Cain

part three - a Saturday Story

The parsonage we lived in was just a stone’s throw from the church, separated by a rectangular plot of grass. A long, worn asphalt driveway connected the two. Everyone who came to the church or the cemetery, by necessity, drove past our house first. Every Sunday, we walked to and from church together.

Cain got into the habit of going with us. He became a kind of unofficial greeter—not a nuisance, just a quiet presence. I can’t remember anyone ever complaining about him or even mentioning him, really. He knew how to be there without making himself the center of attention. He wasn’t one of those dogs who think every human life needs to be improved by touching their fur. Once the service started, he’d climb the concrete steps to the front door of the church and lie down. Dogs have excellent hearing—Cain could hear the singing and the preaching.

He stayed with us until we moved to the city. We were going from the middle of nowhere to the third-largest city in Oklahoma at the time. As soon as the decision was made, I had to think hard about what would be best for Cain. As much as I loved that dog, I could already see trouble on the horizon if we brought him along.

Cain had always been an outdoor dog. He had complete freedom. He was never penned or chained. He came and went as he pleased, often exploring the woods behind the house. But he was never a problem. He didn’t chase cars, didn’t loiter in the street, and never bothered the neighbor’s cows. He had a lot of independence—and never abused it.

I just couldn’t picture him adjusting to city life. There were too many rules, too many fences, too many white trucks with cages and poles with neck loops. If we didn’t cage or chain him, he’d likely end up under “animal arrest.” And I knew Cain wouldn’t be happy like that.

Thankfully, Cain had already won the heart of one of our young deacons. The deacon asked if they could adopt him. They lived about three miles east, on a large farm—plenty of room for a dog like Cain to roam and explore. So a deal was made. When we moved, we said our goodbyes, and Cain went to live with Tim.

A few months later, I gave Tim a call.

“How’s Cain getting along?” I asked.

“Well,” Tim said, “he’s doing pretty good, but I’ve had to start tying him up on Sunday mornings.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t know how he knows, but he knows when it’s Sunday. And every Sunday, he all the way to the church and lies down on the front steps. That wouldn’t be a problem, except no matter who’s preaching, once the sermon starts, Cain starts howling—and won’t stop. It disrupts the service. I think he knows it’s not you, and he misses you. That’s just his way of saying so.”

I’ll tell you the truth—he made me feel bad when I heard that. But I still believe we did right by him.

Dogs really are man’s best friend.

Photo by Bradley Pisney on Unsplash