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This blog will be on a much needed break for a couple of months. Check back in November!

Owen and I were playing a game of fetch on the front lawn this morning, enjoying a seriously beautiful Sunday morning. Fetch is one of the ways we give thanks for being alive; I’m not sure I can explain it save to say that play — and fetch is serious play for us — somehow tells the world we are glad we are in it. There is no particular need for play; we could live without it, but somehow I think the world is better for it. Joy makes life wider. At any rate, this morning we were quite thankful, feeling blessed by the blue sky, the yellow sun, the greener grass. Simple things. We were a little sad that the tennis ball had lost its bounce, but other than that life was good. And so was fetch.

We sometimes have audiences for our games of fetch. An elderly couple that walks the neighborhood frequently likes to stop and watch, oohing when Owen does his flying leaps, applauding gleefully when he snags a ball midair. A young woman who walks a young labrador often stops and watches us. She talks to the lab, explaining to him that he too could learn to play fetch. See? she says. You could do that. The dog tilts his head, watches quietly. Other walkers pause, cars sometimes slow and watch. We’re used to it, Owen and I, both of us secret hams happy to perform.

Today, we had a new audience. I could feel someone watching as I chucked the ball up the hill and Owen tore after it. Owen got it on the second bounce, then bounded back to me. But his attention was distracted. He saw what I sensed. I turned around. There, at the edge of the lawn were two young men, each dressed in a white shirt, grey tie, black blazer, black pant, and each carrying a grey backpack. Twins. A pair of Mormon missionaries.

“Hi,” one said.

“Hey.” I turned back and picked up the tennis ball Owen had dropped at my feet. I was ready to politely send my missionary friends away.

“Can we talk to you…” the other began.

I chucked the ball for Owen, hurling it high and far so he’d have a long run. I turned back. “Listen guys, I’m not interested.”

“Can we tell you about the…”

And then they launched into their sales pitch. Honestly, I can’t recall it, because it was a string of canned stuff, with a lot of Lord and Jesus Christ sandwiched between some other verbiage that was clearly rehearsed and meant to sway the unchurched, the heathen, the unbeliever. People, quite clearly, like me.

“Guys.” I turned on my best freshmen writing professor voice. “I’m NOT interested. Okay?” And my “okay” was not meant as invitation to pursue dialogue. That’s an “okay” that says: cool it kid.

The kids backed off. I hucked the ball to Owen.

But then one of them said, and I’ve got to admire his persistence, he said: “Can you tell us anyone around here who might want to hear about the glory of Jesus Christ our Lord?”

I swear it, right then, Owen — who sat before me with the newly retrieved tennis ball in his mouth — looked up at me and I could read his mind. Owen said: “Jean, just tell them that I’m it. I’m a dog. And you know what that is spelled backwards. Right? Tell them that, and then could you throw the ball again, at least at few more times, please?”

I turned then and smiled kindly at the missionaries. I knew they would never hear Owen’s voice, nor know his story. “Sorry guys,” I said. “I really couldn’t say.”

And then I lobbed the ball as high and far as I could for Owen. Who ran and ran under the blue sky, the yellow sun, and the perfect day. Dog, indeed.