Love Potion No. 9

Sometimes, when I hear bible stories--especially those zany, miracle-riddled ones--I wonder how I'm expected to take the rest of the book seriously.  I'm not a cynic, but I do like practical things, and walking on water--not to mention splitting it in half and taking all your friends right on through--well, those just aren't practical things to do.

Then again, I'm nuts about Finn, who is everything a dog shouldn't be, at least according to my pre-Finn self, and these feelings aren't particularly practical either.

This just goes to show you how much we are willing to fool ourselves in the middle of heartache, when all we really want is an exact replica of the dog we just buried, only alive. Hobbes, for all his quirkiness, made me fall in love with Wheaten Terriers.  He was soft.  He didn't shed.  He was handsome and kind.  And so, when he died three years ago, I began my search for Hobbes, Part 2.

After a few near misses and a couple of "ain't even closes," and just when I was starting to think I might have to try a cat or a gerbil or maybe even a poodle or something, there was Finn staring at me from his temporary home in Holt, Missouri (yeah, you heard right.  Kind of...miraculous, eh?).  They called him a Wheaten and I called them to put my dibs on him.

By the time we got him home, though, it was obvious that we'd been had.

1.  First of all, he most certainly wasn't--and isn't--a Wheaten.  I mean, his hair kind of looks like Shredded Wheat (and feels like it, too), but he most certainly isn't a Wheaten.
2.  Pet a Wheaten and you'll never think "hay bale."  Such is not the case with Finn.
3  Finn sheds.  Wheatens don't.
4. When we first got him, Finn had the size-zero waist of a super model, complete with visible ribs.  Our family's first anorexic.  Wheatens aren't scrawny.  Ever.
5.  Wheatens, when full grown, will not fit on your lap.  Or fit in neatly next to you at the breakfast bar.  Finn can do both, and in fact is doing so, as I type this.

So, why is it that this dog, who was everything I was not looking for in a canine, has so claimed my heart?  And when did he magically--miraculously--become so dadgummed cute?   This is where those bible stories come in.

Maybe, just maybe, love really does transform us.  Maybe Finn--who still looks about the same as when we got him--became beautiful to us because we fell in love with him.  Maybe all that love made his fur softer and his face more sparkly and his intelligence even more...intelligenter.

Or whatever.

So, what if all those crazy bible stories didn't really happen?  Who cares?  Maybe they are just supposed to represent the transformative power of loving someone or something.  I think that we can all agree that we are changed when we love or are loved deeply.  I know I felt like I could walk on water when Mark Holt finally noticed me standing there, with my jaw on the ground. And it goes both ways--we change those we love back, somehow making them even cuter or softer or smarter.

It's true, even with my own kids, who I'm crazy about.  When Eric was born, for instance, he had a little dip on the top of his head, a place where he could collect rain water, assuming I was holding him upright and he was keeping his head steady.  Sure, that little divot was a bit discombobulating at first, but I found that, the more comfortable I became as a parent, and the more time that I spent with my young son, the more beautiful he became until, suddenly, one day, the human rain barrel was gone.  Poof! Like that!

Like all good bible stories, my story has a lesson, as well:

I sayeth to you--Go and find yourself someone or something to love.  It matters not how scrawny or strange-looking or Republican he or she or it is.  Thou shalt simply set thy sights upon him/her/it and start loving. And ye shalt find yourself and the one that you have loved transformed, and slightly surprised at just how good-looking thou hast become, both inside and out.

Amen.