I keep my dog on the top of my dresser.
I know it is a strange place to keep a dog. But she is there, for the time being,
only because I do not quite know where to put her.
Taasha was my dog, a little Lasha Apso.
Taasha is dead. She now rests in a small cube box, surrounded by shrink wrap.
It contains her ashes. It sets on my dresser, right next to my jewelry box.
The plain-white, plastic covered box, contains a greater treasure than the
imitation wooden pirate's chest that holds my life accumulation of cuff links, tie tacks,
rings, watches and other assorted collectibles.
Taasha had a rough entry into my life. She followed Shannon.
Shannon was a man's dog. He was a big Irish Setter. Long flowing red hair.
Pleasing personality. If you could ever call a dog pretty. Shannon was
pretty.
Shannon died of bone cancer. We vowed we would never again get a dog. The pain
of loss was just too great.
But our daughter wanted a pet. Goldfish died to fast. We did not have any
better luck with canaries. So one Saturday, off we all went to the SPCA to look for
a dog.
Taasha had her people smarts on that Saturday. Al the other dogs laid back as we
walked through the kennel. Taasha (who was born Taffy but that name did not stick
once we claimed her ....sorry about the pun) ran to the front of the cage and acted like
she really was glad to see us.
Even after she came into our house, I tried to ignore her for a while.
She had a bad attitude. She would try to run away whenever you opened the door.
And she would nip you. Not face to face when you were looking. But when
your back was turned, she would bite your bottom.
Time changes things. I grew to love that dog. Many a night you could come into
my den, find me sprawled in my recliner asleep and Taasha curled up on my chest sleeping
too. We learned to walk and snore in harmony.
Then after sharing quarters with her for over a decade, the vet during one routine visit,
informed us she had a massive tumor and it was inoperable.
I found myself just trying to enjoy Taasha those last few months. Laughing at how
silly she looked when she rolled on her back and kicked her legs in the air like a puppy.
Tickling her in that special spot that made her back leg kick. Rubbing her long silk
ears, just letting her know how much she was loved.
The end came in a flash. One night she was walking across the kitchen floor and
collapsed.
She convulsed and then was unable to get back to her feet. Her breathing was
labored. She could not recover, cancer had eaten too deep inside her.
When we took her to the vet that night. He quietly put her to sleep. The body
remained in the doctor's office. Then a week later, a little square box, about four
inches by four inches, was given to me. That was all that was left of that 30
pound bundle of bristling fur and attitude I had come to love.
So I sat the box on the dresser six months ago, and there it still sits.
I looked at that box tonight. And my mind made my body feel things. That rough
little tongue running across my face looking for a sweet spot. Her soft body
rubbing against my leg trying to get my attention. Her shrill bark letting me know
someone was at the door. And yes, even the sharp prick of her teeth, when they
grabbed into the flesh, behind your back, when she had one of her attitude attacks.
The box is not big enough to hold what Taasha was.
And I thought, that box is not different in purpose than a coffin. The coffin, although
infinitely bigger than the box on my dresser, is not big enough to hold person who has
gone home. It is nothing but a container for their shell, like the box is a
holder for Taasha's ashes.
God has allowed us to have these clay shells for the brief time we are on this earth.
And when it is time to shed these earthly cloaks, and head home to the Father, all we
really are leaving behind are shells.
Sometimes on long walks in the woods, you will see what appears to be a snake. Looks
just like one. Until you take a stick and move it a bit. Turns out to be nothing but
a snake skin. Something the snake no longer needed, so it shed it and left it
behind.
There comes a time that we no longer need the earthly bodies that we wear. So God
helps us to shed them. And we leave them behind for other people to dispose of.
Some are reduced to ashes like Taasha. Others are buried intact. But in
any case, they only are left behind because the occupant no longer lived there.
We are sad whenever a shell is abandoned. We miss the person who used to reside
there. If I still can feel sadness for my dog, how much more sadness can I feel when
the departed was one who took part in my upbringing or in some way shaped or nurtured my
life.
That is when I have to remember, that God said all He is doing is calling us home.
And that Jesus said God already has a place prepared for us.
My wife always complains when I decide to drive too long a distance in a day. But
now, I think she realizes, I only do this when the end destination is home.
That is because I know at the end of the road, I will have a place to lay my tired
head, regardless of when I arrive.
God has made clear, when we are tired and weary of this world, that He has prepared a
place for us. For in His House there are many mansions, and one of them has our name on
it. So even if we get tired and weary as we wind our way through this world, we can
keep pressing forward for we know there is a resting place at the end of the road.
I am not sure how much longer Taasha will sit on my dresser but I know as long as she
does, that little white box will make me smile with thoughts of the dog it represents.
And It will help me remember that the road home to the Father is not the end but just the
beginning. It especially will make me remember that there has yet to be a coffin made big
enough to contain one of our loved-ones.
For I always will remember, there was a lot more to Taasha than what that little square
box could ever contain. And Taasha was just a dog. How much more it
would take to contain someone made in God's image and shaped in the blood of his Son,
Jesus Christ.
Such a container has yet to be made...I doubt it ever will
