Fur gives and fur gets, my dog told me. No wiser words were ever spoken. In 2017, I decided to attend church in my new town, Port Hardy. Our man of the cloth, the reverend at our combined Anglican-United church, was Alastair Hunting. I find it amusing that our dog’s name, registered with the Canadian Kennel Club, was Otter B. Hunting (Otter to his friends). Otter, an irrepressible golden retriever, is the star of this particular story.
On Oct. 4, 2017, the day of blessings for animals, I expected an ark story and sermon, not the open invitation extended to all pets. I did not even think to bring Otter to church until I got there. Jane — a lady I had startled a couple of Sundays before, when I leaned on her pew, pushing her forward, after she had made sure all pews were perfectly aligned — sat undisturbed, her little dog beside her. I heard my call to action. As the blessings started, I raced out of the church, running hard to our house. “Otter, come on, we’re going to church!” We stopped only once, as he peed on a church shrub. Oh well, we would call that holy water. Up the wooden steps, we stopped in front of the carved golden church door adorned with carefully crafted flowers. “Otter, sit!” He did. I said a prayer for the cats (there were two on leashes inside) as we returned to the fold.
The animal blessings were over, and Alastair was preaching about something new. It was a lot to take in, this church talk and ceremony. I was more in tune with chaos and all things unceremonious. Otter and I rejoined my husband Dave. Otter wagged his tail so hard, the pew in front of us boomed out a happy rhythm to the faithful. One young girl shielded her cat, which was perched in the window, praying for a quick exit. The blessings were over, but Otter was not finished with church. He drooled and panted expectantly, eyeing all these great people, the other dog and the cats.
Our priest shared a long and very thoughtful sermon about animals. He talked about a book he had read called Wonderful Fool, about a man followed by a stray dog. The dog is the only being who sticks with the man, even when he feels alone and forsaken. Alastair likened the dog to Jesus, always humble. Otter knew he was also God’s gift to man and wanted everyone in the church to know it.
Never leaving a soul behind, the Rev turned to Otter for the last blessing, but Otter got the last laugh. Our priest wore a long white robe with an intricately embroidered stole. This was just the thing for a golden retriever launch. As Alastair raised his arms, the cue to jump, Otter B. Hunting reared up in a flash, and put his paws on Alastair’s shoulders in rapturous greeting. With superb timing, the priest said this was just one of the hazards, oops, joys of his job. We all laughed, and the service ended quickly.
During coffee, afterwards, the owner of Cookie the cat came to say hi to us. Cookie hissed. Otter drooled and licked his lips as the cat waved his tail in Otter’s face. “Thou shalt not kill,” I prayed, and instead of a Cookie, offered Otter just a little piece of bread.
