What You Bring to the Fight

A great big dog and his owner arrive at our front door yesterday.  This neighbor has stopped by to visit on the front porch, but while fumbling with his gloves, he lets the leash loose.  The enormous dog squeezes past the screen door and rockets into the house.

Our cat, Louie, sits in the foyer, minding his own business.  He’s licking a paw; he’s yawning. 

And then, in a blur of fur and teeth, the dog nearly devours my cat.

Louie barely escapes.  He then exits the scene in what I think is a cowardly retreat.  But no!  That cat has hidden himself from view momentarily.  While hiding, the cat puffs out his fur in a magnificent display and returns to fight. 

Huge canine beast verses tiny (but now very fluffy) kitty.  There’s no chance, folks.

But Louie knows he can dominate by speed, sharp claws, and clever maneuvering.  Size does not matter when you know what you bring to the fight.

We intervene and stop the brawl.  But all night, I’m laughing about Louie’s bravery.  I’m chuckling about how he hid away, like Clark Kent in a telephone booth, to make his Superman transformation of fluffed-up fur that wasn’t even impressive. Did he not realize how out-sized he was?  Did he not think of the danger?

It’s ridiculous to take on such a monstrous dog.  But in kitty logic, size rarely matters.  Besides, Louie knew that my husband had his back.  And this was his turf.  No dogs allowed. 

That cat has flair.  His confidence, despite his size, amazes me.  Might I enter my mental and spiritual battles with the same fervor?  The enemy looms large, but I know what I bring to the fight.  I know who has my back.  Kitty logic might just save the day.

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Am I a Husky or a Collie?

I recently walked in the woods with my neighbor and her Siberian Husky.  While other owners let their dogs run free in the woods, she keeps hers tight and close on a strong leash.

“I wish I could let him run free,” she says sadly.
 
“Why can’t you?”  I ask, watching other dogs bounding off into the distant cluster of pine trees.

“Because Siberian Huskies have a strong urge to run but no homing instinct.”

If she let him off the leash, he’d run and run with no regard for traffic or danger.  And he’d never return home. 

Unlike other breeds, the Siberian Husky wants to run away and lacks that inborn, mysterious, and often astounding ability to return home.  Other dogs can find their way back to you even if you drop them off hundreds of miles from home. Tales are told of Collie dogs, for example, who, when adopted into new families, have to be kept inside because their homing instinct is so strong they will return to wherever their previous home is even if it’s in a different state.  

Collies have an urge to run, but they always know how to find their way home. 

Let me be more Collie than Husky!  The urge to run–to follow the whims of an adventurous life– makes me dash off to fulfill that career possibility or that dream.  I’m a Siberian Husky racing off into the wild. 

Praise God for the leash! 

I wonder if when I feel most restrained by my circumstances that it’s really the firm hand of God not letting me loose.  He knows I’d run straight into danger with no ability to find my way back.  That tether on my life that I think keeps me down is actually the lifeline that keeps me safe, loved, and home.  

(Photo of Siberian Huskies by Randi Hausken Photos)

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What if I were loyal?

I had a sublime experience last night that carried into my morning so powerfully as to eclipse any other possible flair for the day.

I entertained a woman who owned a service dog. This black lab sat all night at our feet, waiting to take action in case my new friend had a seizure. The dog can predict up to two minutes in advance if the woman will have a seizure, and then he alerts her by tapping his nose on her thigh. Then the dog leads her to a safe location, helps her to the ground, secures a perimeter, and then stretches out on the ground beneath her head until the seizure ends. It gets better. The dog can also go get help by opening doors, retrieving cell phones, and even finding a dominant presence (usually an alpha male) in a room who can call 911.

I looked at that dog lying peacefully at our feet. No way.

Guess how he knows. Smell alone. The dog senses slight variations in the way my friend smells. Before a seizure, a chemical emits from glands on her neck that the dog perceives.

What? I looked again at the dog. I had to know more.

Apparently, the dog is just like other dogs: he plays, he runs, he eats, he poops. But at all times, he’s tuned in to my friend. He senses any variation and takes immediate action.

I felt overcome by awe. I also felt something that surprised me.

As the woman talked about the dog sleeping close beside her, waiting with eagerness for her to emerge from a shower, or just noticing the slightest change in her smell, I considered how thankful I’ve been for people who “tune in” to variations in my moods, my health, or my well-being. I remember difficult times in my life when friends sensed a variation in me, led me to a safe place, tried to make me comfortable, and called for help if I needed it. Am I that loyal to my family, my neighbors, my coworkers and students that I can sense a variation, offer help, secure a perimeter, and provide comfort? What does that look like for me to “tune in” to people in my life?

When I’m not myself, I’ve had a friend say, “You don’t seem right. Can I help?” Am I close enough–tuned in enough–to people in my life that I can observe these things? I want to be.

Living with flair means tuning in to others, providing help and comfort, and getting help for them if I need to. Living with flair means I notice subtle changes in others that might indicate something deeper. I want to be the one who secures a safe spot. Maybe one of my friends needs to rest on me until an episode passes. It’s flair to be that loyal. It’s not just for the dogs.

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