A dog's search for meaning

As I lie on my couch this Sunday evening, reading Viktor Frankl’s, “Man’s Search For Meaning,” Scout and Scarlett sleep quietly on their round, padded beds by the fireplace.

I look at the two pups and wonder as their legs twitch and lips snarl, what they might be dreaming? Are they chasing gray squirrels in the backyard that always stay just out of reach of their bite, or might they be scaring away an intruder who dares knock on their owner's front door?

Scarlett’s dream becomes increasingly intense — which wakes Scout, who startles, barks loudly then runs to the back door. Instinctively understanding her need to protect, Scarlett jumps awake and chases her brother through the dining room. Both dogs yip, growl and whine until I open the door, releasing the hounds. The dogs run full-speed to the back fence, bark twice and look at each other as if wondering what just happened.

The dogs turn and look back at me as I hold the back door open and begin to laugh. My dogs are nuts!

“What are you chasing?” I ask the dogs. They quickly return their gaze to the fence, tails erect and hackles raised attempting to convince me they chased away the squirrels, burglars and scoundrels attempting to commit dastardly deeds and nefarious crimes on the residents of their home. I chuckle and close the door.

The two yellow Labrador retrievers are born from the same mother almost 11 months ago and often bicker as young human siblings do. They play hard, poop often and love fully. Scout, now 85 pounds, still believes he fits on my lap and Scarlett loves to lick. She licks my feet, my hands, my nose and ears. Her licks make me happy.

Now fully awake, both dogs explore the yard, wrestle each other, run the fence-line and chew tennis balls.

I return to my book examining a man’s ability to endure life and find love as another group of men commits evil, heinous acts upon him and many others at the Auschwitz concentration camp.

The book continues: "we stumbled on in the darkness, over big stones and through large puddles, along the one road leading from the camp.

The accompanying guards kept shouting at us and driving us with the butts of their rifles. Anyone with very sore feet supported himself on his neighbor's arm.

Hardly a word was spoken; the icy wind did not encourage talk. Hiding his mouth behind his upturned collar, the man marching next to me whispered suddenly: 'If our wives could see us now! I do hope they are better off in their camps and don't know what is happening to us.'

"That brought thoughts of my own wife to mind.

And as we stumbled on for miles, slipping on icy spots, supporting each other time and again, dragging one another up and onward, nothing was said, but we both knew: each of us was thinking of his wife.

Occasionally I looked at the sky, where the stars were fading and the pink light of the morning was beginning to spread behind a dark bank of clouds. But my mind clung to my wife's image, imagining it with an uncanny acuteness.

I heard her answering me, saw her smile, her frank and encouraging look. Real or not, her look was then more luminous than the sun which was beginning to rise.

"A thought transfixed me: for the first time in my life I saw the truth as it is set into song by so many poets, proclaimed as the final wisdom by so many thinkers.

The truth — that love is the ultimate and the highest goal to which man can aspire. Then I grasped the meaning of the greatest secret that human poetry and human thought and belief have to impart: The salvation of man is through love and in love.

I understood how a man who has nothing left in this world still may know bliss, be it only for a brief moment, in the contemplation of his beloved. In a position of utter desolation, when man cannot express himself in positive action, when his only achievement may consist in enduring his sufferings in the right way—an honorable way—in such a position man can, through loving contemplation of the image he carries of his beloved, achieve fulfillment.

For the first time in my life I was able to understand the meaning of the words, 'The angels are lost in perpetual contemplation of an infinite glory....'"

As I continue to read, my mind drifts to Molly, my last dog, rescued at age 18-months from a family who kept her in a small chain-link prison with a concrete floor, only allowing her to leave her cell once a week to go for a run. During this run with her captor, she excitedly nipped the ankles of kids riding on bicycles and barked at those who tried to pet her.

She was deemed too vicious to keep, and the owners decided to put her down.

Knowing my wife and I were searching for a pet, my sister-in-law rescued Molly from her death walk and called to see if I am up to this challenge. I instantly say yes.

Two trees, three hoses, a lawn mower, the siding from our house and numerous shoes were sacrificed before Molly’s nervous energy began to subside as I worked with her for hours every day showing unconditional love, nurturing and kindness.

Three months pass before Molly will enter my house. Trepidatiously entering my home Molly continually searches for an exit strategy. Bribed with continual treats, constant praise and unlimited ear scratches, Molly decides to examine her new home with her nose to the floor and tail between her legs.

After another year of constant work, love and praise, Molly becomes a great companion.

She works hard in the field, lays and plays softly and patiently with my grandchildren and curls up with me next to the fire, sharing mutual love as we comfort each other — like a warm, soft blanket on a cold December night.

Every living thing has a purpose; a meaning. Scout and Scarlett rely on me for their safety, for nourishment and companionship as I rely on them for love.

During my most difficult day, I think of those who love me; my wife, my daughter, my grandchildren and my dogs.

With this thought of love, I have meaning, and so do those who offer love.