Ms. Bea

I wasn't an animal person. Once my teenage years hit (or maybe just my first weeks of deodorant in sixth grade), I gave up contact with most animals. After all, I needed to smell good. I'd spent hours on my rather tall, wave-like bangs. And I was already struggling to put on mascara by myself. How could I afford to pet an animal? My family had two different dogs over the course of my childhood, both of which were fairly harmless, and they did bathe, but I was, again, too busy trying to maintain perfect hygeine, remain put together, and somehow win over prince charming. I couldn't afford to be slobbered on or trampled down by some furry, hyped-up pooch.

And, several years later, nothing had really changed. Until this Thanksgiving with my family. I kept my mouth shut, but I wasn't terribly excited about having my parent's new four month old goldendoodle running around the house. Aren't three kids (6 and under), two uncles, an aunt, another blind dog that poses little threat to anyone, and two grandparents enough under one roof?

It wasn't the first time that I had met Ms. Bea. I had met her briefly when she was about 9 weeks old and fortunately, I was with my kids, so they could properly dote over the new pup (Lauren and Nathan loved her). She was definitely cute, but still furry and wet, and just like a swimming pool, isn't she better left at grandma's house?

So back to Thanksgiving. Well, if you know me, I am still the early riser in the family. Sleeping late has never been in my vocabulary, even during those glorious slumber party years (I remember fake snoring at most of those so that someone would wake up and I could go home). So Friday morning after Thanksgiving I woke up about 6:00. My father, the other early riser, had gone hunting so I was making the coffee for everyone else. Within minutes of pouring the first cup, I hear these pitiful whimpers from the basement, and I knew it was HER. I knew that she needed to go out. I also knew that I could pretend that I didn't hear her.

That didn't happen. Something in me (very deep inside, almost invisible) wouldn't let me ignore her and I trudged downstairs to let her out, not real happy about the prospect of having my alone time interruptted by a needy, hairy 4 month old.

After she finishes her business, we head back in. I can tell that she is just as excited about the sunrise as I am. But unlike me, she doesn't really want to be alone. She runs around the room (no cries or pants or whimpers, thankfully) and begins to play with her basket of toys. I opened my book and began to read, trying hard to ignore my companion. I didn't want to give her any unnecessary attention. But suddenly, without warning, she leaps into my lap, licks my face, lays down on her back, and stares up at me.

At first, I was rather put out. Wasn't she quite presumptuous? I mean, I am not a dog person, and I am fine with that. But, she didn't move. She lay there, belly-up, looking at me without a flinch. Now I know that most of you are thinking, "she just wanted a belly-rub". And you may be right. She did get her belly-rub, don't worry. But the funny thing was that, as I thought about it later, she didn't look at me with a question on her face like "hey, will you please scratch here." She looked at me with a statement: "You will be my friend." It wasn't with arrogance or vengeance or spite. It was a simple look that stated a simple truth. I just stared back at her sort of dumbfounded.

And so, now, I have a dog friend. I'm not buying her a Christmas present yet or anything, but I still have a dog friend.

Sometimes when I think about that few moments with Ms. Bea, I think about Jacob wrestling with God and crying out, "I will not let you go until you bless me!" I think of his claim to the covenant promises of his fathers. I think of his boldness toward His Caregiver. And I think of Ms. Bea.

Or sometimes I think that Ms. Bea is very much like another Hound of Heaven that I know...and I am glad that she chose to be my friend.