Racy Gracie is still learning what’s qualified as appropriate chewing material.

There’s

just no accounting for happiness,

or the way it turns up like a prodigal

who comes back to the dust at your feet

having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?

You make a feast in honor of what

was lost, and take from its place the finest

garment, which you saved for an occasion

you could not imagine, and you weep night and day

to know that you were not abandoned,

that happiness saved its most extreme form

for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never

knew about, who flies a single-engine plane

onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes

into town, and inquires at every door

until he finds you asleep midafternoon

as you so often are during the unmerciful

hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.

It comes to the woman sweeping the street

with a birch broom, to the child

whose mother has passed out from drink.

It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing

a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,

and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots

in the night.

       It even comes to the boulder

in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,

to rain falling on the open sea,

to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

I’ve been meaning to share that poem by Jane Kenyon. In moments of sadness, I sometimes turn to some of the poetry of Anne Sexton, a person who seemed to have been drowning in emotional pain since the day she was born. Lately though I’ve turned more instead to Kenyon’s work. Their respective poetry, I think, makes for valuable comparisons.  Both women were intimately acquainted with loss and grief, and in powerful ways.** The difference is: Anne finally gives in (She killed herself by carbon monoxide poisoning in 1974). Jane, though she stumbles along in suffering at substantial depth, catches glimmers of light and glimpses of beauty as it really is. I mean no judgment here at all: pain is pain and it would be wrong to dictate its character to another person.  Both women work with beautifully, sometimes heartbreakingly true spiritual themes. Only one finally recognizes the realest of the real for who he is, and so she waits that out.

**See Anne Sexton’s poem 45 Mercy Street for a representative view of her forever longing to get back again what she’d after all lost for good.  Listen too, to Peter Gabriel’s beautiful song in honor of Anne. That’s Mercy Street, from his 1986 album So. Hear also Grey Street from Dave Matthews Band’s 2002 Busted Stuff.

Note what forbearance the little chap displays when it comes to the one who pours the kib.

Several weeks ago my therapist told me that one of her clients confided to her that though she thinks herself fairly sophisticated and basically decent, she knows that when she gets alone with just herself in the booth, she couldn’t actually bring herself to vote for an African American person. Of course, many Americans, if pressed (some after all need no prodding whatsoever) would admit to feeling the same way. But last night, just enough of us acted with more moral wisdom than has ever been seen in the history of American politics.

I find this level of change to be really encouraging. And it leads me to hope even more that the so called “pit bull” and all dogs will one day be judged by the content of their character rather than the misconceived image of their breed. On Election Day, the shelter had a special on select animals’ adoption fees. Some long time residents had cute little 50% savings cards with themselves pictured in little Uncle Sam style top hats attached to their cage doors. Many of them were pit bulls.

As I was opening the kennels, families came in pretty steadily. I could feel their anticipation–their hoping for a good dog at a good price. And as usual, I could see their faces fall as they walked down the corridors to realize that most of our dogs are pitties. This sounds innocent enough–maybe a poodle would be nice–so what, right?  Well, but what lies beneath the public’s disappointment in pitties is dreadfully ugly–it is fear and hatred propagated by the violent acts and ignorant acquiescence of anybody but the pitties themselves.

Anyhoo, all this to say that I believe a change is going to come. One day pitties will be respected and loved for the the uniquely loyal, utterly joyful, brave and beautiful dogs they are.

By the way, my presbytery’s committee did not pass me through to receive a call. Racy Gracie’s time was basically up. Though these are extremely painful and remarkably inconvenient circumstances for me and my family, we’ve officially adopted her and things are going well. It is such a blessing to look over and see her dreaming cozily in her own bed. Here she is on the surgery table at the time of her spay operation. Of course I was there all along.