I was appointed chief pooper scooper and doggie-sitter while my sister was away on vacation last week. If you’re a faithful BBFF (Blessed Blog Friend Forever) – and I do hope you are – you may recall that I lost my own dear four-footed bestie, Fenway, in January. Sigh. I couldn’t miss him more.
The force has been strong with me lately to adopt again, but alas, not a single road has led to Rome. Yet.
So I figured doggie-sitting my sister’s middle-aged long haired Chihuahua, Bella, and her new Yorkie puppy, Baxter, would satisfy all longings. Right.
After the fact, I’m thinking maybe it cured all longings instead.
Baxter, as it turns out, likes rocks. Although his little bed space is running over with stuffed toys, squeaky toys, and chew toys of every size and texture, Baxter prefers rocks.
He carries one in particular around in his mouth everywhere he goes and seems to draw some strange comfort from this nothing-special, driveway quality chunk of gray gravel. The little dude faithfully carried it with him inside and out, carefully deposited it by his front right paw for safe keeping when he stopped, and did the canine version of caressing it when he finally lay down (which wasn’t often, let me tell you! If we could only harness their energy, puppies would generate more electricity than Niagara Falls).
Listen, I developed some real animosity toward that rock. The ding-dang thing imbedded itself in my foot at least once a day and I couldn’t hide it well enough no matter how hard I tried. It was like Baxter had a GPS on this stupid rock. He went right back to it every time.
Despite all the enriching, enlightening, potentially wonderful toys at his disposal, he insisted on a rock.
Inconceivable. (Nod to The Princess Bride here.)
So after a few frustrating days of unsuccessfully trying to substitute something of actual value for Baxter’s rock, the message I was apparently supposed to get finally sank in.
I have a rock too. Mine’s not a physical rock though, it’s attitudinal. A nasty little boulder that I insist on carrying around with me everywhere I go. It’s of no significant value or actual substance, and it does nothing for me but weigh down my soul and crack my spiritual teeth when I chew on it.
Yet I choose my rock over all the enriching, enlightening, potentially wonderful perspectives Papa God offers.
Why does he insist on keeping this nasty thing? I asked myself while burying Baxter’s rock in the flowerbed. And again when he dug it up and dragged the disgusting, filthy thing back into the house. And yet again when its sharp edges found the tender crevice of my big toe.
Me thinks it’s not the bad habit of a mole-sized mop dog that’s the real issue here.
I can’t imagine how torqued Papa God must be over my own ever present rock. Why does she insist on keeping this nasty thing?
My choices need a little torqueing too, it seems.
My sister’s back home now and I’ve turned Baxter back over to her, rock and all. And I’m working on permanently misplacing my own repulsive hunk of gravel and replacing it with something a bit classier. But I’ve carried it for so long, sometimes I’m not even aware that I’m still clutching it.
P. S. I still have high hopes for another bestie beastie to come my way sometime in the near future. By the way, thanks to all of you sweeties who have sent me links to possibilities; one is bound to pan out soon, I just know it.
P.S.S. Don’t forget about my newest release, Too Blessed to be Stressed for Moms, if you need a unique Easter gift for the sister-moms in your life! And be on the lookout for a new companion journal coming out later this spring.