"Heaven goes by favor. If it went by merit, you would stay out and your dog would go in.” Mark Twain

Peter said to him, “Even though they all fall away, I will not.” And Jesus said to him, “Truly, I tell you, this very night, before the rooster crows twice, you will deny me three times.” But he said emphatically, “If I must die with you, I will not deny you.” And they all said the same. (Mark 14:29-31)

I need to admit that I am more like the disciples than I am my dear dog. I am afraid that he loves me more in his doggy way than I love my Jesus.

There is no better time of day for my dog than when I come home. When I am gone, he sits on the sofa and waits for me to come back. It’s like a job or a calling.

When he hears the car, he waits at the front door. When he sees me, he barks or cries with doggy joy. I unlock the door—he’s barking, tail wagging.

He does enjoy other things—squirrels to chase, food, water, certain food items he digs out of the trash, but nothing compares to when I come home. The door opens and we are reunited. It is as if all of life is wrapped up in those singular moments of joy. He greets me as only he can—a yearning sort of cry, a dance around me or the room.

What are we going to do? He asks. Will you play with me? Feed me? Will we walk together?

I am his master, the source of his food, the one who rubs his tummy, gives him treats, scratches under his chin where his paws cannot reach. He knows all this is true.

There is no better time, but there are others that come close—when we wake up in the morning and he sniffs me. When I read in the living room and he sits on the sofa on his pillow. Being a dog in the room where I sit seems to validate him just by my presence. If I reach over and stroke his back, he wags his tail. He delights in my care and any sort of attention at all that I give. When we have dinner, he sits under the table, hoping like his gospel counterpart to snag a treat-scrap that falls to the floor.

He delights in any hint of a smell of me that he can find when I’m gone—discarded socks, the chair where I sit, other traces, any bit smell.

It seems to me that he lives to be with me and please me. He takes great joy, maybe the greatest joy, in just being in the house with me.

As for me, I can hear Jesus asking, "Are you still sleeping and taking your rest?”

How might I relate to God more like my devoted dog relates to me and less like the disciples who were convinced of their own faithful strength just before they fell asleep in the garden?