www.kathynick_mercyincar

Arggggh. Now I have to stop making fun of all my dog-loving friends. I’ve always liked our dog. We named her Mercy because we got her at a time in life when God had shown tremendous mercy to us. It was kind of a do-over for us, a fresh start. And, so, of course, we got a dog. (Sheesh.)

Mercy is a hunting dog, though. Built to swim icy lakes and fetch ducks. My husband, Wendell, built her a luxurious kennel in the back yard with an expensive igloo of a dog house built to withstand twenty below temperatures.

She has spent much of this winter-that-will-not-end inside our garage.

Then, she got sick. The kind of sick that makes a middle aged dog stop eating and tremble when she tries to stand. On the afternoon Wendell was going to take her to the vet, I stopped in the garage to say good-bye. I thought it was probably forever.

“You’ve been a good dog to us, Mercy,” I said. “A better dog to us than we have been people to you. I’m sorry about that.” I cried most of the way to the office.

And then, she survived. One expensive surgery later, she trotted out of the vet’s clinic and tucked her head under my arm, wagging her whole body with delight. And so it began.

I don’t like her anymore. I love her. In that crazy, obsessive, pet-person way where I scramble her eggs to tempt her appetite and reach out to touch her head on my knee as I write.

I do not understand this fierce, maternal feeling toward a creature who eats out of the bathroom trash when left unsupervised. But I know this, Mercy is a really good dog. And, she is making me better people.