One of the Greatest Loves
Father Mikey is not a Jesuit priest.
I’m the only one who calls him that.
He’s not related to me.
He’s not even human.
Father Mikey is a small terrier mix.
My father—Edwin Charles, Ned—died when I was fifteen. Alcoholism.
My mother died when I was thirty-three. Heart.
They both went quickly.
Too quickly for certain kinds of love to happen.
Mikey arrived without asking.
All my life, dogs have trusted me quickly.
Listened. Followed. Loved me easily.
Mikey is not like that.
He’s what people call old. Maybe there’s dementia.
Like some men who’ve been around the sun many times: small bladder, stubborn habits.
Most of the time, he wants to sleep.
Sometimes he just stands there, staring into space,
as if something is happening that I can’t see.
When I invite him for a walk, he sometimes snaps at me.
Not vicious. Just: no.
I don’t know if he thinks I’m someone else.
Or thinks I’m about to harm him.
It doesn’t seem to matter how slow I move,
how soft I speak,
how low I crouch.
Occasionally—snap.
I’ve asked him about it.
No response so far.
His young sister, Lola, is the opposite.
She sees me and collapses into joy—on her back, offering everything.
Please. Belly rubs. Love me.
Mikey doesn’t offer much.
He pees on the floor.
He poops on the floor.
Not always.
But often enough that it becomes part of the relationship.
I’m not entirely sure what’s going on.
Maybe he can’t hold it.
Maybe he’s saying,
yeah, you handle that.
I’m done with your expectations.
I’ve asked him about this too.
Still no response.
There’s something in it, though.
A kind of late-life freedom.
I will wear purple when I am old.
I stop asking permission now.
And so we move slowly.
Slower than I like.
Slower than my life has ever moved.
Four hundred times slower than I’m used to.
Six hundred times slower than Lola would prefer.
Step by step.
Pause. Wait. Breathe.
Sometimes we don’t walk at all.
Sometimes we just stand together
while he decides whether the world is worth engaging.
And somewhere in all this,
something in me is changing.
I’m becoming more patient.
More willing to love without response.
Without reward.
Without being seen as the one who is loved.
Jesus taught: love your enemies.
I don’t think Mikey hates me.
Sometimes he’s loving.
I think he’s a little lost.
Maybe in some pain.
Set in his ways.
Living inside a world I don't see yet.
And still, he gives me something.
A chance I didn’t have before.
To care for someone
who cannot meet me where I am.
To clean the floor without resentment.
To wait without demand.
To offer love that isn’t returned in the ways I understand.
My parents died before I could meet them there.
Before I could learn this version of love.
Mikey, in his small, stubborn, inconvenient way,
has become a doorway.
Not to the love that comes back.
To a great love:
to clean up after one who seems to resent me.
Thank you, Father Mikey.
Who in your life is teaching you to love without getting what you expect in return?
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