Category: Identification

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Dogs, Horses, and Maddie

gregoryjoel

I went to the farm Sunday afternoon to water the newly seeded beds. It may have rained a lot of last week, but new seedlings require consistent water to germinate well. Besides, I like Sunday afternoons. I enjoy the solitude of the day. It’s quiet except for the occasional bicyclists whizzing down the Trinity Trail, encouraging each other as they ride past.

I noticed a grey compact car parked toward the back of the empty lot in front of our barn. It’s not unusual for people to park in the vacant lot and walk down to fish or walk the trails so I paid it no mind. I drove down to dump compost before returning to open the barn and getting the generator out. As I unlocked the barn, I caught a glimpse of an older man sitting in the grass next to the tree in the vacant lot. He grabbed my attention because he didn’t look like most of the folks going fishing or the homeless people that frequent this part of Sylvania Street and the Trinity Trail. He was dressed in a sport shirt and jeans, his hair neatly combed, and gave off a fatherly aura, if there is such a thing.

It was then I noticed who he was talking to. It was a beautiful black and brown German Shepherd. I looked back at the barn door quickly as if my eyes had intruded on a very important and precious moment. I don’t know anything about that man or his dog, but I do know about something about men and their dogs (no offense to my wife or all the other female dog lovers). There was something deeply personal and tender about what I had seen. There was a sense of sadness in the picture. It was as if he were saying goodbye to an old friend. Could it be that he was spending his last day with his faithful friend? I have no reason to know this was the case except for the feeling in my gut. A tear blurred my vision as I opened the door and stepped into the barn.

I hurriedly loaded my truck with the generator and some tools and left as quietly and as quickly as I could. I went about my chores but couldn’t shake the image I had just witnessed.

I’ve always had a special relationship with all the dogs who have graced my life. I’m convinced that the world needs more dogs (and horses but that’s another story…) and less people. It’s no surprise to me that dog is simply “god” spelled backwards. They share the unconditional love quality of the Creator. I needed to be around such unconditional love more than ever. That’s when Maddie, and a couple of months later Missy, came to live with me.

Maddie was half Dachshund and half German Shepherd. I’m not sure which one was the father, but I’m convinced it was not the Dachshund. I can’t figure how that would’ve worked if it was. She looked like a Dachshund with a semi-German Shepherd head. My first thought was that she was so ugly she was cute. That changed soon enough.

 Maddie was eleven years old when she came into my life. Her owner had lived at Samaritan House, a transitional housing place for homeless folks with HIV/AIDS, and been the caretaker for the house dog, Maddie. The two became inseparable. When her owner moved into her own place Maddie went with her. Unfortunately, her owner passed the same year I found myself at Samaritan House and getting clean from too many years of addiction.

Her owner’s sister brought Maddie back to Samaritan House because the only other alternative for her was the shelter. I volunteered to keep her, and we bonded immediately. She became my dog.

Three months later Missy came into our home. I was doing some landscape work for a friend. She had two dogs: one a Boston Terrier and the other a Sheltie named Missy. She had taken Missy in from a breeder and then discovered she was incredibly allergic to Missy’s long hair. She asked if I would like to take her. I said yes without hesitation even though I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to have her in my little apartment. Moreover, I wasn’t sure how it would work with Maddie. I’d figure it out. When my friend said her good-byes to Missy, I opened my truck door and Missy jumped in. She never looked back.

I finally moved from Samaritan House to my very own place. It didn’t have a fence, but I didn’t have to worry about the dogs. Missy kept Maddie safe and would always herd Maddie back to the house when she wandered off. She got along well with Maddie, but Maddie made sure everyone knew she was the alpha in our little pack. Maddie would stand at the food bowls, while Missy waited patiently for Maddie to finish eating. Maddie would empty her bowl, walk over to Missy’s bowl, and lick the top and sides of the food bowl just to show she could.  She wouldn’t eat any mind you, but she made it quite clear who was in charge. When bedtime came Maddie slept by my head and Missy slept at my feet.

Maddie was eleven years old when she came to live with me. I knew when I took her in that I may not have her long. Despite the tendency of Dachshunds and Shepherds to have hip and back issues as they age, Maddie never had those problems.  She may have slowed a bit, but she was full of energy, bringing joy and love to my home.

