“But even supposing he did remain a little more like a child than the rest of us. Is there anything particularly horrible about being a child? Do you shudder when you think of your dog, merely because he’s happy and fond of you and yet can’t do the forty-eighth proposition of Euclid? Being a dog is not a disease. Being a child is not a disease. Even remaining a child is not a disease.” - G. K. Chesterton, Four Faultless Felons
The photo above is of a German shepherd mix whom I have been walking regularly for several weeks now. We know one another. If he is out in the dog-runs when I arrive (meaning that I cannot walk him that day), he recognizes me (I have my wife for independent confirmation of this) and begins prancing in front of the cyclone fence as if to say, "You gonna come get me? Why aren't you gonna come get me?" It has been over a week since our schedules coincided so when I walked up to his kennel yesterday morning with a leash in my hand, he went slightly berserk, leaping off of all four paws at once and clearing the concrete floor by a good three feet.
But our recent walk has me pondering Chesterton's observation about perpetual childishness, or childlikeness.
Readers of this blog (both of you) might know that I am in the habit of re-christening the canines I pal around with at the shelter. The Gulf Coast Humane Society names each dog they take in, and I have been impressed that all of the people who work there seem to know them by name. I have often strolled by one of the paid employees and had them call to "my" dog by name without a moment's hesitation. I think that shows admirable care and indicates why adopting from this shelter is the way to go for anyone looking for a dog.
But I can't help myself: I have this sort of lit-nerd's fetish for playing with names, trying to get them right. When I read on the card that this animal went by the title "Buddy" I rejected it at once. "Buddy"? How about "Pal" or "Sport" or even "Fido"? Looking at his big, squarish head and taking in his enthusiastic demeanor, I dubbed him Falstaff, after the riotous companion of Shakespeare's Prince Hal in Henry IV. And the name seemed to work, seemed to have its merits. After all, it is Fat Jack who keeps the young prince sane, in touch with joy. When Prince Hal becomes King Henry V and banishes Falstaff he turns into a grim warrior who tears about Europe conquering places and negotiating political marriages in very bad French. I sort of look at dogs as doing the same work for us: keeping us from getting so serious that we may be very efficient conquering machines but we're no fun anymore.
But the name ultimately didn't fit. Falstaff is huge, both physically and psychically. a "horse-back breaker," a "huge hill of flesh." But this dog is medium-sized, sub-Labrador in bulk and height, and his demeanor is calm and obedient. Falstaff might work for an exuberant St. Bernard or an English mastiff, but not for this fellow.
So I have changed his name to "Francis." No, not the Little Holy Man of Assisi, though I could make a case there. Instead, I refer to Brother Francis Gerard of Utah, a scribe in the Order of St. Leibowitz who lived several centuries from now in the high desert country lf what is now northern Arizona or perhaps New Mexico. As you may have guessed from the chronological confusion, he is a character in one of my favorite novels, a post-apocalyptic romp called A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter Miller. In the first part of the book we follow the career of this physically diminutive, emotionally fragile, yet somehow incredibly tough young monk from his extended stint as a novice through . . . well, I won't tell you through what because I don't want to spoil the story. Enough now to say that he lives a life of obscure obedience and tenacious weakness and does good for everyone around him and ultimately for the world at large without their ever knowing it, and indeed without suspecting it himself. This dog strikes me as that kind of animal, the kind of whom Dean Koontz wrote that "A good dog is one of the best of all things to be."
Which brings us back to Chesterton.
Jesus (who, according to Dallas Willard, could easily have done the forty-eighth proposition in Euclid but forebore because he'd've had to do it in Roman numerals,) recommended a perpetual nurturing of the child-nature in us. "Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted , and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven." (Mt 18.3) Once we get away from the idea of the Kingdom of Heaven as a place we go when we die and understand it (as Jesus evidently did) to be a spiritual state with practical realities in which we can live at any moment, the whole thing makes more sense. It isn't that Jesus stands outside some massive set of pearl-hewn gates like the bouncer at a trendy nightclub and cards applicants to make sure they're young enough. It is this kind of thinking that leads to reams of sermons (I've preached several myself) aimed at helping serious-minded Christians manufacture fake ID's to fool God into thinking we're younger in soul than is in fact the case.
No. I think the Master simply means that Kingdom life involves a certain freedom to embrace our dependent position, our contingent existence. Of course we take orders because, like a good dog, we sense that there are people around us who know better than we do, at least about a given situation. Of course we respond to any kindness with the equivalent of a lick and a tail-wag, not because we think that settles the account (dogs don't think in those terms and neither do kids), but because we feel genuine gratitude. And if we find a way we can contribute - bringing in the newspaper or chasing off an attacker or something - we do so gladly, not, once again, to earn our keep, but out of the sheer fun of the thing. We obey and celebrate while paying little attention to whether we're ahead or behind in some sort of competition, and one day we die and people around us act like we were a big deal. Which can't hurt us or spoil our joy, because we aren't around to see it.
Nor does this make a person (or a dog) servile. The White House announced yesterday that U. S. Army Sergeant Salvatore A. Giunta has become the first non-posthumous Medal of Honor winner since the Viet Nam war. In October 2007 Giunta rushed under enemy fire to rescue a wounded comrade who was being taken captive. I think Sergeant Giunta's attitude is downright doglike. The proud member of Company B, Second Battalion (Airborne), 503rd Infantry Regiment had this to say about the award: "This respect that people are giving to me? This was one moment. In my battalion, I am mediocre at best. This shows how great the rest of them are.”
Isn't that one reason we love dogs? Isn't that what they all seem to say about us? "Look how great she is! Wow! And him, too! Oh, and look at that guy!" They gaze at all of life like Miranda at the end of "The Tempest" as she exclaims,
O, wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,
That has such people in't!
And they never reach a level of sophistication that leads to the next line by the jaded magician Prospero, "'Tis new to thee."
So my sincerest thanks to my buddy Francis. And if you have a dog, be sure to thank her today. And if you don't, come on down to the GCHC and walk a few.
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