Angels Unawares

“Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” -- Hebrews 13:2

I believe in angels and I like the thought of “entertaining them unawares,” so I do a lot of that. There is just something so magical and hopeful in wondering if the latest cat I rescued or homeless person I slipped an extra sandwich to, is really a visitor checking in on us, from above…

One of my favorite “angels unawares” was Dr. Crags – a weathered old, nearly wild tom cat that appeared on my porch one cold day, a couple of years ago. He was skinny and very motley-looking, gray, with a sort of a crooked face. Scarred and very tentative about the prospect of getting food off my porch, he looked like he’d had a rough life.

Initially, Crags wouldn’t eat while anyone was around. But I left food out for him, and he became a regular visitor. A little later he would stay on the edge of the porch while I put some canned food out for him, eyeing me carefully out of his one good, dark golden eye. Still later, he would actually come to meet me, ravenously gobbling the wet food as fast as I could dump it from the can.

About a year ago Crags got hit by a car or attacked by something, and half of his face was nearly pulled off. His foot was injured, too, and he looked like he was in a lot of pain. There was no way I could grab him to take him to the vet – so far he hadn’t even let me touch him. So, I asked the vet for some strong antibiotics, which I slipped into Crags’ food each day. Because I wanted him to be sure and eat the pills, I switched him over to the whipped cream and baked chicken diet my house cats get, when they have to take a pill. You’d thought poor ole’ Crags had died and gone to heaven, watching him wolf down that chicken and whipped cream so enthusiastically twice a day, in spite of his maimed face.

It took three rounds of the antibiotic, but Dr. Crags eventually healed. And, in a few months his face was almost normal again – maybe a little bit more crooked than before, but fluffy and gray and well-healed. Crags continued to make his way across the street twice a day for months, and I grew fonder and fonder of the sight of him, sitting quizzically there, on the edge of the porch, looking wisely at me through his one good eye.

As time went on, Crags let me pet him while he ate. And, because he ate it with such relish, I continued to feed him mostly whipped cream and chicken. He got such pleasure out of it, and, what if he was an “angel unawares?” I wanted him to give a good report about our hospitality.

Eventually, he even developed a bit of a purr – not really a purr – more of a low grumbling sound, but coming from Dr. Crags, while I petted him, it felt like quite an honor.

The last time I saw Dr. Crags was five days after Christmas. He came for his usual meals and sat for awhile in the sun on the porch, and then he disappeared – never to return. I don’t know what happened to him, but I hope it was a quick and painless, or easy peaceful death.

There have been other “angels unawares” over the years. There was Beezer, the blind, 14-year-old poodle I rescued from the pound. She had a broken foot and very bad breath, but there was something bigger than her ancient tiny self staring out of her cataract-clouded eyes… Pru, a badly buckshot Rottweiller - also rescued from the pound – healed and loved and protected us for years, a deep wisdom and patient love shining from her big brown eyes… Bud, a motley old Silkie rooster with a funny-looking feather mullet certainly had more going on than just watching over the hens I used to have... Countless other creatures - and people - over the years have made me wonder…”Is there more going on here than just the misfortune you seem to have fallen into?”

There is a sad, dusty, almost ethereal demeanor to those who may be angels unawares…a depth to the way they look at you…an almost unearthly wisdom in their eyes….

It’s hard times out there. There may be laid-off people, and foreclosed-on people, people who can’t afford their medicines, and recently-made-homeless pets joining the ranks of those angels unaware who cross our paths in need of help or care…

”Let brotherly love continue,” is how the Apostle Paul started his letter to the Hebrews. (13:1) May we remember that, and give help, and take help, from whatever angels come our way.

Black Dog

My neighbor just had her door painted a lovely shade of lavender, and against the also freshly painted periwinkle blue walls of her home, that lavender looks very nice…The daffodils are blooming again, all over our county - on the roadsides, in front of houses, in abandoned lots and in fields where animals graze…And, sometimes, even in the middle of a gray and windy, or cold and rainy, day the sun comes out for a while…giving us hope that Spring will soon return.

This is a difficult time of year for me. It always has been.

The holidays are long gone, but the Sun (at least consistently shining) seems very far away. The weather is too often cold, wet or gray, and hope is hard to come by…In the old days, the way I feel during these bleak end of winter months was simply known as depression.

Now these feeling are called S.A.D., which stands for Seasonal Affect Disorder. The notion is that we are depressed because our bodies aren’t getting enough sun to produce adequate Vitamin D, which means we need light boxes, and time in the sun, and antidepressants, and vitamin supplements, and a therapist, and whatever….

I have tried all of those things with limited success. And, so, I am left dragging myself from early January to mid March with a focused determination even a military hero or a cancer survivor might appreciate.

The famed author William Styron called his depression (I don’t know if it was seasonal…) “The Black Dog,” and I like that analogy. For years, I tried to fight my depression…conquer it…apply reason…bring it to submission…None of that worked.

I’ve also tried prescription drugs…no luck there either. It seems the Black Dog will let you harbor the delusion you’ve actually conquered him for a few months, but, invariably, he comes creeping back, stronger and more wily than before, in spite of the meds…

My latest and most successful approach, (success being a relative term with regard to S.A.D. and its many ramifications…) is to simply accept and coexist with the Black Dog during these bleak - but finite – few months he is in residence.

I acknowledge that he is here - watching me, always present. But, I do not let him take control.
And, he sits there, in the corner, lapping up my weak, sad, depressed energy. He knows his stay is temporary, but he enjoys it anyway.

It’s odd to think that one can develop an on-going, surprisingly predictable and respectful relationship with one’s depression, but, over the years, Black Dog and I have managed to forge that.

He lets me work, and feed the bright red cardinals in my yard, and gather daffodils by the roadside. And, I let him stay there ever present and watching, on the couch near my computer desk, in the back seat of the car, at my feet while I cook, on a rug near the fire.

We know our time together is temporary. We know he’ll leave again when the April Sun returns and the dogwoods begin to bloom. There is no need to force things…

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not advocating going off psych meds to get to know The Black Dog. Depression is a serious thing that can affect people, and their families, very deeply.

I’m just saying I’m glad my Black Dog and I have found a way to co-exist until hope returns again – and, it always does. In the meantime, it’s not such a bad sound – the sad, but familiar thump of a Black Dog wagging his tail at the foot of the bed, on one of these cold harsh nights.