\When I moved in with my “adopted brother” Craig a couple of years later, she wormed her way into his heart. The dogs who would “have to stay outside” still slept with me and often took on the role of service dog to Craig. He had severe diabetes and both Missy and Maddie warned me when his blood sugar dropped too low. He often told me how special they were to him.

It was 2011 and the morning was unusually hot and humid for the early Spring. I began my morning ritual of letting the dogs outside and making the morning coffee. Missy bound out the back door, but Maddie stayed in her bed. She had given up sleeping with me a few weeks earlier. She could no longer jump up on the bed and preferred her little mattress on the floor next to me. She had been sleeping more than usual, but at the ripe old age of sixteen she was entitled to take her time waking up.

I finished my morning ritual and headed off to work. Missy was at the door when I returned. She was running back and forth to my bedroom, baking for me to follow. Maddie was still in her bed. I reached down to love on her when I noticed she had messed on herself. I gently picked her up, cleaned her off, and placed her on the bed next to me. Missy sat at attention with a concerned look on her face. Maddie hadn’t eaten in a couple of days and now she even refused the dog treat I offered her. I knew it was her time. I began to sob uncontrollably, hugging my sweet Maddie as she laid her head in my lap.

I agonized over the decision I knew I had to make. Maybe she had caught a bug, or it was something she ate and she’ll be better in the morning. I knew it was simply wishful thinking. She had lived a long full life, loving those of us who God put in her path – at Samaritan House, with her caretaker, and with me. She was a rescue dog who really the rescuer. I had been given time with her I never expected and now couldn’t think of life without Maddie. Even Missy could sense that the end was near and come over to love on Maddie and I.

I didn’t sleep much that night. I checked on Maddie frequently through the night to make sure she was comfortable. When morning came, I told Craig what I had to do. He sat down with me in our morning coffee spot – his garage wood shop – and asked if he could pray for us. We prayed together; both choking back the tears. He shared my pain and knew he couldn’t fix the problem. He could be there for me. I’ve been blessed by the people God has put in my life as well. That point isn’t lost on me.

I got showered and dressed slowly. Every moment felt like a weight keeping me down and struggling to just “be”. I wrapped a blanket around Maddie and gently picked her up. Missy followed us to the truck and stopped short. She knew that it would only be Maddie and I leaving today. I think she knew that only I would be returning.

I drove to the Humane Society shelter – the same one Maddie had come from all those years ago – and explained our situation to the receptionist. I couldn’t afford a veterinarian, but I couldn’t let Maddie suffer any longer. She was so kind and said to simply donate what I could at another time. She called the veterinary tech while I left to bring Maddie from the truck.

We went to a private room behind the office. There the tech explained to me what he was going to be doing, that Maddie would simply go to sleep, and asked if I wanted to stay with Maddie. There was no question. I had to be there to love her until the end. He then brought out the syringe and administered the shot. “It might take a few minutes”, he said, “because her metabolism has slowed so much.” I wasn’t sure if it was good or bad. I didn’t want to leave Maddie, but I felt myself breaking down. Maddie’s breath began to slow. She looked at me one last time as I held her.

Maddie took her last breath and died in my arms. The tech said to take as much time as I needed. The receptionist brought me a note, thanking Maddie for her years of service to the HIV community and with it a note about the Rainbow Bridge:

“Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together….”

Author unknown…

I don’t know if the man I saw was going through these same feelings or the same situation. What I do know is that whatever he was going through his faithful companion would be there until the end. That’s what dogs do.

One of my favorite author, Brennan Manning, tells a story of watching a dog being dumped on the side of the road. As the car sped off, the dog ran down the road chasing the car, pursuing his owner with all his might even though he was rejected and abandoned. God is like that with us. Regardless of how much we have rejected and abandoned Him he pursues us with His unwavering love and forgiveness, wanting to be with us every no matter what.

I guess that’s why Dog is God spelled backwards…

Activism, Bible, Christianity, Community, Composting, Connection, Culture, Faith, Fighting Poverty, Food Equality, Food Insecurity, Food Justice, Gratitude, Hope, Identification, Listening, Marginalized, Neighbors, Opal's Farm, Prayer, Quotes, Relationships, Responsibility, Service to Others, Social Justice, Spirituality, Thoughts From the Porch, What Can I Do

More than a Number

gregoryjoel

She was walking down the road to the farm. I couldn’t make out who it might be. It wasn’t unusual to have new volunteers park at the gate and walk down. The “No Motorized Vehicles” sign doesn’t apply to the farm volunteers, but new folks don’t always know that.

