Month: November 2024

It is one of the strangest things in the world to me: my dog’s love of all things smelly.

I can understand her love of fresh pizza when it comes through the front door on a Friday night.  I get why she scurries under the kitchen table before we have even sat down at it ourselves.  She loves straight-out-of-the-oven meatloaf even more than I do.  But six-day old leftover spaghetti that I probably should have thrown out, and would have, if not for conscience and the fact that I haven’t gotten to the grocery store in seven days?  It doesn’t seem to matter to my dog.  It’s all good to her.  She pokes her wet nose out from her hiding spot, pushing back the edge of the tablecloth to catch a whiff. 

When we go on a walk, she cranes her neck left to right, sticking her snout upward to where only she knows, because I can’t see what she’s smelling.  But the way her paws start to dance, her rear end jigs, she looks like a kid in a candy shop whose just been told to pick out as much as she wants.  I think she’s smelling the wind carrying the fragrance of the pine trees lining the street up ahead.  Dogs are so good at appreciating what they can’t even see.  Fifty yards down the road and around a bend we haven’t even reached yet is my neighbor walking her dog.  They’re coming towards us, and we’re going towards them, but only the dogs know it.  They smell the scent of a friend not far off and can hardly contain their joy.  O to live like a dog!

She will stop for the smallest piece of brown leaf that has been stepped on and broken apart in dryness.  She will get herself caught on the prickly of a rose bush, though the roses themselves have long gone away for winter.  She will not, will not, pass up a dead squirrel.  I honestly don’t know who stops for a rodent flattened to the pavement. She gently breathes in and out all around what is no more, like she is honoring a fallen comrade. 

When my neighbor and her dog finally catch up to us, she will immediately go around to the backside of her fellow canine to see what good smell is coming from their butt!  In any other company, my dog would be shamed for impropriety.  But out here, the whole world is her domain, where every sight, every smell—the good, the bad, and the ugly—are all signs of life to be praised.

Later this evening, after the turkey has all been packed away in Tupperware, I will sit down to recount the days blessings, and there she will be, my dog, at my feet, running her nose up and down my pant leg.  Does she think I’ve stored a piece of pumpkin pie in my pocket for later?  No. Amazingly, mercifully, she has found her favorite smell of all.

“The earth belongs to God and all that is in it, the world, and those who live in it…and God has declared it all good,” says the Good Book.  If you don’t believe me, come take my dog for a walk.  You won’t be able to come back home without saying, Amen Amen Amen. 

This is my father-in-law and me.  
Everyone should get to meet him.  
A couple months ago, 
he moved into a nursing home.  
It's been a hard change, 
though he doesn't say that.  
He mostly says please and thank you, 
and mostly thank you.  
In the evening, when I can, 
I go visit him and I feed him his dinner.  
Few things could do more to remind me 
of the sweet miracle of life 
than to feed an old armless man 
his favorite meal of the day.  
Tonight, I also gave him a fresh shave and haircut, 
and then covered his head and face 
with his favorite smelly lotion. 
Then we sat and listened to Christmas music, 
and said nothing, 
except every now and then he would say, "That's nice."

Every day, we all need to find someone 
who can use the kind of love we can give, 
and then give it.  If we're lucky, 
it won't require more than a spoonful of meatballs.  

On my way out to my car it was raining.  
It hasn't done that in a month.  
I just stood there and said thank you. 

"The Day After"

Turns out, kindness was 
not on the ballot yesterday. 
Turns out, we were never 
casting a vote for kindness or no kindness. 

For I woke up this morning and there it was, 
right where I left it yesterday on my kitchen table—
my favorite mug, empty now, ready to be filled again. 

Kindness. 

I walked outside and it was still hanging in the morning sky, 
a silvery white crescent in the west refusing to go down, 
a soft orange glow in the east refusing not to arrive. 

Kindness. 

I turned around and there it was, bounding down the steps 
behind me on four furry legs, a ball in its mouth, 
its snout pointed upward at the soft breeze. 

Kindness. 

I walked back inside and there it was in my son's bed. 
At 13, already it is taller and lankier than me, 
but somehow it still looks like me. 

Kindness.

I am so glad you are still here, I said.
So young, yet such an old fool, it replied.
Where else would I be if not where you are?

I went back outside and pointed my feet in every direction.