If God Were a Dog

I walk. He runs.

He leads. I follow. He waits. I catch up. It’s a reliable rhythm.

If God were a dog, then trust, faith, and loyalty would reveal themselves in simpler ways.

They might look like a soft, brown-eyed glare, begging to be seen for what hides underneath a fluffy coat of contrasting colors.  They might look like waiting on the canal trail, just ahead, until my feet catch up.

I walk. He runs. He leads. I follow. He waits. I catch up. It’s a reliable rhythm.

There’s something undeniably magical about the thump-thump of a dog’s tail on a hardwood floor. But my dog has no tail. His eyes tell the story instead. A knowing look. His nudge, damp nose, red dirt still clinging, reminds me of the unconditional loyalty found in the quiet demeanor of a four-legged creature asking for nothing more than companionship and consistency.

Every day, it’s the four o’clock walk. He lets me know. No clock required.

Sometimes it’s just a truck ride. His paws hang over the half-drawn window, wind pressing against his face like a benediction. It’s all he needs. It’s all I need too. A small, treasured gesture unfolding in the middle of the daily grind.

His jubilant leap when I come home after work, another sacred gesture. No matter how long the day has been, I am greeted as if I’ve been gone forever. And forgiven instantly.

In imagining God as a dog, I begin to see the landscape of an ordinary life differently. Divine, but not unreachable. Faithful, but not loud. Something woven quietly into the garden of a life well lived.

My dog’s name is Beau. Some days, I’m pretty sure he must be a god.

Together, we thrive.