Of the Magi

Christmas, 2017. Age 12.

Yesterday I said 2018 had not been a bad year personally. Not exactly true. Bandit blew a knee. Then after treatment he stopped eating, ended up on IV, had his guts x-rayed daily and needed months to recover. No stairs now. Flowing hair shorn to patches. Our walks are shuffles and take forever. He’s deaf in one ear, has cloudy eyes and, despite what he says, I know he’s in constant pain. The clock runneth out.

Yes, only a dog. Of course. We’ve had him eleven years and he was of indeterminate age when we met. Thirteen is the best guess. Might be more. He won’t tell. At least he’ll be with us to shed copiously through one more winter.

Having an old animal is trying and emotional at any time. As you age, it’s worse. Life is a series of gains and losses, punctuated by those events that change everything. Marriage. The birth of children. The death of parents. Fading pets. Each spring that arrives brings your own autumn closer.

So Bandit is the fifth. Three shepherds, one husky and this sad, hurt, shaved shelter beast who turned into a magnificent Chow. The day I walked into that humane society I was defeated, rudderless. He was abandoned, caged for months. We left together.

On this blog I have said canines represent good. No greed, malice or venom. It’s rare to find one unwilling to offer loyalty and love. They value play, routine, company. Watch a service animal for a while and witness one of creation’s best marriages. Seems we all found each other. Therefore it’s no coincidence when you come to this site, you will see a dog.

What does this have to do with Christmas?

I give thanks to have him another year. Jesus knew. Life is the gift.