Four-Legged Lessons in Love

 

Napping with Milo--his favorite place to sleep was on my chest or on top of any other piece of clothing that smelled like me. 

I've never been much of an "animal person." 

I know, lock me up, I'm the heartless lunatic that never gushed over someone else's puppy or cat or whatever small creature they had with them (babies included). 

From a very young age, I was babysitting other people's children and watching other people's animals, and here's what I learned: animals and children consume your life. 

What I tried to explain away as just my personality not being compatible with high energy animals or fears of not being a good enough parent, really just boiled down to selfishness. And I am an incredibly selfish person.   

I covet my alone time, my space, and I viciously defend the corners of my life nobody can see or touch or know anything about. I love quiet and peace and feeling no obligation to talk to anyone. 

My ideal weekend is backpacking in the woods completely alone, surrounded by birds and occasional deer who couldn't care less what I am doing. 

And so, you can imagine my surprise when, without thinking, I scoop up a 2-month-old puppy wandering in front of my apartment one dark Saturday night. 

My colleague stood beside me, eyeing me and the dirt-coated ball of fur in my arms. "Are you going to keep that?" they asked. 

I looked down at the shaking configuration of skin and bones, pushing its nose in the crook of my arm. "What else am I supposed to do with it?" I asked. Picking up the puppy may have been impulsive, but putting the puppy back in the street where he was surely going to die would be deliberate and cruel.

So, I did what anyone else would have done--I kept him. After my colleague wished me good luck with a chuckle and a shake of their head, I brought the puppy inside and gave it a bath. 

It was clear from the lack of fur, sores, and scabies that this puppy had probably been born on the streets and abandoned as the runt of the litter. I had no idea how to "own a dog" much less fix a very sick one. 

The night I brought Milo home. He fell asleep quickly after I gave him a bath. 

I called my sister and brother-in-law and surprised them with my latest impulsive decision. I played it off as nothing big, told them I wasn't even sure I would keep him, and said maybe I would find someone else who wanted him because, after all, I am not an animal person anyway. 

But that night, as the puppy cried and whimpered all night, I found my heart growing soft. And as much as I tried to play off getting attached, I spent hours looking up the perfect dog name until I finally settled on Milo which means peaceful or merciful. 

The next day I took Milo to the vet and was told that in addition to having scabies and worms, he also had anemia. I was given medicine and sent home. 

The days that followed are kind of a blur. I spent very little time sleeping and much time holding Milo who loved the smell of my clothes and only wanted to be sleeping if he was on me or on a piece of my clothing that I had worn recently. 

I began imagining what Milo would be like when he got better, stronger, healthier. I imagined him going on runs with me, cuddling with me while I read, and simply being a companion. 

But there were moments of frustration, of tears. I remember calling a friend and just crying on FaceTime while I held Milo wrapped in a towel because every time I walked away from Milo he would cry, but I was so scared of getting scabies that I didn't want to hold him for long periods of time. 

There were moments when I was going to the vet every single day for a week, thinking that this isn't what I thought this would be like, wishing I had never picked him up in the first place. 

I remember when Milo began vomiting every time he ate and then eventually refused to eat anything at all. 

I remember laying on my kitchen floor while he laid on my favorite tye dye shirt, begging him to eat so he could get better, wondering why I cared so much about a dog that just the other day I had fantasized about putting back in the streets. 

And then Milo died, and I cried real tears because I learned the love that little puppy that I never wanted in the first place. 

And as I packed up the collar and leash that Milo hardly got to use, donated the bag of food Milo never ate, and threw away the cardboard box he used for a bed, I realized that this is the kind of love that we are called to exhibit as Christians and the same kind of love that goes against the very grain of our nature. 

The kind of love that keeps giving when we get nothing in return. Love that chooses to give when we might get hurt. 

I knew there was a possibility Milo wouldn't make it. I knew there was a possibility he would never get better. I knew that choosing to get attached to him came with a very real possibility of heartbreak. 

Ephesians 2:2-3 says: "And you were dead in the trespasses and sins in which you once walked, following the course of this world, following the prince of the power of the air, the spirit that is now at work in the sons of disobedience--among whom we all once lived in the passions of our flesh, carrying out the desires of the body and the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, like the rest of mankind." 

To love God, a spouse, an animal or a child is not natural for us. Our nature is selfishness, indifference to the needs of others, and the quintessential romantic comedy character--terrified of commitment, caring about someone until the point it doesn't benefit them anymore, and allowing their selfishness to justify being unfaithful. 

It's embarrassing to admit, but I used to think that those who decided to get married or have kids were somehow taking an easier route than choosing to be single, which was only me trying to make myself feel better about being single by putting others down (sin is really ugly, isn't it?).

But I now realize that it's actually much easier to be single and allow your selfishness to remain unchecked. You don't realize how deep your self-centeredness runs until you are asked to put yourself aside for a spouse or a child. I now realize how much of a sacrifice of self it requires to vow your life to another, to surrender your body to the needs of a child, and give up every sacred moment of space, time, and silence.   

So, where's the hope when all of us are just selfish little goblins screaming about "my precious" anytime anyone tried to pull our coveted alone time from our clutched fists? 

Ephesians 2 continues on and says: "But God being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ--by grace you have been saved--and raised us up with him and seated us with him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus so that in the coming ages he might show the immeasurable riches of his grace in kindness toward us in Jesus Christ. For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast" (vs. 4-8). 

Our only hope to love how Christ calls us to love is through Christ; through his example of such selfless acts of love toward us on the day he was hung on the tree for our sins, and every single day since. 

It's through being so astounded that he chooses to love us and even shower us with blessings when we haven't taken the time to pray or spend a single minute with him in months. 

It's through his life-transforming power that gives us a new heart--removes our heart of stone that refuses to love, refuses to trust, refuses to let anyone inside, and gives us a tender heart of flesh that chooses to love even when it doesn't give any rewards back and feels like it requires more of us than we have to give. 

And so for the seven days that God allowed me to know Milo, he taught me some lessons in love that will last much longer. 

You are loved and you are not alone, 

S