Going to the Dogs

My daughter and I spent some time hanging out at the local dog park last night. Without a dog. Our normally docile border collie, Brandy, reacts poorly to having her hind quarters sniffed by others. The few times we've told ourselves "this time will be better," we've left in a hurry to avoid what we imagined were disappointed glares from both the dog owners and their well-mannered pets. It's a heartbreak.

To get closer to the action, we strolled in dog-less, heads held high, boldly pretending we belonged. Because they cannot resist my dog-whispering child, one hound after another decided to sniff around our hind quarters, leaning into our legs for a scratch behind the ear before loping off to join friends of all shapes and sizes.

Earlier this fall, we offered an outdoor worship service that included a blessing for pets. I fret about these things, worried that no one will come. Those concerned about allergies or tripping or excess silliness or germs (all legitimate!) might decide to stay home or worship elsewhere. What if the animals cause harm? What if it's too hot or too cold or too windy? What if the only sound to come out of the electric keyboard is a harmonica or chirping bird? What if Oscar's cat hair ends up in the chalice of wine or Fido decides to make our worship hour and the church yard the time and place for his big moment?

As people began to gather with their dogs and cats, I muttered to myself: "We're not doing this next year." Meanwhile, my twelve year-old daughter, whose own beloved dog is too unpredictable to bless, began a joy-filled refrain that lasted through worship and beyond. "I love this service." "I love this service." "I love this service."