A Couple of Days

Before I went to Florida the other week, I noticed that Matt had a small spot on his neck. It had been there before, but it was a bit larger now, and Simon, the vet, had told me that if it grew I should tell him.

So I took Matt in. Simon said it was most likely a benign cyst, but it should be removed as it would probably burst and then get infected. He'd get it checked over to make sure there was nothing nasty going on.

Now, it was less than two weeks before I was due to fly, but it was time enough for the op, for the wound to heal and for me to go. So I said OK. Matty had the thing removed the following day.

But the wound didn't heal. And over the weekend he was very sick. And the emergency Vet said that the wound should be re-sown. Less than a week before I flew. I was in a state. Anyway - Simon did it, and this time it was a lot better. Huge now, a great long scar down his neck, but looking like it would heal, and Matt went to stay with my Mum whilst I was away.

This Monday, Matt had the stitches out.

On Tuesday Simon phoned me.

I was just letting two people from the DBF (Diocesan Board of Finance - here to hear my diatribe on why the diocesan finance system penalises growing churches) into the house when my mobile rang, and I took the call when I read on the display "Vet Calling".

"How is he?" asked Simon.
"Fine," I said, "back to his normal self really".

Then Simon said, "We've had the results back from the path lab on the cyst, and it was - " and now you have to forgive me because there's no way I can do this word for word. But what he said was -

It was cancer.

I'm standing there with these two blokes on my driveway who are ready to hear my views on the worst diocesan finance system in the known world, and I'm being told over the phone that my dog had - possibly has - cancer. My dog. My shadow. My dearly beloved and constant companion. My Matty.

Simon thinks he got it all out. It shouldn't recur. I should watch Matt. I should take him for a check-up in six weeks. They can do chemo if they need to. They shouldn't need to.

I am still in shock. I can't take it in; I think I might even have rejected it altogether now. Like it's not true - it's not happening. And it might not be - Simon might have removed the whole thing ("Most dogs that have this type removed never have it again" sounded pretty lame given his original assurance that "this type is always benign - well pretty much, but I'm sure this will be.") I mean, I trust Simon - he's great. But he has no crystal ball.

And one thing I learned when Charlie (Matt's predecessor) died was that it's not "just a dog". I kept telling myself that at the time because I'm a pastor and I was dealing with people who were losing their wives and husbands and parents and children. My loss was "just a dog".

Rubbish. My dog is always with me. He is essential in my life. Constant as the air I breathe. His love is unquestionable, and his zest for life refreshes me more than the brightest sun and the bluest sky. By saying "just a dog" I stopped myself from grieving; by not grieving I made myself ill.

Love is love. We find it in all sorts of places and in all sorts of forms. There are all sorts of diferent loves. The love of a husband and wife is not the love of a master and dog, but both are love, and it is interesting to note that one of the best ways of explaining the proskuneo worship word in the New Testament is to say it is like a dog licking his master's hand: the pure devotion and trust of a creature to his master, the lesser professing obedience and belonging to the greater. Does that make me like God to my dog? How much should I love him? How many tears should I bestow upon him? To what lengths should I go for his safety?

* * *

Last night I broke two ribs. Of my own - not cos I was eating barbecue, you understand. The doctor at the hospital asked me to breathe deeply, as I wasn't doing so. I fainted from the pain, just for a second. He looked a bit embarrassed. And told me I needed to keep doing that - but I might sit down when trying it.

And then plied me with painkillers. That's all they do. No X-rays, no strapping, just co-codemol and ibuprofen. When I woke up and stretched this morning, I felt one rib kind of grate against itself in a way that bones ought not to do. Eek. I had a cracked rib once before, from playing football - it was nothing like this painful.

How did I do this?

Go-karting.

Go figure.