Autumn in New York

I walked across Central Park today to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It's closed on Mondays, which  I had forgotten. So I didn't visit great works of art, at least not framed ones. But I did see the most beautiful Irish Wolfhound imaginable. He was big-boned, well-built, magnificent. A different kind of work of art and greatness. I asked to pet him, his owner acquiesced, the dog graciously accepted my attention.

Then, as I walked back across the park to the west side, I felt myself slip into sadness. Or rather, there was suddenly a sadness on me, a beautiful and apt Irish expression. The sadness was on me, not in me. I miss my dogs. I usually feel this as an inner glow of joy for having had them at all. Sometimes, though, I feel the weight of their absence, heavy, grey, and sad.

I don't remember what I have written about them, but here is what they were: Shekinah, a Belgian Tervuren named after the feminine aspect of God, was courage and willfulness and incandescence. Wisdom 7:22 - 25a actually describes her perfectly, and here is some of it:

For within her is a spirit intelligent, holy,
unique, manifold, subtle,
mobile, incisive, unsullied,
lucid, invulnerable, benevolent, shrewd,
irresistible, beneficent, friendly to human beings,
steadfast, dependable...
quicker to move than any motion...
She is a breath of the power of God...

Shekinah was pushy. She taught that a car ride is an adventure, a walk is pure joy, and that sometimes it is appropriate to stand your ground, growl, and show an elegant sharp tooth.

My Shadow, a Belgian Sheepdog, was a quieter soul, devotion embodied. Faithfulness. Trust.  This dog had a noble heart and attitude, friendly to all people, but adoring only one. This was not so as to be adored in return, not like we do when we say "I love you" so as to force the reply "I love you, too,"  but rather loving  because he couldn't help himself, because he could do no other, a constant outpouring of love. He made more friends in his brief time here in the city than I had ever dreamed possible, as people gravitated to him, and felt good in his presence. His verse is Acts 18:9b - 10:

I am with you. I have so many people that belong to me in this city that no one will attempt to hurt you.

These are the companions I am missing today, on a crisp autumn day, when the sunlight is golden, the air in the park smells of earth and leaves,and none of the dogs are mine. It seems to me, though, that I still have my dog-inspired tasks: Christ calls us to love - can't I be as joyous as Shekinah? and as devoted as my Shadow? It's the least a human can do.