Next April my dog, Quimby, will turn 7. When we first got her, we did what a lot of dog owners do with puppies. We bribed her. I mean, we trained her. When we said “sit” and she sat, we gave her a treat. When we said “come” and she came, we gave her a treat. And when she went out into the yard to do her “business,” we gave her a treat. To be honest, the training never really took. To this day, when I say “come,” she mostly runs away.
But one thing she has managed to get pretty good at it is knowing where we keep the treats. Even after I’ve had to go out and get her because she wouldn’t come when I called, sometimes dragging her by the collar just to make clear she’s in trouble, she will still come into the kitchen and go right to the cabinet where we keep the treats. I hate to say it, but she will even come in and sit right down in front of that cabinet, like she’s paying homage to her god, like she is a most obedient servant. I will tell her, no, you don’t get a treat for doing what I made you do. A few minutes later, I’ll wander back into the kitchen from wherever I went off to because I was trying to ignore her shameless plea. Always, she will be sitting there, looking grand and at attention, staring up at the treat cabinet.
The funny thing is, it’s been years since we kept any real treats in the house. Ever since we had our kitchen remodeled, and ever since the veterinarian told us Quimby needed to lose about 15 pounds, the only treats have been carrots and the occasional apple slice. Clearly, Quimby never got that message, or she just doesn’t care. She’s holding out hope that, someday, her master will once again fill that cabinet with treats, the good kind…with bacon.
Then, a couple days ago, fortune came through for her. I was out in the yard chatting with my neighbor. Quimby was rolling around in the grass, giving herself a back scratch, all four legs stretched to the sky. “She’s the happiest dog around,” my neighbor said. “Yeah, and we don’t even give her treats anymore,” I said wryly. I proceeded to tell him about our failed training, the kitchen cabinet, and the 15 pounds.
Later that evening, there was a knock on my door. It was my neighbor, holding a bag of dog treats, the good kind…with bacon. “Put these in the cabinet and give her one every so often, whether she deserves it or not. Otherwise, what’s the point in hoping?”
This Thanksgiving, may we be filled with the kind of hope that perches itself in front of an empty kitchen cabinet. May we remember the millions of creatures, and especially the children, who go to the kitchen cabinet every day to find them empty. And may we all be the kind of neighbor who shows up at the door with treats, the good kind. Because what is hope if not that thing which comes to us when we need it, and even when we don’t deserve it?
PleaseGrace 