Threads

What is it that some of us love about animals so much? Why do I, a college-educated professional and parent, find my heart so deeply intertwined with the lives and hearts of animals? I could move on to contemplate more important things leaving Nicholai's life behind; he was after all, just a dog.

There's the fact that we need animals to live. For millennia they've provided humans with food and clothing, and in the most recent tens of thousands of years, with working partnerships in hunting, herding, and protection. We've domesticated some animals and formed alliances with other once-wild animals to our mutual benefit. So, I guess the first answer is simple. Even if we don't eat animals, we still need them to live.

I depend on animals for more. Whether I'm feeding the squirrels in the back yard (a plentiful population, especially without a prey-driven black dog guarding the perimeter), clucking at the chickens with left over corn-on-the-cob in hand, observing a spiny reptilian bearded dragon lounging on a rock, or enjoying a snuggle on the couch with my favorite canine companions, there is soul feeding that goes on for me. Each of these critters, wild and domestic, captive and free, connects me to the complicated labyrinth of the living world, removing me – if just for a moment – from the world created solely by and for humans. When life seems ridiculous in its difficulty and unfair in meting out challenges and blessings; when words and expectations pollute candid exchange of emotions between people, I find solace in the honest company of animal companions. Their unconditional love weaves me firmly into the world by shining threads; strands so slim as to evade notice, but strong as steel and silk.

A quilt hangs in our dining room stitching connection between lives over distance; threads speaking quietly of movement across seasons and years and decades. The quilt's maker was once a friend but our ships sailed apart long ago. Yesterday I learned she committed suicide just a few days ago. I have no knowledge of the struggles and pain that guided her hand and after five and a half decades of living, no arrogance with which to judge her actions. Only a tender awareness of fibers tugging at my viscera and a fleeting image of filmy white cotton fluttering in the breeze.

I've questioned the value of my individual life, wondered at the worth of putting one foot in front of another in the hardest of my times. I am grateful for the wordless love of plain dogs. Love that anchors my feet to grassy fields and sandy beaches, weaves my heart to the first crocuses of spring and the last crimson leaf of fall, entwines my arms in furry hugs, and knits wet-nosed kisses firmly to my cheek each morning.

Most days, life enthralls me in all its color and complexity. But on some days, the filaments of love offered by a dog are pretty much what get me through.