We have a new dog, a Rescue Dog, who came to us by way of Jackson, Mississippi.  Since he’s pretty much a puppy, he was, fortunately, able to get a ride for those 1500 miles.

We had to put our 15-year old dog down last summer, in ’09.  When I say this, I get one of two responses.  From those who are dog-lovers, I get the empathetic face of “been there,” or “know I’ll be there someday.”   From those who aren’t dog lovers, it’s just the look they must have when flushing goldfish down the toilet.  They don’t get it.  This is, I think, the great divide in humanity:  dog lovers and non dog-lovers.

If you’ve been there, putting your raised-from-a-puppy-always-with-you dog down, you know that it just tears your heart out.

To compound matters, this dog actually went on pastoral visits with me.  To the homes of older folks, to nursing homes.  He was, in this visits, wildly more popular than me.  A big, slobbering kiss from him (he was a good-sized Husky) was worth ten Lord’s Prayers.  The chance to give him a treat was worth several verses of Amazing Grace. 

So this new guy has some big paws to fill. 

This past Sunday, I went with the new guy to the old guy’s favorite place.  It’s a farm/conservation land preserve about a mile away.  There are hundreds of acres of trails and fields and even a few dog-swimmable ponds.   At the end of a long hay field, nestled under a big oak tree, beside a very New England moss-covered rock wall, there is a bench.  I sketched in many a sermon on this bench while the old guy chased butterflies on a sunny afternoon.

So, the new guy and I pulled up at the entrance which, as it turns out, has been remodeled since my last visit some fifteen months ago.  There was a little dispenser with a “Please Clean Up After Your Dog” sign, and plastic bags sticking out.

I figured:  okay, I’m a good citizen. This is a great place.  I’ll take a bag.  He’s a puppy.  Which means:  any time, anywhere.  In theological terms, whenever the spirit moves him. 

So, we started down the trail, the puppy bouncing along in a heavenly smell-o-rama he’s never experienced before.  I had a long leash on him, a ten footer, specifically so I could let it go and let him run, knowing I could catch him (eventually) should he decide to roam.

We hadn’t gone far when I saw him, maybe fifty feet ahead, with his head burrowed in some kind of mound right in the middle of the trail.

How odd, I thought.

Even as I got closer, I couldn’t make out what he was now rolling around in.  It was off-brown, flaky, and there was, well, a sh-tload of it. 

Oh, there’s the clue.

Yes, horse pucky. Yards of it.  Just like you see in the circus.  Only without the clown running behind with the broom.  (“What?  And give up show business?”)

I pulled the little guy out an used the dainty-looking bag with the smiling dog to clean him off.  I don’t imagine, even if he gets to be 100 pounds, he could produce that amount of detritus in the road in a year’s time.  Even if he chose this spot exclusively.

Now I love this place, we donate money to the trust, and the people who run it are wonderful.  It is a treasure.

So, I hope they don’t mind when I staple some construction-sized garbage bags, the 56-gallon big boys, with a horse’s smiling face painted on them, right next to the dainty doggy box, that says:  Please Clean Up After Your Horse.

Oh yeah.  That’ll happen.