St. Timothy

St. TIMOTHY




St. Timothy was a St. Bernard.  Woke up this morning, thinking about all this.  And now I am writing a blog, to sort it out.  What was it about, all this that is still with me.  Animal Planet Mind.  I do this in the moment of declaration, that goes like this:  "…..  Who loves me, loves my dog."  And that writes the final line of this blog.  If we can’t get there, by some form of common agreement, go no farther.  But then again, here we are.  Big headed dog, and they say, "Big Heart.  Rescue Dog.  Saves people."  But I never saw that side of St. Timothy.  What I saw was winter staring me in the face, and big dog at my feet, as smoke went up the chimney.  Cold outside, and why in the world would we go out there. 



So understanding the difference between St. Timothy, and a St. Bernard, whose main job was rescuing people is quite simple.  The cask around the neck was mostly symbolic.  We didn’t do alcohol in those days, but did have a bottle of brandy upon the shelf.  Mostly ceremonial.  Say what you will, the dog and I didn’t drink.  But there was a lot of smoke. 



And didn’t really go outside, as much as you would suspect.  But when we did, huge dog and sled and a copious amount of slobber, hair and dog poop everywhere.  Better we go out, than do all that in the house.  And as his buddy we had a good understanding.    I would feed him, and he wouldn’t bite me, or sit upon my face, as I lay there sleeping.  Man and dog.    St. Timothy was a St. Bernard.  That stayed with me for a while, and we were good together.  Long winter.  Good companion.  Didn’t drink, but tolerated the smoke, and that’s all that was required.  Way back then.  Times are a changing.  Not sure people love, like that big dog loved me.  And I was addicted.  Woke up this morning, thinking about all this.



So that was a long time ago, that St. Timothy was in my life.  That chapter is over.  But I am still alive.  And that in itself is a miracle.  So maybe St. Timothy did rescue me, but at the time I was oblivious to it all.  In my hospice period.  And the dog was there, to care for me.  Probably it was the food and water he liked, and that was just the arrangement.  I would feed big dog, and he would do the rest.  Working dog.  Found people who got lost. 



And now that I think about it, he found me.  Lost soul.  And did lick my face, to keep me in a state of consciousness.  And it must have worked.  Years later.  Still here.  In a state of mind that reinforces the truth.  St. Timothy rescued me.  In a snowstorm.  Probably dying. Only the dog knows what we did to regain control, survive and live on.  And so in memory, this dog lives on for me.  Sunday morning.  Incredibly powerful, in a personal way.  For me.  It was a long time ago.  St. Bernard named St. Timothy, showing me the way.  The Path of Love.  Man and Dog. 



And that is my blog for today.  Probably one  of those stories that don’t make sense, unless you were there.  Centered in the experience.  Clinging to life.  Thin air.  Kind of high.  And if that wasn’t enough, was carrying a perish stick.  Stranded and this St. Bernard became my patron of mountain climber and lost soul.  Delivered me to safety.  Cared for me.  Miracle healing.  St. Timothy.  More than just a dog.  A true saint.