Peace of His Mind

Christmas with a Collie


It was Christmas Eve morning in the continent’s largest alpine valley. An inch or two of snow had fallen during the bone-chilling night. In the east, a winter sun rose, in glorious pink and gold splendor.

Two sets of tracks were written in the clean white crystals: one of two feet, one set of four. The creators of these winter hieroglyphics were surrounded by the glistening snow. One appreciated the diamonds with his eyes, the other with his nose. The snowfall made for a clean slate upon which the scents of wandering rabbits and packrats stood out clearly
.
The man walked slowly. The Border Collie rocketed to and fro, but always kept a watchful eye on his companion. They were on a mission. The man held a pruning saw in one mittened hand.
They passed the cottonwood tree beneath which a coyote was nestled in his den. The Border Collie and the coyote had made their uneasy peace long ago. Stay away from the chickens and you can have your den. Some nights, when the moon was full, the dog and the coyote sang their howls in harmony.

Past the road to the mailbox, a road where the dog had warned the man of a rattlesnake the previous summer. On they walked, their noses punctuating the cold air with puffs of steam.

The morning of Christmas Eve day. It had been four years since the man had marked Christmas at all. Four years that he had spent building a house in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by only the neighbors that nature provided.

This year, he was determined to celebrate the birthday of one who had come more than 2000 years earlier. This year, he would carefully unwrap the glass baubles to decorate a tree. This year, he would read the Christmas story aloud, if only for himself and Angelo. Funny to be spending the holy day with a dog whose very name meant “Angel.”

He’d spotted the piñon tree that summer on one of their many exploratory walks. It was shaped perfectly. He’d convinced himself that it grew too closely to its neighbors, depriving them of sunlight and precious moisture. Its neighbors would be healthier if he took the tree.
In autumn, when the aspen had dressed in yellow, he had written the owners of the property where the tree stood. They lived somewhere in tropical Florida. They had written back, kindly giving him their permission to cut the tree.

When he got their letter, he and Angelo visited the tree to seek its permission, too. In fact, the man did speak to the tree, telling it of its future, lit by glowing electric lights, and holding the heritage of Christmas ornaments from Christmases long past. The tree offered no response, even when Angelo watered its trunk.

Now, a few days past the longest night of the year, man and dog again sought out that tree. As the sun broke free of the eastern horizon, they saw it, and both paused. In respectful silence, they watched a blue jay alight on the top of the tree. The bird removed a seed from the topmost pinecone on the tree. Seeing the explorers, the jay flew off in a swarm of avian invectives.

The man and the dog stared at the tree. Perfectly symmetrical. Just the right height. The gentle sound of wind rustled its branches. The man dumbly regarded the saw in his hand.

The Border Collie spoke, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
The man turned to Angelo, unfazed by his words. “It is. Think how beautiful it will be at home.”

“You’re not surprised I can talk?”

“Surprise was when you showed up at my door. Surprise was the first time I said I needed a hammer and you brought it to me. That you can speak is no surprise at all.”

The Border Collie wagged his tail. “Good. I was afraid you would think you were hallucinating.”

For a while longer, they appreciated the tree. At last, the man hefted the saw in his hand and began to close in on the tree.

“Wait,” Angelo instructed. “Before we kill the tree, I want to tell you a story.”

“Wouldn’t you rather do that in front of the fire at home?”

“No, I think the story needs to be told right here, right now.”

The man found a fallen log and sat down. “So, let’s keep it short. I’m getting cold.”

Angelo sat down beside the man and put his left paw on the man’s knee. “My kind are not known for verbosity.
“Some 2000 years ago, my ancestors were guarding a flock of sheep outside a small town called Bethlehem. This story is passed down from one who was there, one named Micah, and these are his words.”

I was young then. My memories, though, I assure you, are accurate. I have compared my recollections of the night with others who were there and we had very little disagreement.
It was snowing lightly. The moon was full. The air was cold. The silence was unbroken as the shepherds watched over the flocks. Even the sheep knew something was about to happen and kept their quiet.
A sound, shimmered through the fields of white, voices yet not voices, glimmered in the chill air. Not two, not twenty, but hundreds in a complex harmony.
At last, one voice rose above the others. The harmonies surrendered to a lone tenor voice that rang out with the clarity of a bell and the richness of a pipe organ.
I saw the shepherds drop to their knees in awe, minding not the snow.
“Arise!” the trumpet like voice admonished them. “Fear not! I bring tidings of great joy for all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.”
The other voices that were not voices joined again, singing, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”
All the angels but one left to continue spreading the word. The shepherds departed to visit the newborn King of Kings. They left without a thought for the safety or well being of their flocks, and it was good. The sheep, even the lambs, were safe under our care.
The angel who remained kept watch with us. Mostly he was a quiet sort, though on occasion he did join our frolics. He was fleet of foot, holding his tail high, with his fur flying in the wind. You see, the angel, like us, ran on four feet.
On the day that the shepherds returned, the angel gathered us together to say farewell. His parting words were of instruction: “Today, you have a flock of sheep to guard. These sheep walk on four legs. When the shepherds return, you will have another flock to watch, and these have two legs. Guard them well and teach them well. Your examples of love and fidelity will remind them of the newborn King, who brings the promise of eternal life from his Father.”
The sounds of donkeys braying from the trail signaled the shepherds’ homecoming. The angel put his paw on the foreheads of as many of us as could crowd close to him. And then he left; by what manner I cannot tell you. One moment he was there; the next, he was not.
The shepherds did not notice the change in us at first. They were too excited with the news of the baby Jesus, but as we Collies whispered amongst ourselves, we saw that where the angel’s paw had touched our foreheads, there was now a flash of white.  

The man gaped at Angelo in wonder. That the wise dog could speak held no surprise, but that his companion was a descendant of a dog who had seen Gabriel announce the birth of the Christ child, well, that was worthy of awe.

“Why did you tell me this story?”

“Because you, like God, hold the promise of life in your hands. This tree’s life.”

The man gazed upon the perfectly shaped tree, and then into the wise and ancient eyes of the Border Collie. Moments passed. The man spoke to the dog, “Let’s go home.” He stood and brushed the snow from the seat of his pants.

The Border Collie uttered one word: “Let’s.”

Later that starlit night, the man and the dog took another walk. This time, the man took a backpack along, and he wore his heaviest sweater and a parka. When they reached the tree, the man opened his backpack, removed a candle and lit it. 

The man sang “Silent Night,” with Angelo’s occasional bass joining in. As the man’s shaky voice drew the song to its close, the Long Night Moon rose from the east and settled atop the tree. The man reached into his backpack again and removed a string of popcorn and cranberries. He carefully draped it on the tree. “For the blue jay,” he said to no one in particular. 

Angelo stepped through the snow and watered the tree trunk. “For the tree.”

He returned to the man’s side. “Let’s go home.”

The man uttered one word in reply: “Let’s.”

Seven Dogs In Heaven by Angelo and Leland Dirks