Laddie

One of my favorite heart books is “Divine Nobodies” by Jim Palmer. Two and a half years into my journey outside of organized religion, it remains among my very few favorites.

For those who haven’t read it, the book is divided into chapters drawing spiritual journey parallels with personal experiences and folks in Jim’s life. One of these ‘folks’ is Laddie, although Laddie had fur and four legs.

“The Black Hole of Intimacy: Laddie the Dog” was the hardest chapter for me to read because it was so sad. The theme of this chapter was Jim’s struggle with depression.

Laddie the dog was Jim’s childhood friend. Jim rescued Laddie from his abusive older brother’s neglect and harsh treatment, and began to care for Laddie himself. The two of them helped fill the empty spaces of hurt and loneliness in each other. Jim wrote, “Laddie and I arrived at a certain understanding: we needed each other if we were going to make it.”

When Jim’s family had to move to an apartment, his mother informed him that Laddie was going to have to go to a new home. I could hardly read the description of Jim and his sister going to leave Laddie behind in a new home. Such loss from separation from someone you love is truly a bottomless pit, in and of itself. It can seem that God simply isn’t big enough to compensate for how deep the pain goes.

As Jim so eloquently said in this chapter, “I have not easily let go of the secret hope that somehow it could all be magically erased or made right or the wishful expectation that someone or something could compensate for the sadness.” I know this feeling all too well myself.

Many years have passed since this time in Jim’s life, and almost three years have passed since I read Jim’s story of himself and Laddie. I remember at the time thinking I wish that there was some answer to these awful, unfair situations that seem like they’re nothing but a black hole of sadness that has made a permanent home inside a human heart.

Meanwhile, last month I found myself coping with feelings of emptiness and loneliness with a few too many boxes of chocolate covered cherries and viewings of “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.” This is a long season of no close local relationships in our lives, and the desire to reach out and really make a difference in someone else's life was eating at me day and night.

I suppressed a tired sigh as we rumbled down the road toward a relative’s house for an annual obligatory Christmastime visit. This one was particularly uncomfortable, someone who I never knew how to talk to and wasn’t ever really sure whether they even want us to come visit. Visits with these relatives usually consist of hours of sitting and chatting sporadically as a TV blares in the background, and this one was no different, but for one thing. As we turned into the drive, I noticed a young black Labrador Retriever lying in a bare spot on the snowy, soggy front yard.

The little guy got up and wagged his tail as we got out of the car. We patted him, being dog lovers. As I scratched behind his ears, he plastered himself to me and groaned in a way that caught my attention. His groan was so desperate – hungry for food, for warmth, and most of all, for attention and love. I noticed how thin he was. He seemed to say, Please, please help me. Please love me.

We asked the relatives about him, and they offhandedly replied that he was a stray who had wandered into the yard and they were planning to take him to the animal shelter tomorrow. We started to eat lunch when the ASPCA commercial with Sarah McLoughlin came on TV. I put my plate down and tried not to cry. I saw my son do the same.

I went outside in the cold and sat with the dog hungrily nuzzling my lap. Then I thought of my longing to make a difference to someone. I knew what we were going to do. We decided that that someone this Christmas was this sad-faced little dog, with his fuzzy puppy face and skinny ribs sticking out of his poor shivering body. When it was time to go, we put him in the van and started on the long drive home.

We realized that doggie might go to the bathroom on the car floor, so we stopped at a store to get a plastic cloth for him to lie on. As we tried to urge him to move so that we could spread out the cloth, he cried and trembled all over from head to toe, like Wile E. Coyote after taking an “Earthquake Pill.” We realized that he was afraid we were going to dump him out in the parking lot and leave him there. This was probably how he had ended up abandoned the first time.

I stroked his trembling body, and told him through tears, “No one is going to hurt you. No one is going to leave you. You’re safe with us. We’re going home now.” We all petted him and talked to him, and he soon went to sleep on the floor of the van and didn’t make a peep the rest of the way home. He is truly an amazing little guy. As many whining, yelping, blow-outs-from-both-ends episodes as I’ve had taking our other pets to the vet over the years, five hours in the car without a hitch with a scared young pup was more than a small miracle.

The picture at the top is our new furry friend. He is fed, he is comfortable. Already the sinkholes behind his ribs have almost disappeared. He has new furry friends to play with (my other dogs). He has humans who pet him, romp with him and scratch behind the ears where he can’t quite reach well enough. He has room to roam and run, a dog’s paradise. He is no longer abandoned, no longer without a name, no longer without a home.

Although he is young, he is like an old dog in some ways. He is gentle and wise, thoughtful and melancholy. He sits for long stretches and is clearly in deep thought. I think he remembers what life was like before, and is able to ponder where he is now, and be glad. He once was lost, and now is found.

I called to make a vet appointment for him the next morning. The receptionist asked the dog’s name, and it came to me instantly.

“Laddie,” I said. “His name is Laddie.”