Could the son of man have had a ‘man’s best friend’?
What would a dog of the Holy Land know? What would the dog of a carpenter’s shop see? If the dog’s master was the Nazarene — what would it feel?
Dogs have guarded us and slept with us since the beginning. The remains of puppies lie in the caves of ancient man.
In the Land of Milk and Honey, the countryside is harsh, and animals suffer alongside their masters. Few are beasts of leisure. Herding and guarding would have been how most earned their keep. Ancient soldiers used to shoot a village’s dogs first, so their masters would sleep none the wiser before an attack. You can see ancient greyhounds as carved bedposts watching over the sleep of pharaohs.
The Egyptian god Anubis was a dog, attending each soul’s entry into the afterlife. At the Judgment of Osiris, Anubis holds the scale as our human heart is weighed against a feather. A dog is the creature that loves without reserve; so even the worst sinner would get a fair shake.
But unlike people, dogs know no other god than us, with all our faults. And we are always better in their eyes than the reality could ever be. Hence the phrase, Someday I will be the person my dog thinks I am.
The dog of the carpenter’s home would be no different than our dogs of today and this dog would know many things. Unlike the Roman dogs of war, trained to scout, track, and attack, the carpenter’s dog would be good with children and infants. A nurturer, not a fighter.
Let’s call her Eden. The place where God created man in all innocence.
A warm corner of the carpentry shop would be hers, with a bowl of water, and a soft pile of shavings where she sleeps. As the family’s most loyal friend, she would wait patiently for scraps from the common meal. There’d be porridge too, and the last bits of bread. And raw bones she could gnaw.
Like other dogs, Eden would know the streets of the village. She’d know every house and every person by their scent. She’d know who liked her and who did not. The squat houses were often connected by ramps and any dog from puppyhood onward would run the gang planks with the children.
But she would know much more than that.
The miracles she might witness would not look like miracles to her, but like the natural order of things.
The she-dog of the carpenter’s shop would know the scent of the man. Healthy sweat, wood dust from every tree of Judea. Cedar. Cyprus. Oak. Sweet sap, infusing a thousand corners. She’d smell spices on her master’s clothes. Balsam and aloe used as ointment for dry hands. In his food and on his breath, cinnamon and cumin. Coriander and figs. Dates and wine.
And still she would know even more.
Dogs’ noses are so sensitive that they can tell not only what you’ve eaten, but where you’ve been and who you’ve seen. Wandering in the fields or tending orchards, Eden would know anything and everything the son of man had laid his hand upon. She’d know if he’d been to the fish-seller or the butcher.
Our bodies give off rich, deep scents we cannot sense, but that are like great oceans of knowledge for a dog. So she’d know the whiff of strangers on his robes, the merest trace of passersby, just as our own dogs sniff us so seriously every time we walk in the door. Eden could tell if the stranger was healthy or sick, or even angry or at peace, for our bodies give off scents for these emotions. If your feet had walked the halls of kings, Eden would know which stones as if she’d tread them herself. If your feet had walked the darker places of the earth — she would know that too.
It’s said familiarity breeds contempt — in people perhaps, but never in dogs. Dogs do not know contempt, they do not know scorn; they know no mockery, they cannot sneer. Their souls are not sick, like the souls of men, and so they do not fear or hate those who labor under the burdens of guilt, shame, jealousy, or anger. Cry to the heavens and many dogs will simply look at you. As long as you don’t strike them, your anger has no power over them. Sob in despair and they may well come under your hand. No other animal on earth is born in such a state of pure forgiveness. And only a cruel man would confuse that with servility and take advantage of it.
#share#Born into an unforgiving land, the dog of the carpenter’s shop would be lucky for all that. She’d know the other dogs of the village and they would form a pack. She would know the bosom of the family and the kindness of her master. She couldn’t help but be his first disciple. And her loyalty would have given him courage. Given him faith; for the faith that a dog puts in humans can never be returned, nor truly matched. Because it lasts for every second of every day until they die.
As for Eden, she would feel his faith and trust in her, without words, without sermons, a primitive bond, knowing her master would always take care of her and she in turn would take care of him. A silent ever-present blessing.
The miracles she might witness would not look like miracles to her, but like the natural order of things. If her master’s hand touched the cripple, the cripple would walk. The blind would see. The dead awaken. If her master faced an angry crowd bent on brutal reckoning, she would know his calm, disarming the anger in the faces of those gathered before him.
And if the Adversary showed his face in the crowd, if the Hollow Man came to trick her master or seduce the vulnerable, the dark one’s smell would be that of ash, of dry rot, something of no consequence in the great scheme. A broken clay bowl, odorless and of no use.
Crossing the lengths of Judea under the touch of her master’s hand she would feel strong and hearty beyond her years. But this would not seem strange, for after all, she was right where she was supposed to be. With him.
And over time, greater powers would come to her. Eden’s paws and senses would grow so delicate that they could hear and see and smell the past crying up from the ground. Sensing the fates of countless men long gone from their last cross. And she would know whether they were good men or bad.
Eden would be the last soul awake in the Garden waiting for the end.
And none more so than the follower called Judas. For him there would be a special place inside her, a sanctuary, a special love. For she would know his pain like none other save her master. As doubt and guilt wracked him, as fear waged a thousand battles for his soul, the she-dog could only accept him. When Eden curled up to him at night, it would be to keep his heart warm, even as his heart grew cold and denial made a home inside his skin. The comforting body of the dog, striving to give courage to the man, every day in every way, no matter what.
She might even leave the disciples on the night of the feast to travel with Judas as he went to the temple. Eden might hear it all, as Judas gave away not only her master but the last bits of his own humanity. And still she would forgive him.
Eden would be the last soul awake in the Garden waiting for the end. All others would be asleep, but not her. She would watch her master struggle, see his tears. She might even see the great hand of comfort reaching down from heaven — reaching down for that last touch. See that moment of fear in her master finally dissolve, and in its place be born resolve. Acceptance. Drawing everyone to the time appointed.
In those last hours when death took life away, there would be no hate in Eden. Only sadness. And if those who witnessed took the time to stare into a dog’s eyes and see her mourn, would they not be roused in anger at this cruel God who had abandoned his only son? Would they fear God’s judgment of their own frailties? Or would those storms pass away, as our mortal fears evaporate in a dog’s forgiving warmth?
A dog expresses itself with ears and nose and tail. Unlike human faces there is little change around the eyes when a dog is angry, sad, or even happy. A little wider when it’s time to eat, a little more glitter when it’s time to play. But mostly, expression happens around the muzzle, a thousand movements of the ears. Front or back, up or down.
In the eyes of a dog, there is no final judgment. Instead there is reprieve. A mistake made right. A second chance. Hope and the wag of a tail.
God gave us dogs to be an example of living faith in a cruel world. He gave dogs man in a world where even a loyal guardian needs a protector.
As for Eden, she would leave that deathly hill and wait upon the grave, lying faithfully in front of the stone at the mouth of his tomb, calm and quiet, confident of his return. And she would know her master’s touch as he emerged. But the scent of mortal man and immortal man would have blended into one, indistinguishable from the universe itself and just as vast. Too great to know. Leaving in the end only the dog herself — Eden — a creature of devotion and love and countless paw prints following selflessly behind.