Today, my dog is my religion.
She will teach me to be humble, kind, protective and always practice good hygiene.
She will be alert to all sounds and smells that come our way,
hopeful that a friend will visit,
or at least a worthy adversary.
Ravens are not to be tolerated because they steal marrow bones.
She will trust me and nuzzle into me, snuffling with deep satisfaction,
not talking about sacrifice, or damnation, or surrender or divinity,
but never holding back a wag,
that would be a sin.
As we walk together our story of the day folds us in its arms, affection growing as we tend it with food and play.
She reminds me it’s OK to eat anything you want, and as much of it as you want, so long as it’s not broccoli.
She accepts that we all have to wander off by ourselves from time to time,
but only for a little bit.
She will demonstrate with elaborate care the many ways napping can be prayerful, saying a firm yes to the grace that has delivered the place on the carpet awash with sunlight, yet again.
She will do all of this without speaking a word or being foul tempered.
I will lay down tonight with her days benedictions resting in my heart,
imbued with sainthood because of her.
I fall asleep meditating on the revelation of a mountain stream on a summers day,
when you have a dog with you.
No religion has been truer than a day with her.
