Once a month, we’re pursuing sight and viewing the dailyness of our lives with fresh vision and fresh spirit.
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It was late, the boys were in bed, and we were watching a Netflix show about King Arthur.
When there are no little hands grabbing his fur, I lay Sam down beside me and begin to shed off the outer coat with the razor-comb.
Gray, white, black, gristly hair fills the tan plastic bag beside me. The hair from his back is softer, but from his tail it’s the most coarse handful of fiber I’ve ever held.
Travis found Sam on a rock. He found him a few weeks after I flippantly said, “If we ever have a dog, can it be a husky?”
He found him a few weeks after my heart uttered this quiet request, God laughing in delight at the future, planned to the kindest detail.
Sam’s a vacuum-cleaner of a husky who eats Isaiah’s raspberry and tortilla chip crumbs off the floor of the dining room.
He’s our protector and our fierce guardian, and he sleeps at the foot of our bed every night as we slumber.
He used to roam our backyards, hunting squirrels and eating birds.
Now he watches people and their puppies pass by the balcony.
Do dogs dream of a better time? Do they close their eyes and imagine great adventures or squirrel pies?
My great adventurer of a dog has been a constant reminder to me of fierce love– our “wedding gift from God,” we’ve often called him. From the top of a rock to the hearth of our home, each one of them– he’s ours.
He’s getting older now, we see little signs of it. And as he sheds his fur, I shed something small with every stroke of the blade:
I shed the worrisome thoughts of the day;
I shed fears of future time;
I shed my grief;
I shed shallow breaths and take deep ones.
And I watch this beautiful beast, resting at my side.
Our constant companion for over six years, our Sam.