The godly care for their animals, but the wicked are always cruel.
Proverbs 12:10 (NLT)

Tuesdays Together is this Tuesday night and it’s “bring your pet” night. Mine is coming, but I didn’t always have a pet to bring to anything.

I did not grow up with a dog in the house. I liked the idea of a dog but my parents did not want animals. The most I could muster was my brother’s fish aquarium (he was the oldest and bought it himself) or one of those little turtles that years later were reported to harbor disease. I also managed to get my own goldfish by landing a ping pong ball into a little bowl of water at the elementary school carnival. They put the fish in a plastic bag, which I walked home carefully, passing by the other winners whose bags had sprung leaks, goldfish flapping away in the puddles that fell with them from the baggie to the hard and unforgiving concrete. I managed to get mine home alive. Every time there was a school carnival, I always won a goldfish. Every time, the fish died. A few times I would wake up in the morning to discover it floating at the top of the water, no gill action, inert eyes open. I would hope against hope that the fish would revive, but after a few days, my mother “took care of it.” I couldn’t watch, but I knew what that meant—flushing it down the toilet.

Over time I accepted that I was not an animal person. A dog was for other people, not me. And when I heard about people struggling with a sick pet or finding care for an animal with an upcoming vacation, or when I saw a pet aggressively licking its owner, or its owner picking up poop from the yard, I felt affirmed. Glad I don’t have to do that. Pets and I were not compatible. This was not for me.

My wife grew up with multiple pets in her home. She has stories of the cats Stinky, Ringo and Puff, and Randy the perfect dog. This was a world I did not know. As our son came into the picture, we let him have a hamster and a guinea pig. Cats were not an option because of my allergies. So, the dog was always out there, a sort of holy grail of pet-dom, to which Lorraine and Philip always heard one word from me in response to their pleas: “No.” The certainty of my “no” was something both Lorraine and Philip grew to accept.

Until I said yes.

How did I go from being a no-dog man to a devoted dad to Sandy and Pongo? It wasn’t that hard really. There was always something, some part of me that wanted a dog, but there were reasons to say no—places to go, things to do, plenty of responsibilities to handle without adding that, but once I did, there was no turning back on this little being looking, licking, depending on me, destroying my shoes but delighted to play with me.

Yes, there are responsibilities, vet visits, spills to clean, walks morning and night all year long. But life gets bigger and richer and more fun, too.

My whole neighborhood is full of dogs and their owners, each of them as devoted to theirs as I am to mine. Our talking about dogs can sometimes wander over into other areas of life—such as my going to church or working at church or going to Bible study or having a small group over or getting to take my dog to church.

When those moments happen, it becomes clear which of these dog-owners is a no-God person.

I want my dog friends to somehow become my God friends. Because a creature caring for a creature cannot really compare with a creature being cared for by its Creator. I just know that some of the people I meet on the dog walks are as foreign to a life with God as I used to be about life with a dog or two. I can see it in their eyes or sometimes they say it out loud. I’m not into that. They aren’t God people like I wasn’t a pet person. I know what they’re thinking or more honestly, not thinking at all, until I say something. God is a good thing for some people, but not me. Whatever helps you is great—for you.

But a no can become a yes. And things can change.

When God comes into my house, I want to be like my dog when I come home. I want to wag my tail, even though I don’t have one. Lick his hand, go for a walk with him, let him feed me, brush my coat, and just sit by me for hours. If I make a mess, and I will, he’s not going to talk about it for weeks on end; I sit away from the place of transgression, he cleans it up and we move on. I forget about it. Back to playing with my orange and blue or lime green ball. I love it when God fills my water bowl. My favorite food is the scraps and crumbs that fall from his table. When the fireworks go off, I run and hide, but he finds me; I can relax when he’s around. He can help me not get ticks, or when I get them, he’ll help me get over them and love me anyway. With practice, I can perform little tricks for him, and he will give me a treat and say something nice about me in a language I can’t exactly understand, but I’m learning. Having him near, knowing that he’s here for me no matter what, well most of the time that’s more than enough, and just about the best there is. It’s a dog’s life for me.

The joys and responsibilities of a dog in my life are wonderful, but just a pale shadow of real life connected to the heavenly Father who feeds barn swallows, dresses up lilies of the field, knows the human tendency to anxiousness, and extends the invitation to come, to seek his kingdom first and have everything we need and more.

I want that for all my dog friends, too. Somehow, I want to help these neighbor friends discover our loving owner, God: Father, Son, Holy Spirit.