Lessons in empathy from an old-soul dog

What can we learn about compassion from a canine?

Otis.

Oh Otis.

Sometimes I get to babysit Otis.

He’s our friend Nancy’s little dog. Otis is a little old-soul kind of canine. He looks kinda Jack Russell but behaves like an old zen Labrador retriever. He seems to get people, to size us up, to figure out how much snuggle or space we need. 

Apparently, I need a lot of snuggle. He stays by my side, or on my lap. His eyes are big and brown, one set on the white half of his long face, the other on the brown side. His ears are too long to stand up, too short to actually hang, so they sort of flop sideways from his head, like little wings. I love his sweet ears.

Otis listens to me, unlike my goofy golden retriever Bentley. And though he outweighs Otis by about 60 pounds, Bentley listens to Otis and follows his lead.

They’re they’re easy to have together. Bentley just follows Otis around the yard, peeing.

In Tom’s last few months, Nancy would bring Otis, to snuggle and love him. 

Henri Nouwen wrote: “More and more, the desire grows in me simply to walk around, greet people, enter their homes, sit on their doorsteps, play ball, and be known as someone who wants to live with them. It is a privilege to have the time to practice this simple ministry of presence. Still, it is not as simple as it seems. My own desire to be useful, to do something significant, or to be part of some impressive project is so strong that soon my time is taken up by meetings, conferences, study groups, and workshops that prevent me from walking the streets. It is difficult not to have plans, not to organize people around an urgent cause, and not to feel that you are working directly for social progress. But I wonder more and more if the first thing shouldn’t be to know people by name, to eat and drink with them, to listen to their stories and tell your own, and to let them know with words, handshakes, and hugs that you do not simply like them, but truly love them.”   ~ from, Gracias: A Latin American Journal

Otis gets this, this ministry of presence. I watch him and hope that I can learn from him. He knows how to be with, quietly, gently. He’s an intuitive little guy.

Not all of us are this intuitive. But we can learn. Otis is the best model I know for this way of being present. He’s not insistent, not pushy. He doesn’t say anything. But he’s available, he’s there, with those eyes full of care, those soft ears listening. No judgement, no advice, no questions even. Just pure presence.

On the receiving end of this love, I’m warmed, softened… and more vulnerable, sometimes. This tender version of care often reduces me to tears. Necessary tears, healing tears.

But sometimes I don’t allow this care; sometimes I resist.

My own inclination is toward solitude. That’s how I’m wired, introvert that I am.

(I’ve tried more than once to cheat myself into the “extrovert” column of the Meyers-Briggs Personality Indicator. Even when I know what it takes to be labelled an extrovert, I don’t make the cut. I’m an introvert to the bone.)

Of course, occasional doses of solitude are good, healthy. A constant diet, not so much.

A few months ago another friend invited me to simply sit out by the river in her blue Adirondack chairs. She invites me every week and I almost always decline. She and her husband loved Tom and they love me and she likes to talk about things that matter, the deep stuff, including Tom and grief. It’s not that I don’t want to talk but sometimes the energy of it overwhelms me, exhausts me. It’s hard to explain, but that’s how I’m wired.

Finally I said Yes. I wanted to say No, but I also wanted to honor her kindness and care, so I told her Yes, but that I couldn’t stay long, which was true because I had this extra dog at the house. We sat in the late day sun, and watched boats, and talked about a podcast we’d both heard. And Tom, of course. We talked about Tom.

I pulled out my phone and showed her a picture I’d found a few days earlier, a photo taken on the front porch of their home during covid. Her husband, who is an editor, had just given Tom a book. I don’t know what the book was (and can’t tell from the photo), but Tom is holding it and gazing at it as if he’d been presented a signed first edition of Moby Dick. His face is lit with wonder and delight and gratitude. 

My friend looked at the photo with that same wonder and delight and gratitude, and then we both wept. This is the ministry of presence.

What do we need when we don’t know what we need?

Sometimes there are no words. Sometimes we just need to sit together. Sometimes we need to say No and sometimes we need to say Yes.

Sometimes we need a dog in our lap.

Sometimes we don’t have a clue what we need, and that’s okay too. Even when we’re alone, we’re not thoroughly alone.

This is friendship, this is love, this is community.

Please know: You are not alone.