Patience And Mercy

Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.

– William Shakespeare

Coriolanus, Act II, Scene 1

It was nearing the noon hour when one of my coworkers — we’ll call her Alice — asked me if I wanted to see her dogs.

“Bub’s outside with them. He came to pick me up and brought them along.,” she said.

I’ve seen photos and heard many lively tales of Alice’s dogs but have never met them in the flesh, so I quickly said, “Sure!” and followed her out the back entrance to the parking lot.

Walking behind her, I was thinking of her boyfriend, Bub. Alice is several years younger than me and Bub is a couple of years older than me. I have encountered the man on several occasions and I have always disliked him intensely. This dislike is largely Alice’s fault, because she has no qualms whatsoever about blathering on and on about his seeing other women behind her back, of his trying to alienate her from her elderly parents, about his badmouthing her adult children and even her grandchildren, of his “insane” jealousy. Even though my interactions with Bub have been short and succinct, a steady diet of Alice’s complaints has managed to position me against the man, even though I try to caution myself about hearing only one side of the story.

Believing the one side is fairly easy, though, given my reaction to how the man looks and carries himself. Bub is a slender, short man; I imagine he had a rough time of it in high school. He keeps his hair its shade of dirty blonde via come product that comes in a box….again, according to Alice. Bub has small, close-set eyes the color of old coffee. He sometimes drives an old pickup truck, and sometimes a new Corvette that probably cost more than some houses. HIs adult children will have nothing to do with him, and he is still in almost daily contact with his most recent ex-wife. He does construction work on the side. I say “on the side” because his real job is being disabled, for which he receives monthly checks from the state. “Down in mah back,” he likes to say with a gar’s grin. I’ve often mused about what’s going to happen if anyone from the state disability office ever sees him climbing around on a roof. I rather doubt he would understand the term “retroactive reimbursement plus penalties,” but then again he just might. Alice gossips about him behind his back, but she’s still with him after three years, even after plenty of chances to break away from him, so they clearly get some sort of payoff from each other.

When we got outside, I saw that Bub was driving his truck, and in the front seat, I could see two great-looking dogs. Silky is a purebred Collie, and Taylor is a sturdy purebred blue heeler. They were both trying to jam their heads out the partially open passenger side window. We went around to that side, and I nodded and said, “Bub.” He nodded back. Then I turned my attention to the dogs.

Silky was as gorgeous as I had imagined she would be. Sleek head, snout like a sharpened pencil, her eyes looking down its length as she snuffled and licked my hand. Taylor was solid with the perky, erect ears that are the trademark of the breed. His open, friendly face was searching mine as I scrubbed his ears and neck with my other hand. The dogs were a writhing knot of delight, a sight that lifts my heart and soothes me whenever I see it, and I am blessed to see it in my home on a regular basis.

Then I heard a thumping noise, the same sound produced when a drill instructor kicks a stuffed seabag down the middle of the quarterdeck because some hapless recruit packed it inexpertly. While my brain was registering the sound, it also registered the look on Taylor’s face. He was wincing and blinking and rolling his eyes around. Silky was whimpering and pulled her head back inside the truck. Then I heard another sound.

“God…damn….dog…knock….my….coffee….over…..agin’…..and see……what….happens….”

It was Bub, growling his blasphemous curses at the poor dog, punching him with all his might, in the head, in the neck, in the ribcage, in his flank, each blow punctuated by a word. I was a statue, frozen and staring.

Then Alice spoke up. “What did he do?” Her voice was sing-songy, as if humoring some good-natured fellow who had just shook his finger at an errant child.

“Knocked over my sonofabitchin’ coffee, that’s what! All over my goddamn front seat!”

And Alice, who is the owner of the two dogs and responsible for their lives and welfare, offered me a weak smile and shrugged and said, “They get on his nerves.” She never lifted a finger to intervene, never said a syllable of rebuke to the enraged Bub.

“I need to get back inside,” I said, and walked away.

Alice came back inside for a few minutes, then left for the day. She never spoke to me, which surprised me. I thought she would at least mention what had happened, offer an apology, make an excuse. But she clocked out and went outside and got into the truck where her two dogs were cowering on the front seat and the scowling little puke was waiting to drive her somewhere.

The rest of the afternoon, I was tormented by what I’d seen. The cowardice, the smallness of character, the brutality. And all offered because a dog did what was natural to it in its attempts to greet a smiling stranger who offered friendship and ear-scratches.

I prayed several times during the remainder of the day. I prayed to Christ to protect the dogs and Alice. I prayed to Saint Francis of Assisi to intercede for the dogs. I prayed for forgiveness for the lava flow of hatred and violence that had erupted in me while watching this deceptive, fraudulent punk beat a dog who had done nothing except make the mistake of expressing joy while near an open coffee cup that a hair-dying imbecile had left within easy bumping reach. These poor dogs know who their friends are. And who they are not. But they have not the tools to achieve their liberation from a monster, and the woman to whom they look for care and protection seems unmoved by their plight.

I was calmer by the time I reached home. I fed our three dogs and watched them eat, then watched them gambol and frisk in the back yard, and I wondered how much free joy Alice’s dogs get to experience in the course of a day when Bub is around. After I changed clothes, I came to this little desk and lit my vigil candles and gripped my rosary and prayed and prayed and prayed.

I prayed that Almighty God would be more patient and more forgiving and more merciful to Bub than the little wretch is to two dogs who are at his mercy. I prayed that God would change his heart. I prayed that I might find grace not to hate this man in my heart, and to try to find a way to offer up the pain I felt on behalf of some other soul.

But among the clear words of my prayers, a different note sounded as counterpoint in my heart. This different note was the cold-eyed and watchful part of me, hoping fiercely that Bub spills coffee on someone or displeases someone in some way in the very near future. Someone with hard fists and a heart every bit as devoid of tenderness towards a smaller beast as he himself possesses.

And so Monday.

~ S.K. Orr