I read Shane a story every evening entitled "Dog Party". It is a read-aloud story for pre-readers. If you're four years old, it's a spellbinder. Shane can't get enough of it. She lies beside me in bed with eyes wide and a big smile, anxiously awaiting the latest version of this tale. (I make up a new version of the story with each reading.)
If children weren't so cute and full of excitement for life - which we adults become out of touch with over the years - they would be abandoned early on. No right-minded adult could read this story night after night and keep a semblance of sanity. But we are nuts about our kids, as nature intended us to be.
So I read this stupid tale about a bunch of dogs climbing a ladder to have a party at the top of a tree. I read it over and over, each evening. I try to talk her into another story, one that has more appeal, in my opinion. But no, she is adamant about having "Dog Party" read one more time, each and every night.
It doesn't help that dogs have occupied way too much of my thinking lately. I see puppies being born every week and watch them turn to smashed meat on the highway. No one cares. I have become immune to their dismal destinies as road kill, objects for kicking, rock and knife throwing, neglect and worse: Clyde once threw a pot of boiling water on a dog that lived with us at the rental property about 2 years ago. He thought nothing of it. I had an instantaneous urge to inflict some pain upon Clyde. But then I thought about how Clyde was beaten by his father and decided "violence for violence" would not serve as a tool for positive change. I kicked a tire. Then we talked.
The dog that we have now, Toytoy, has a four inch trench on his back where Joseph hit the mark he intended when he threw his machete when the dog was still a pup.
A few days ago, Clyde and Joseph brought home a puppy. They treated it lovingly, as most people do to their young, cute dogs. They were both surprised and disappointed when I told them I didn't want another dog living with us.
A large percentage of the dogs that survive puppy-hood live half-starved and/or victims of mange, their fur falling out and the skin then exposed to severe sunburn. These and other throw-aways walk the streets from garbage can to garbage can after dark.Their bodies are often full of scars or bleeding wounds from fights with other dogs over scraps of food or mating rights.
Apparently, compassion for animals is not something inborn. Many otherwise-loving people are indifferent or cruel to their pets.
I can't help but think about the implications for how we humans treat each other, and justify it according to race, belief, perceived worthiness, or even something as simple as geographic location: It's over there. I'm not responsible for them.
