St. Aidan's Personals

I used to pal around with a Franciscan monk named Jonathan who occasionally entertained some very bad habits health-wise, safety-wise and otherwise. This was a beautiful, gifted and spiritually enlightened man, but (like most of us) he harbored a dark side that he once described to me as a very nasty dog named Brutus. Feeding Brutus made the dog stronger and brought on bouts of doubt, fear, discontent, depression and anxiety. Running with him inevitably ended in a world of trouble and despair -- for Jonathan mostly, but also for anyone with the stomach to join him. Happily, the majority of Jonathan’s days were spent in the company of his other, good dog Brandy. I often wondered, given Jonathan’s self-knowledge and the historical evidence, why he ever consciously fed Brutus, much less let him off the leash.

The ‘good dog, bad dog’ thing was not an original Jonathan thought, but the imagery appeals to me. I call my dogs Earl and Strick. I imagine Earl as a good-natured, optimistic, guileless Labrador; playful, carefree, loyal and strong, basking in the fundamental goodness of the universe and humankind. He is naturally secure in his faith that at the end of the day there will be a place for him in front of the fire. Earl plays well with others and is gentle with smaller dogs. He is hopeful and non-judgmental. He shares his toys. He fetches balls. He doesn’t pee in the house, stray, drink, smoke or gossip. He appreciates a good laugh, but not at another dog’s expense. Earl loves me, only wants what is best. I am safe in his company.

Strick, not so much. Strick is a bad dog. And don’t tell me there is no such thing. You have not met Strick. He is not the sort of mutt you adopt and reprogram. Strick is a snarling, drooling, vicious mass of ill intent, all muscle and tendon and snapping jewels, a cross-bred miscreation of imagination, nightmare and some experience. His only function is to create spiritual carnage, yours and mine. And he will not be satisfied. Too much is not enough. He will gorge himself until he pukes, then gorge some more. If you offer Strick a treat and unconditional love, he will take your hand off at the elbow and rip out your heart. Get it?

I try to keep Earl nearby at all times, which is fine by him. He is there when I need him, otherwise stays out of the way. I feed him at least twice a day -- first thing in the morning, and the last thing at night. I acknowledge Earl frequently and let him know I am grateful for his love, companionship and protection. I ask him what he wants to do, not the other way around. I don’t know what I would do without Earl’s companionship, how I would cope.

Strick, on the other hand, I keep chained to a tree in the basement, six hundred feet below the ground. He barks incessantly – angry, threatening, defiant – and sometimes whimpers like he’s hurt or cold or sad. If that doesn’t work, he will literally shriek, like someone is beating him with a tire iron. He wants my attention, and he wants to be fed. But that would be a mistake. If I feed Strick, then I am likely ignoring Earl. I can’t engage both dogs simultaneously.

Occasionally, on my good days, Strick is so quiet I almost believe that he may have just withered away and perished. This is a trick, of course, and I fall for it at my own peril. So, given the choice (and I do have a choice), why do I – like my late friend Brother Jonathan – sometimes turn my back on the grace that is Earl and risk my serenity for a romp in the mud with Strick? I mean, the sign clearly says Wet Paint. I do not enjoy feeling empty or depressed or hopeless, yet occasionally I do indulge Strick.

I have another friend I enjoy spending time with who rejects the concept of God completely -- intellectually, emotionally and otherwise. But she does entertain an imaginary friend, an enormous hulk of a guy whom she chats with and shares her most personal thoughts. The other day while walking on the beach she was feeling unhappy and mired in some unfounded, self-manufactured misery, and she decided she needed a hug. So, she stretched her arms wide and wrapped them around the girth of her imaginary friend. Of course, there was no one there, so she ended up hugging herself. She said she found comfort in this intimate gesture towards herself, but I don’t get it. The image of her standing there alone with her sadness on an isolated stretch of beach, hugging herself… well, it makes me sad.

I mean (apologies in advance for the melodrama), in that dark night of the soul that we all experience on occasion, when we’re naked and raw and poised at the jumping-off place, the me-myself-and-I approach seems a very risky strategy. For me, a self-administered hug just isn’t going to do it. My advice to my friend: find yourself a dog. Yes, they do tend to come in pairs, but if you spend enough quality time nurturing the good one, the bad one will usually behave.

Michael Lansbury

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March 2008