If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you’ll remember that Lola is our dog—a 14-pound Cavalier King Charles who thinks she is royalty. Lola knows one trick; she can sit up on her hind legs and beg. She does nothing else but sleep, eat, and look pretty, and she does them all quite well. Her sole contribution to the family is to allow us to pet her. She is, however, a source of many life lessons.
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Lola has dental problems. If you don’t know, Lola is our dog—our very spoiled dog. When we are out of town, we generally board her at the vet’s office and they usually do a brief checkup while she’s there. The last couple of times they had told my wife that Lola needed to have her teeth cleaned. (Due to her very bad breath—even for a dog—we knew it was true.)
So the last time we were gone, my wife authorized them to clean her teeth. When we returned home, we discovered it was worse than we thought. In the process of the cleaning, Lola lost several more teeth (she’d already lost some). Due to some infection or abscess, they pulled some others and had to do some stitching. Needless to say, it was way more expensive than we anticipated.
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Don’t get me wrong, I love dogs. But there’s something wrong with a nation that treats pets like kids or even like royalty. I’ve been in a home where the dog had a chair at the table and a plate of his own (on the table) at every meal. I’ve also heard the stories of people who have spent tens of thousands of dollars for complex medical treatment—chemotherapy, cancer surgery, and all sorts of stuff.
This morning, I read about a new indulgence for pets that isn’t expensive, but is a little weird—yoga for dogs. The actually call it “doga” (pronounced DOE-ga). It’s all about stretching and relaxing with the family mutt. (Want to read the article? Click here.)
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I’ve been a “bachelor” for few days now. My wife is away visiting her sister. That means I’m doing stuff I don’t normally do–like caring for Lola, our dog. (I’ve blogged about her before.) Lola loves routine.
Each morning when the alarm goes off, my wife turns it off and sits on the side of the bed. Lola comes, lays at her feet, and rolls on her back so Dianna can scratch her belly. After that, Lola jumps up and heads for the back door to go out. For the last few days, a key player in that routine has been out of town.
This morning, I awakened to the alarm and turned it off, but Lola didn’t budge. I tried the “key” words (“potty” and “peepee,”), but Lola just stared at me. I tried them again in a high pitched voice. (I’ve always contended that dogs respond to vocal pitch rather than words. And, yes, I felt stupid.) She didn’t move a muscle. I shrugged.
A few minutes later I started to make the bed. Lola was on it by then and wouldn’t budge. I was about to order her off the bed when she rolled over in that “pet my tummy” mode. I obliged for a minute, but as soon as I stopped she jumped up and ran toward the backdoor. She was ready to go out. I laughed. The dog is so committed to her routine that she wasn’t about to go out until I fulfilled my part.
Dogs aren’t the only ones who love routine. We human beings can be pretty committed to our own.
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In a few days, my wife Dianna and I will celebrate our 30th anniversary. (Applause, please.) Our love has thrived through two children, two cross-country moves, two career changes (one each), one chronic illness (mine), and a million other exciting occurences. But, for the last several years there has been another woman in my life.
I first met her when she was down and out–a runaway that had been captured and then incarcerated. Honestly, I wasn’t too impressed when I first met her. She was beautiful, a fact no one disputes even to this day, but she had a bit of an attitude. She was not one to raise her voice, but she clearly wanted to be in control. She laid down the law: “I’ll see you when I want to–and if I don’t, I won’t.”
Her attitude was a little disconcerting and more than a little humbling. But, she was undeniably intriguing. Before long, I was committed to her, even though she was by no means committed to me. I knew she didn’t really belong to me, but I paid the bills nevertheless. And, believe me, she knows how to run up the bills!
This thing has been going on now for about seven years, and the activities of the other day are typical. I had come home from work, tired and worn. Frankly, I needed a little TLC. Dianna was preparing dinner, so I decided to give the other woman an invitation to join me. Normally, she would jump at the chance, but this day she refused to respond. I called, but she did not answer. Aggravated, I gave her a bit of a scolding and tried to console myself.
However, after dinner, Dianna left to go to the store. As soon as she closed the door behind her, the other woman pounced. She was all over me–begging for my attention and affection. Reluctantly, I complied. Setting aside my own agenda (something she would never do for me), I stroked her soft hair. When she left my side, I sighed. I knew this relationship would never be more than an occasional fling–always on her terms.
When Dianna came home, I couldn’t wait to tell her what happened. She didn’t mind. In fact, she found it all amusing. Why? Because this “other woman” is only 14 inches tall (or thereabouts). She is also a real dog–a Cavalier King Charles, a member of the terrier family. Her name is Lola. And she’s the most maddening kind of woman–selfish, self-centered, and beautiful. But, for some strange reason, I keep paying her bills.
So what is this insanity that keeps me tied to her? I like to think of it as grace. In reality, it may be more of an illness–”suckeritis.” Still, in a very imperfect way, our relationship reminds me of God’s love for me. In spite of all my moods and ‘tudes and selfish ways, He keeps paying my bills. I think He calls it love.