My dog, Salty…sleeps next to me…as I write. He’s a cranky cuss, but I like him…. He didn’t have much to start with, now the seasons have taken his energy, teeth, hearing, and all but eighteen-inches worth of eyesight…. He’s nervous and edgy, quick to growl, and slow to trust. As I reach out to pet him, he yanks back. Still, I pet the old coot….
We are a lot like Salty…. For all our chest pumping and braggadocio, we are an anxious folk; can’t see a step into the future, can’t hear the one who owns us. No wonder we try to gum the hand that feeds us. But God reaches and touches.