Prayer Blogs and Racist Dogs

     We meet weekly, sometimes biweekly to pray. The three of us neighbors petition for wisdom for our disorderly national leaders, for peace in our country’s social unrest, for godly spouses for our grown children, and that one child in particular would lose weight before it was too late. We also pray that our adult offspring would take themselves to church. 

     Bonnie, the one who hosts us in her cozy, inviting study where her greatest-generation father used to live, had opened her home to a family of 5 and a dog—a miniature Snauser dog. Although they took the opposite side of the house, it was so quiet you could hardly tell they were there. Apparently, the noisy ones, the parents, were out. An untidy mound of shoes in the entryway was the only evidence that a teenage girl, two middle school boys and their parents lived with Bonnie.

“Yeah,” Bonnie grimaced, “We’ll have to include that pile of shoes when we go over house rules.” “Maybe a nice basket under your entry table would make an attractive solution,” I suggested.

     All three of us have long-term house guests, not just Bonnie.  Marie and I host Chinese high school students—two each—who present their own unique set of domestic challenges. Spending far too much time socializing and complaining about our Chinese students’ strange habits and outrageous spending, we finally got to our prayer requests. Marie’s son in D.C. wants to quit his job at Fair Trade America. Despite the job’s positive social contribution and attractive compensation, millennial son says it’s not fulfilling. He would rather make less money doing something about which he’s passionate.

 “That’s commendable. Now’s the time to have the luxury of changing jobs and making less before he has a family,” I comment.

     And then there’s her other son who works for Olin Musk. His problem is he just needs to get to church, and they both need to find a wife, Marie says. I jot down the requests in my beige moleskin.

     Mid conversation, Bonnie’s younger house guests, Tim and Ted emerge—one wrapped in a Christmas blanket—from their side of the house with their dog at the end of a leash. Marie exclaims, “Oh you have a dog just like mine, a miniature Snauser. Can I see him?” With one brother restraining the grey scruffy dog in the entryway, the other stammers, “Oh, well…he is kind of old and blind…and he’s racist, so I don’t think we should bring him any closer.” They turn and take the dog out to do his business.

“Did you hear what I just heard,” the three of us ask each other? “Did he say, ‘racist dog?’”

“I’m so sorry,” cringed a mortified Bonnie to Marie. “I apologize for my guest’s bad behavior and will talk to the boys.”

“It’s OK,” said Marie. I was not sure if she was offended—as she should've been—by the archaic and childish remark. “Kids don’t know what they’re saying half the time.”

“But really! Racist dog. I’ve never heard anything like that in my life,” I interjected.

“I’m so sorry, Marie.” Bonnie again winced.

The boys came back and the first thing out of their mouth was and apology. Their consciences must have gotten the best of them, thank God, as they realized their rude blunder.

They started for their rooms and I pressed in, “How can a dog be racist, really?” 

“Well, he once attacked some black boys, so we didn’t want him to do the same to you.”  The older brother explained.

“Well,” attempting to reason with the middle schoolers, “Obviously, the  dog doesn’t understand bigotry based on color of skin. Nor does it grasp our country’s terrible history with African Americans. So, don’t say the dog is racist. Poor pup most likely was scared of the boys for some other reason. Racist Dog!!”

We prayed and went home. I tell my husband the dog story and he guesses that the parents must've put the idea into the kids' head. I suggest it was the cultural hot topic and swirling buzz words from news or their peers.

Three weeks pass before our schedules allow another prayer meeting. Bonnie's son is losing weight and eating healthily. Marie's son is more settled in his cushy job. The situation with my kids has improved greatly also. We share more requests, read a Psalm and before we pray Bonnie says,

"By the way, the guest dog died last Sunday. Marie is crushed. Bonnie and I not so much.  The mom put him down due to the dog's ailments from old age and the kids stayed home on President's Day to recover emotionally."

It was hard for us not to think that the racist dog got what was coming to him. But of course, we were joking. He was just old and absolutely never racist.