Lifting the pall

I've been at the bottom of the emotional valley since the bombs went of on Patriots' Day in Boston. In order to remove the pall, I will do what I always do when down... I go to the pets for comfort (although I will say that the fact Tums has invented an indigestion/breath mint combo borders on the miraculous sadness-lifter).

This morning I watched their routines. They are individuals; never think differently.

Logan rose first, as soon as I had made joint creaking sounds by rising myself. I opened the bedroom door and she sprinted down the hall to the kitchen, flying through it though she's 13 years old, to get to the table that houses the cat food bowls. She didn't try to get on the table. That's not her plan. Never her plan. She went to the bottom of the table lest there might be a morsel or two of cat food lying there. She does this every morning. When she was much younger and we lived in Lacombe, La., she did this sort of thing with the back door and a squirrel who lived somewhere in some tree in the back yard. She waited for the door to open, then flew out onto the deck, down the stairs, hoping this was the one time when the squirrel wouldn't notice. I'm not absolutely certain what would have happened had the squirrel done this, but I'm certain Logan was convinced the day would come.

Breesie, one of the dachshunds, groggily left the bedroom, made his way outside, did whatever he thought was appropriate, then he waited at the bottom of the steps for his treat. He does this every time, though every other dog creeps back up those steps to the washroom. He stares holes in me till I pitch the treat out to him. He wants no interference from other dogs, I suppose.

Callie, probably the most adorable of the cats, waits by the kitchen sink each morning for me (or Mary) to turn on the faucet. There's bowls of water all over the house, but she prefers (will not do otherwise) to have running water.

Rocky, the youngest of the pets, sits by the washroom cat food bowls. Harry, the largest of the cats (5-room home vs. condos), sits by the food bowl on the kitchen table.

Each morning, they do this. I'm not sure who set their routine, them or us, but it is what it is.

Their discipline, at least when it comes to bathroom breaks, food distribution, and water management, is developed so much that if for some reason we were to take a night away from home for ourselves, I would love to have a camera on them to see the confusion, the bewilderment and ultimately the extreme disappointment.

I would love to say we've trained them, but it isn't true. They have trained us down to the type of treat enjoyed.

Wouldn't it be wonderful if the world was much more like these guys. If life could be narrowed down to a few seconds of bliss, inside a routine, followed by routine that isn't maddening? In other words, why must we feel like failures if we don't have more going for us than what our lives are?

My pets love (in order), us, food, bathroom breaks, food, us. Their wants, needs, enjoyments are simple, and it is worth noting I think that God meets them all without a hint of works/righteousness found in the bunch (although there is that correlation between bathroom break and treat that we might need to talk about).

They're walking (running, sleeping, pooping) bundles of love.

Is there more, or should there be more, to life?