By Mark Cutshall
A lot about boundless, unwavering love–the kind of mutual adoration that breathes back and forth and that can remake your heart on a daily basis–I learned from an elderly gal named Mrs. Cushing.
We knew each other for a little more than 14 years until last Thursday, April 25, when she passed away.
I was there beside her up to the end. Put my face next to hers. Kissed her. Then I must have buried my face in the those few seconds when everything stopped, when life, death, and love–the forever companioning of God in its purest form—came around.
Now, a week later, I find myself smiling. This afternoon, I’m more and more sure that before she left, there was something Mrs. Cushing wanted me to see, something never to forget, or keep to myself, a gift of love, unwrapped.
I go back to Day One, that silky, late June afternoon at Rosser’s Pet store when Mrs. Cushing came home with us. Looking back, we were all much younger: Ryan, 8; Sarah not quite 6, and Linda and me, a couple of 30-somethings suddenly wagging our tails.
It was all about Mrs. Cushing, a dachshund with four stubby legs, endearing ears, and that unabashedly long, signature nose. Those first few minutes, alone, were a gift.
Mrs. Cushing, what we come to name her, didn’t need a mirror to know she was beautiful. She knew it every time we were freely caught up in who she was, together. It didn’t take us long to freely receive, embrace and return love every time we delighted in her true Mrs. Cushing-ness: the diva-like prance around the house, the artful display of sitting up for one more, itty-bitty bite, the missile-like defense system targeted at countless innocent, well-meaning UPS deliverymen who gimped away back to the truck, and who remained on our prayer list.
The joy and freedom to give and receive love that, in God’s eyes, doesn’t reward behavior with a dried-up dog biscuit “as long as you do it my way,” is what Mrs. Cushing taught me.
More than once this little dog would sneak up on my sometimes lazy need to be by myself and taught me something else:
Love walks and follows and travels beside another. It’s how stories are born, and how conversations can turn minutes into hours and weeks into years. Mrs. Cushing had a knack for finding and seeking to devour discarded chicken bones. In these urgent moments, I was loving her. Love kneels down. Love reaches in and goes after what can hurt and harm and choke off life. Love protects.
We went on many walks together, chased a lot of squirrels, and watered a lot of lawns. We were regularly companioned by our very svelte, black tuxedo cat named Johnny, and our Labrador/Boxer named Buzz. Up one block and down the other, with Mrs. Cushing often leading the charge, the threesome took us on an Incredible Journey that inevitably created new opportunities to love our two-legged neighbors.
Several months ago, I noticed her pace beginning to slow. Why the bloated belly? Get her to the vet. Tests. Decimal numbers on a clipboard. A cold and naked examining table, and a diagnosis. Management but no cure. Think not in terms of years, but months. Attends for a dachshund? No thank you.
As days waddled on, I found myself looking at the calendar more than usual. Then, one afternoon, I poked my nose in the family room to check on our patient. Love wanting and needing to know how things are going.
There she was. This beloved creation was stretched out in her bed, dreaming away under a blanket, no doubt with the ankle of a frantic FedEx guy firmly in her grip.
Looking back, as I gazed at her in her bed, her health now in certain decline, I realize now I was seeing a picture of the kind of true, honest Sabbath God most desires:
With me, you can stop. Rest. And just be.
My imagination went off leash.
What if . . .?
Without thinking, without trying, I remained in this luxurious moment, thanking God for this little dachshund who made real to me the gift of love, unwrapped.
# # #