Bald Butt Baboon and the Love of God

As many of you know, our long-time fur-friend, Trigger, went to the happy hunting grounds in the fall. Somewhere in doggie heaven, he is now eating all the pizza and sugar cookies his little heart desires (without having to barf all over my rugs afterwards) and running mile after mile without his knees going out. He was a good boy with absolutely horrible recall and the most incredible ability to steal food right out of unsuspecting children’s hands. And he could shed like you’d never believe. I’m still finding fur tumbleweeds three months later. But his eyeliner game was on point and he was the perfect dog for a household of kids and cats, so we forgave him a multitude of sins.

Anyway, last month (literally on the way home from my in-laws for Thanksgiving), we adopted a new dog. New Dog’s name is Royal, which to me is definitely a boy name (I blame Laura Ingalls Wilder), while New Dog is unmistakably female. I say “unmistakably”, but we have definitely been calling Royal by the wrong pronouns for over a month now. I guess I’m too used to having a male dog, and after thirteen years, this old dog can’t learn new tricks. Slow clap for that horrible joke. But point being, we’re keeping the name she came with because, unlike Trigger, she actually comes when you call her, which is a novelty factor so unparalleled in our home that we didn’t want to risk it by trying to change her name when we can’t even keep up with her pronouns.

So we have a new dog, and our family is absolutely in love. If you heard us talking to Royal, you’d think she was some kind of show dog. My husband comes home from work, and he’s more excited to see Royal than he is to see the kids or me. We tell her all the time that she’s the goodest dog and the most beautiful pooch and the bestest puppy in the whole wide world. We kiss her head and fight over who gets to snuggle with her. We proudly declare that our dog is better than all the other dogs (though tied, of course, with Trigger’s memory). The kids have made all their friends come to meet her, and they have all been appropriately impressed.

Wow, you should be thinking, that must be Some Dog.

And she is. But also, she is a horrible (and I mean pull-my-nearly-six-foot-self-right-over-in-pursuit-of-squirrels-horrible) leash-walker. And she has some major skin issues. And her skin issues have caused her to lose the hair on her haunches, so that, really, our beautiful, well-loved dog, from the back, looks at least a little bit like a bald butt baboon. She does. I’m being honest here.

But there’s no way that we could love her even more than we do. Even with her utter lack of leash-walking skills. And her expensive skin problems. And her naked nether regions.

Which has, quite naturally, made me think about how God loves us.

(Don’t tell me that you weren’t making that connection too.)

God loves us because we’re His and because, at the core of His identity, He loves. He loves us the way our family loves our dog—because she’s ours and because we’re pet people. We love the pets. All of them. Except for horses because they’re judgy. And red-eyed rabbits because they’re creepy. And pretty much anything that requires an aquarium because I’m not moving that every two years. But all the rest of them. We love them. That’s who we are.

Sometimes, I think we can take a page out of Royal’s book and just let ourselves be loved by a God who looks at our imperfect, sometimes awkward, often poorly trained selves and says, “Look at this one! Didn’t I do a good job! Isn’t she hysterical and snuggly and fun? Look at her cute face! I’m so glad I made this one a part of my family!”

But then we need to remember that as good dog owners, our family has taken Royal to the vet for meds for her skin and put the time in over the last month to at least try to teach her how to walk on leash and given her baths and bought her expensive dog food. And also, we’re never going to let her have the raw hide chews again that gave her such bad gas on Christmas. Lesson learned.

We love Royal too much to let her keep having itchy skin and poor walking skills and a cold, naked bum. So she’s going to have to get shots and pepperoni wrapped pills. She’s going to have to go for walks where we are constantly correcting her behavior (and trying not to die). She’s going to have to endure baths that she’d rather do without. And she’s probably not going to understand that it’s because we’re trying to take care of her…no matter how many times we tell her we love her or give her treats or play tug of war with her rope.

And this, too, is a picture of God’s love for us. He loves us so much that he won’t let us stay with our skin issues and our unfortunate walking manners and our bald butts. He’s going to send us to the people version of the vet and take us on the people version of corrective walks and give us the people version of somewhat unwanted baths. And He’s probably not going to let us have those rawhide chews again that gave us such revolting gas the first time.

If He told us He loved us and didn’t try to help us, it wouldn’t really be love.

And often, we’re not going to understand. We’re going to think He’s being mean. We’re going to read into things more than we should. We’re going to want him to just let us do what makes us happy. We’re going to think that He’s trying to punish us when really what He’s trying to do is heal us.

And maybe that’s where we need to take a page out of Royal’s book. Can we trust Him? Can we believe Him when He says He loves us? Can we enjoy being with Him even if we’re in a bathtub we wouldn’t have chosen or we’re not getting to chase the squirrels we’re so desperate to befriend with our teeth?

That trust is hard to come by some days. But there’s even more good news. At the end of the day, even if Royal has skin issues for the next ten years of her life, even if she never learns to walk without yanking my arm out of its socket, even if the fur never grows in on her bum, we’re not taking her back to the shelter. She’s ours.

This permanence is echoed in the words God speaks over us. He says that He has called us by name: we are His. Nothing can separate us from His love. Our names are not just written on a set of disposable adoption papers but are literally carved into His hands. There’s no going back from that.

At least for me, this kind of relationship with God, one where I really trust that He loves me and wants the best for me, is a work in progress. But I’m grateful for the picture of Royal to hold in my mind and remind me that maybe God’s doing something I just can’t understand—and it’s for my own good—because He really loves me and thinks I am the goodest, bestest, most beautiful girl in the world. And no matter what, I’m His.