It became clear that she wasn’t a volunteer as she got closer. Her pink top wasn’t a blouse but a cropped tank top. Her pants were a dinghy tan and her feet bare. It was a warm winter day, but winter, nonetheless. Maybe it was all she had. The clothes obviously hadn’t been washed in a long while.

The arms were quickly swaying back and forth, hands pointed outward. It was the addict’s walk – “schizting” and talking to herself.  In my old life I would’ve called it the “hoe stro’” and laughed at her. Today, it simply made me sad.

It may have been fifteen years since I found myself in her shoes – or lack of them – but I still have enough street sense to know to keep my eye on any addict. Stuff tends to disappear quickly. Addicts are quite resourceful when it comes to the “getting and using and finding means to get more”. I figured she was going to ask for money, but she walked on by without so much as a word or a sideways glance.

Photo by Arthur Yeti on Unsplash

I continued working, making sure to keep her in my peripheral vision. She stopped by the old compost pile at the south end of the farm. She looked carefully as she started walking slowly around the pile. Then it hit me – she was looking for something to eat.

I pick up culled produce from a couple of local grocery stores and add them to the compost area each Monday. It makes for great soil amendments, but I’m always saddened to see the amount of food that gets wasted each weekend. I realize stores aren’t supposed to sell products past their “Sell by” date. I know how people are about “ugly” produce – stuff that isn’t picture perfect. Much of what I pick up is still good to eat.

Many times, I’ve made food boxes to give away instead of throwing it all in the compost. Most Mondays I leave a good box of produce next to the pile. The farm is surrounded by hidden homeless camps and I don’t want it to go to waste. Maybe that’s what the young woman was looking for. Maybe she learned that something to eat could be found by the compost heap.

She had stopped circling the pile and stood there; sad eyes cast toward the ground. I put down my garden hoe and began walking towards her. She didn’t see me at first. She stood silently and never looked my way. As I got closer, her face came into focus. She must have been quite an attractive young lady at one time, but now her face was dirty, tired, and weathered, her eyes sunken and hollow. She probably wasn’t over thirty but looked to be much older. Hard living tends to age one quickly.

She looked up and saw me walking toward her. Her eyes showed fear and she hurried toward the river. One needs to be careful on the streets, especially a woman. I didn’t want to scare her, so I stopped and watched her disappear down the levee, headed for the river.

I wished there had been a box of food there. I wished she’d stopped for a minute and let me offer her some of the snacks I keep in my truck. I wished that she – that no one – had to pick through a compost pile just to have something to eat. I hurt for her.

She soon reappeared, made it up to the Trinity Trail, and walked out of sight. I went on about my work, but I couldn’t shake the image of her despair and shuffling searching. The lines on her face were burned into my memory. I couldn’t help but wonder whether she had a home to go to and people who cared about her. My heart broke for her. Empathy is a bitch sometimes.

When I first started fundraising for Opal’s Farm, I threw out a lot of statistics about food insecurity, food “deserts” (a misnomer but I’m not going to get into that now…), and our city’s low-income neighborhoods and how the farm would make a positive impact on it all. Unfortunately, it’s hard to see past a statistic, to see the face of someone else. I can’t empathize with a statistic.

Statistics are great, collecting data important and necessary, but it’s easy to see large numbers and be blinded to the individual. Quantification and identification aren’t solutions. Statistical data generates a lot of sympathy (usually in the form of pity), meetings and commissions but little action…

The young lady searching for food in the compost is more than a statistic. So is the old man I see regularly outside the neighborhood convenience store asking for change or simply something to eat. So are the kids who rely on a free school lunch to make sure they have something that day.

It’s easy to be overlooked or lumped into a category that makes them “the other” if one is just a statistic. Numbers can be overwhelming – “there’s nothing I can do so I’ll let someone else take care of it”. Just say “There but for the grace of God go I ” and go on about business…

There is something each one of us can do – a starting point for all our problems. We can stop. We can see the face behind the number. We can listen. Statistics don’t move people to action. People move people to action. Listening moves people to action. Seeing people as children of the same God and the same humanity as we are moves people to action.

