Looking for Heaven

Be honest. We all do it. I suspect women do it more than men, but we all do it. If you are reading this blog, you have sent a mass email at least once in your life. You find a joke, a story, a picture, and you think your friends will want to, need to, see it. So you click forward, type in a bunch of names, and hit send. I recently sent one that spoke of a man walking along a road, with his dog, who realized he was dead. The point of the story was the man was looking for heaven.

I liked the email because I found the image of The Couz and I wandering around looking for Heaven very soothing. However, as a card-carrying, Sunday go to meeting Catholic, I attached a note to that email explaining that Catholics are taught animals don’t go to heaven. I find the image soothing, but the fine print codicil is that it’s never going to happen in my Catholic hereafter.

(The basic tenant is that pets don’t know right from wrong, so therefore they can’t go to heaven.) I can’t think of another email I’ve sent through the years that generated as much feedback as that one. Apparently many people (Catholics and non-Catholics alike) did not know that Catholics are taught that pets do not go to heaven. And not one person admitted to believing what the Church taught on this subject.

Please note that I have said Catholics are taught. I did not say that Catholics believe. This is one of the major differences in the Church of my youth and the Church of 2010. We are taught. Hands up if you can recite an Act of Faith. And for those who can’t and for the non-Catholics:

O my God, I firmly believe all the truths that the Holy Catholic Church believes and teaches; I believe these truths, O Lord, because Thou, the infallible Truth, hast revealed them to her; in this faith I am resolved to live and die. Amen.

(The emphasis above is mine.) We are taught, therefore we believe. Except we don’t. Not anymore. At least not in America. We are taught, and we’ll decide what to believe thank you for asking.

Hands up all those who gave something up for Lent. I know, that’s not a rule. (Note to non-Catholics. If it was a rule, Catholics would have to confess not giving something up for Lent before receiving Absolution before we could receive Communion which we believe is the Body of Christ. Which in turn might lead to shorter Communion lines on Easter Sunday.)

However, we were all taught to give something up that we enjoyed or something we do a lot to identify with Christ’s suffering (among other reasons). And so each year I give something up. Sometimes it’s a slam dunk. Sometimes it’s harder to think of something that I will truly miss. (It’s easy for me to give up ice cream. I’m not a big fan. If I gave it up for 40 days, I probably wouldn’t even notice it’s absence.)

I tend to go towards the breaking of questionable habits. Give a habit up for the 40 days of Lent and the bad habit is gone. This year I gave up Chinese food and Black and White cookies. I am always a better person for having given something up.

OK – I know, you’re asking, how the heck are you a better person for having given up Black and White cookies for Lent? Well, for one, I saved $1.75 each time I wanted a cookie and did not buy one. Therefore, my family finances gained. I won’t embarrass myself by estimating how much was added to my finances during the Lenten period.

OK – I know. All you died in the wool taught by the NUNS Catholics are saying I should have donated the $1.75 each time I wanted a Black and White cookie to the poor box. Yes, but then I would be perfect, and that in itself can lead to trouble.

Now, I know that many of my Catholic friends no longer give something up for Lent. I know this because it occasionally comes up and I hear Really? You still give something up for Lent? As the mere fact of self-depravation makes me a better Catholic. Which it doesn’t. (The mere fact I follow RULES makes me a Catholic. And yes, only Catholics are going to understand that.)

OK – let’s make this more real. Abortion is one of those absolutes in the Church. Can’t be Catholic and have an abortion. (I know, I know, you can. Catholics have this magic ceremony called Confession. If you confess to the abortion and are truly sorry and do not plan to have another one, you can have an abortion and still be a Catholic. Kind of like a cake and eat it too scenario. Which brings us neatly back to Black and Whites.)

Abortion goes a bit further. Because not only do Catholics not believe in abortions, they are taught not to support those that do. In other words, we should not vote for a candidate if that candidate supports abortion rights. So, now hands up – how many of us do not support a particular candidate if we know they support the right to choose? Yeah, I thought so. Oh, I know, there are those whose hands shot self-righteously up. But if we are being truthful, sitting in the dark confessional, behind the curtain truthful where no one can actually see you truthful, your hand remained at your side.

Who is right? Is the Church correct in its assessment that if we set the rules you should follow them? Perhaps. It seems easy. Yet, we have a lot of outs. Confession being one of them. Annulments for those who need to opt out of an ill-conceived marriage. The complicated practice of Indulgences.

So if we are taught and choose not to believe, who is the Church to condemn? Haven’t they always found ways to forgive us? Aren’t there always Get out of Jail cards available for the faithful? And in the end, does anyone really know what God will decide on Judgment Day?

