Some dancers dream of tripping across the stage with a star.
Others long to pirouette with a nutcracker/soldier dressed in tights. I’ll
stick with my pets, thank you very much.
Rocky always lets me lead when we’re tangoing or cha-chaing
across the kitchen floor. He rarely questions the music I chose. Even if I say
things like, “Dig that rockin’ beat,” or “Get down with your furry self, dude,”
he doesn’t laugh.
Once when “A Place in the Choir” by Celtic Thunder came on,
I woke him from his sixth nap of the day to dance. He barely growled as I
scooped him up and whisked him around the room. Now that’s a saint.
My husband, Kevin, did not grow up with pets. He doesn’t
understand furry love. When I talk baby talk in my high-pitched, nasal voice to
one of my children in fur suits, he rolls his eyes and leaves the room. He has
no idea how my serotonin levels increase when Rocky jumps in my lap and drools
on my arm or Pokey bites my toes through the blankets.
I am convinced that God gave us pets to help us practice
serving each other in the Body of Christ. Nothing says dying to the flesh like
cleaning out a litter box or following a pooch with a scooper.
So…shall I let Kevin in on the fun and spiritual growth by visiting
the animal shelter on his next birthday and picking out a Fido or a Fifi for him
to dance with?
Do you dance with your pet?
