A peeping tomcat keeps showing up at our house. He peers in the windows he can reach and calls loudly at the rest. Once we found him waiting outside the church doors following the worship service, a small black shadow that followed us home and stuck around a bit.
I know where the cat belongs. But no matter how often I return him, he comes back. He’s a less frequent visitor since the cold arrived, though. Perhaps he’s staying home now.
But another animal has taken his place. A few weeks ago, as I stood outside talking to the Preacher and holding Lois, our almost two-year old grandbean, I sensed movement beside me. I looked down into a pair of friendly brown eyes at my hip level; eyes set in a shaggy black head at least as large as mine.
The dog, inky black, but for a white patch on his chest and a few dappled paws, stank like he’d dug up a cemetery. But I felt no fear. Despite his size, the black Clifford proved a gentle giant. He moved slowly, didn’t sniff in ungentlemanly places and didn’t jump up. When Lois and I went in the house, he curled up outside the front door, tucked his head completely under his hind leg and slept.
He lay there still when our daughter arrived to pick up Lois. Having noticed the addition on the porch, Amanda approached with hand outstretched, talking softly. Our visitor uncurled, sat up, and looked down at her, considering. Then, slowly, he lifted his oversized left paw. They shook hands and he stole her heart.
A few phone calls later, we’d located his owner. The dog, a Great Pyrenees cross, lives on a farm about ten miles from town. Just before the farmer pulled up, hours later, the dog roused and sat waiting. Clearly, he recognized the truck’s voice.
He’d only stayed a few hours, but I felt sad to see him go. Our porch needs a dog, I think some days.
Two days later, he returned. He smelled better this time, seemed pleased at my greeting, found his favourite spot on the porch and snuggled in once more. I called the owner. “He’s back,” I said. When the farmer arrived to pick up his stray a few hours later, a girl, barely taller than her pet, hopped from the truck. “C’mere, Bear,” she called. Wagging his tail, the dog followed.
Who’s to say what brings them, these wanderers? They have good homes. Owners who seem to treat them well. Nevertheless, they stray – a habit that will almost certainly not serve them well forever – one of these has been in the pound twice already, the owner told me.
Lord God, Creator of all, you see every wanderer, both animal and human. You know every path to its end, pleasant or sorrowful. Please keep watch. Send kind souls to point the way. And somehow, somehow, lead them home to stay. Amen.
