Gone Astray

Through woods and weeds and winding roads
we spent the midnight hours
searching all the likely paths
and whistling in the dark
the three familiar chirps
that brought him to our side
for thirteen years.
Called his name but not so loud
the quiet windows heard.
Gravel crunching, tires roll,
flashlights beaming to and fro
as if some prison break occurred.
But in the glair the only signs of life
were the startled glowing eyes
of a cat or coon or ‘possum
traipsing in the night.

By one o'clock, a dreaded thought
broke like an egg in my mind...
For cats and coons and 'possum
too often find their fate
on whining roads by morning light,
and inside dogs who've lost their way
fare even worse it seems.

All this I know too well.
For once before, quite long ago,
I cared... and carried home
a little dog who looked
as if he lie asleep
along the curb,
and such a task can make
a grown man weep
in the corner of a shed
where the shovel leans.

This time, my wife stayed up ‘til four--
calling at the door each time she passed,
and I slept at an open window screen
listening through the night.

At sunrise, I searched again
through woods and weeds--
but especially along the winding roads.
Nothing.

But then at nine from nowhere
he came hobbling to our porch,
eyes begging for an open door,
trembling legs, whimpering sighs,
his white coat--cut and groomed
just five days before--
was muddy and laced in burrs.
Warm soapy water in a tub,
staring eyes, caring hands,
rinsed and patted dry
with whispered soothing scolds
for giving such a fright,
he curled in a blanket on the couch,
and slept from noon to night.

15,333/495W.PM.

Isaiah 53:6  "All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the LORD hath laid on him the iniquity of us all."

The first picture I took today. The second is from Christmas 2009 and what I used on the Craigslist "Lost and Found" item I posted before going to bed.

Attachment

In our post-postal world, the word "attachment" has come to mean a document or picture that is being sent along with an email. We click on the paper clip icon and "attach" the digitally stored file to a digitally created note and with a single digit, we press the send button and our words and attachments fly through time and space.

Whether electronic or hard-copy, this is the easy kind of attachment—pages pinched and paper-clipped at the corners with little care, entrusted to the frail grip of an elliptical twist of wire.

The harder kind of attachments are ties formed in the pinches and corners of time and strengthened by the twists and turns of life. These attachments are bonds of affection and love. Ironically, they feel strongest at the thought of loss or when we sense the frailty of our grip. We enter such attachments voluntarily, eyes wide, knowing full well that we are embracing the responsibility to care and the need to be cared for. It’s a simple arrangement, but with such care can come a kind of fear so tangible that we are encouraged to cast these cares on Him who taught us how to care in the first place.

I woke last night at 1:00AM and spent the rest of the night and morning with a stack of old towels and Kip, our ten-year-old West Highland Terrier. He is very sick. Two nights ago, he inadvertently got into a small Ziploc bag and ingested some Advil pills. He “got sick” 15 times through the night. The next morning our vet informed us that Advil can be fatally toxic to dogs—especially to small breeds like a 14-pound Westie.

The doc gave him an anti-nausea shot and instructed us not to give food or water until his stomach had been settled for 24 hours. Unfortunately, Kip, was sick four more times through the second night. This morning I took him in for observation and an I.V. to prevent dehydration. They'll keep him for at least two days.

And so it was that two mornings before my daughter’s wedding—perhaps the most celebrated of human attachments—I had a house full of females in tears about their dog. Attachments come in all sizes.

.

Good news. The vet called a while ago to tell us Kip is doing much better. The news brought the first of the smiles we’ll share from now through this weekend of old and new attachments

... and the happiest sort of letting go.

.My 3 girls and little Kip. October, 1997