In the oft-quoted passage in Matthew 25, Jesus says,

“I was hungry, and you fed me, I was thirsty, and you gave me a drink, I was homeless, and you gave me a room, I was shivering, and you gave me clothes, I was sick and you stopped to visit, I was in prison and you came to me… Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me – you did it to me”

I need eyes that see – really see – and ears that listen – not just hear – to do something for the “overlooked or ignored”. I begin the process of identification that allows me to serve the God in each and everyone of us. I can’t think of a better way to live…

Beatitudes, Children, Christianity, Communication, Community, Culture, Faith, Gifts, Grace, Gratitude, Identification, Labels, Recovery, Relationships, Spirituality, Transformation, Uncategorized, Writing

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gregoryjoel

It’s hard to believe that summer is over. Although it will end officially on September 21st, Labor Day weekend is the traditional start of Fall. The kids have returned to school and we can hear the loudspeaker from the school up the street, greeting students to the new day. I know it’s 8:00 AM when I hear America the Beautiful and the faint hum of students saying the Pledge of Allegiance. I don’t know if they do that elsewhere, but they still do in White Settlement…

The other day, a fellow blogger, Stephen Black, posted an article titled “It’s Not God’s Fault that Christians are Idiots” (www.fracturedfaith.com) I’ve been thinking about that question a great deal over the few days. I’m uncomfortable with the word ‘Christian’ and being labeled as such. What does that really mean anyway? Often, it has negative connotations. Stories of spiritual, emotional, and physical abuse by Christian ministers and church officials are reported regularly. ‘Evangelical Christians’ are frequently associated with extreme right-wing politics and somewhat self-righteous individuals who leave a lot to be desired when it comes to loving God and loving others – the foundation of following Jesus’ teachings. Maybe if I identified myself as a ‘Jesus follower’ it would be better, except that’s what ‘Christian’ meant in the original Greek. Etymology can be frustrating.

I’m told that ‘Christian’ was originally used as a term of derision for those making up the early church because they lived differently from the rest of the Roman Empire. The early Church didn’t quite buy into the whole ‘Caesar’ as god thing. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but Jesus himself said, “You’re blessed when your commitment to God provokes persecution. The persecution drives you even deeper into God’s kingdom. Not only that – count yourself blessed every time people put you down or throw you out or speak lies about you to discredit me. What it means is that the truth is too close for comfort and they are uncomfortable”. (Matthew 5.10-11 The Message) The sad thing is that religious folk seen to be some of the most vehement prosecutors of other Christians. Maybe truth is just a bit uncomfortable…

So, I’m labeling myself a Christian, whether I like it or not. I’m a ‘Jesus follower’. I believe in grace and redemption. I believe in a God who is loving, and as my wife says, sweet. He created me as one of his kids and, like kid, I simply want to be like Dad. I believe, that despite the fact life has hardships and difficulty, He always has my best interest in heart. I want to share the joy, peace, and freedom I’ve found, so in that sense, I guess I’m even an ‘evangelical Christian’. When I read the daily newsfeed and see what others, who call themselves evangelicals, are doing with the appearance of self-righteousness and false piety, I want to run and hide. I don’t want to be associated with the likes of such. Still, I remain a ‘Jesus follower’, a Christian.

It took me a long time to be okay with calling myself a Christian. I had my own demons and past to deal with. I tried to do everything my way and the results were rather dire. Ask anyone who crossed paths with me then. Such is a life run on self-centeredness, obsession, and compulsion. I finally asked for help and help led me to a real relationship with God. That led me to a lot of frustration with ‘Christians’, since I found that relationship outside ‘church’ walls. Some of you know what I mean…

What I know today, with some degree of certainty, is that the people whose lives touched mine, and the way they lived was nothing like the way I was always taught. I had a religious upbringing, and that really sucks. I learned about piety and fearfulness when what I really needed to know was how to have a relationship with God. In one of my favorite passages, Jesus was questioned by a bunch of religious folks about his propensity for communing with tax collectors, prostitutes, and other ‘sinners’ (my kind of crowd!). His reply was, “Who needs a doctor: the healthy or the sick? Go figure out what this scripture means ’I’m after mercy, not religion’. I’m here to invite outsiders, not coddle insiders.” (Matthew 9.12-13 The Message). I’ve always felt I was ‘outside looking in’. Maybe that’s why I took advantage of the invitation to follow the Rabbi, and maybe that’s why I want to be like Him…