As for me, I still give something up for Lent and I am still soothed by that image of The Couz and I walking along together, looking for Heaven.

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Friends

Our home wouldn’t be complete without the cutest puppy in the universe and our foster pet, Shooter.  The Future was not in favor of leaving Mt. Vernon to move to a house.  The Schatz and I were trying to sweeten the deal, and we offered a dog.  A cat that The Future had rescued already lived with us, but a dog had been forbidden by the rules of our co-op.

One Sunday, before moving, we trooped off to a pet store that allowed you to play with all the puppies.  I had a certain breed in mind, and while the store did not have that particular dog, The Future and I were soon petting and playing, kissing and hugging to our hearts content.  Unbeknownst to us, The Schatz had made a deal for the store to find us our dog.

We got a phone call not long afterwards to announce the arrival of our newest family member.  They were willing to hold her until we actually moved into the house. So on December 17^th, The Schatz and I and The Future met with the sellers and the legions of realtors and lawyers, signed all the paperwork, wrote all the checks, hugged and kissed the sellers and wished them luck in their new life, promised to take good care of their home, and met the movers in our new driveway.  When everything had been carted in, The Future and I drove to the pet store and picked up the cutest puppy in the universe. The Future named her after his favorite NBA player, Bob Cousy:

Our dog, whilst cute, tenaciously knows her mind. As long as the program is working to her specifications everything is lovely. And she has relatively few needs. She likes to be with us. Because she was but 10 weeks old, and not trained, I wasn’t willing to let her run around the house unsupervised. And I had a house to unpack.  But I found if I put her in an empty packing box, and dragged it from room to room as I worked, she was happy.

And so it continues to today. Cousy’s main goal in life is to be with her people. She doesn’t care what you are doing, as long as she can sit with you. She loves everyone. She loves us, she loves the UPS man, she loves food delivery people, she loves the Girl Scout that sells us cookies, she loves our friends that visit our house, she loves her vet, she loves her groomer, she’s a people puppy.  She’s all wags and wiggles.  If you see her walking in town one day, please come up and introduce yourself. If you don’t, and she sees you, she’ll cry.

The Future adopted a kitten a couple of years ago in the spring during his Junior year of college. At the time, he was living in an apartment in Mt. Vernon. He loves his cat and his cat adores him. During the following college basketball season, when The Future is at his busiest, he worked his usual seven days a week, 15+ hours a day. I didn’t think that was fair to the cat, so I offered to foster him during the season.

I adore Shooter. At the end of the season, The Future suggested Shooter continue to stay with us and I willingly accepted the concept. Shooter is the feline embodiment of The Future. He knows what he wants and will not give up until he gets you on board. And for the most part, he wants to go outside. Morning can’t come soon enough for Shooter. He is almost three now, and he and I have settled into a routine. I let him out first thing in the morning. He comes back inside before I leave for work.

Shooter, also named by The Future, loves to jump. He jumps just because he can. I often pass him in the house, eyeing a potential spot, as if to say “I can make that”.  And he does.  He loves to jump on top of doors and sit, perched, waiting for you to come by.  He jumps on top of the kitchen cupboards and the seven foot high display cabinet.  He spends part of his day on the roof of our house.  Sometimes, I hear him crying to be let in, and when I go to the door and call his name, his head pops down from the roof.  And because he is only comfortable coming in from the deck, you can track his steps as he gallops across the roof to the other side of the house; where he jumps onto the deck and then swaggers into the house.

If we don’t let him out, he will look for ways to let himself out. He can open the screen door of our deck. He is very agile and quick, and can slip out the door as you come in, without you knowing it. Of course, this works against him too. I have heard him crying, and upon investigating, found him shut in a closet.

He and Cousy get on. They run together and wrestle each other. She does not like him to be in the bedroom, ‘her’ room. But as her arthritis prevents her from getting on my bed, he simply walks in at night, jumps on the bed, and watches television with me. At some point, he leaves. I think he likes to sleep in the guest chair of my home office.

After our older cat died at the end of last year, I felt Shooter was isolated; as if he did not have a proper place in the house. In the two and half years he had lived with us, I had never heard him purr. So earlier this year, I began a concentrated effort to spend individual time with him each day. I hold him, and pet him, kiss him and talk to him. He wasn’t comfortable with this attention at first. He would hold his body rigid, and the moment I relaxed my grip, he would jump down and slink away. But he looks forward to it now. He often stalks into my home office and jumps on the desk when I’m working at home to sit with me. (There is also a window there that he likes checking out.)  And after many months, I finally heard him purr. He is now at home in my house. And because of Cousy and Shooter, our house is truly a home.

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