This morning I read about an effort to bring comfort to the people mourning in Boston hospitals. People who lost limbs, or still have shrapnel embedded in their flesh are moving past shock and into grief. In the hopes of easing that suffering a group in Chicago sent a flock of service dogs to come wag and slobber at their feet.

 

Probably the retrievers will not know what to say. They have not been through a similar experience, and cannot offer those compassionate words "I've been there." But there is a chance that their warm bodies and furry faces will lessen the loss. I expect they will be immune to the anger and revenge so contagious to us humans.

 

Sometimes I find myself at the spongy landscape between me and a hurting friend. My steps can easily sink into pity, or else I prance too blithely over the mud with optimism that ignores the pain. 

 

One time when John had been attacked not with teeth but with accusations I sprang like a pointer who heard a duck. 

 

"What did he say? I'll give him a piece of my mind."

 

John hesitated. 

 

I suppose it works better to follow the lead of a spaniel. Next time John gets riled I will curl up and put my head in his lap.

Photo by Jenny Stein

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