my day running my imaginary fingers through them. But I cannot escape the futility of my pretence when I look at the blank ceiling before going to sleep each night. I see my broken lines. Face to face with that inconvenient truth, and I am grateful for the sleep that helps me get away from that person within me who’s living a lie. That’s the naked truth about me. The rest is inconsequential. 

Patches helped me confront my inner conflicts. Like a therapist who truly cares, my hypocrisy did not matter to her. Besides reminding me of a decadent molten chocolate lava cake, her eyes exuded an innocent, loving presence and helped thaw my cold indifference to what I was hiding. Patches owned nothing except a borrowed collar her human companions had placed around her neck, one she had left behind before her last car ride. Yet, she gave love and joy every moment of her life. You could say she was grateful for food and shelter. But we have so much more to be thankful for each day, to nature and providence. Do we care to discover the loving innocence buried within and share it with the world?