Chained Dogs

I complained to my sister

about the way some people treat their dog,

how he is chained

to the loneliest spot at the far end of the property

with only a leaky old box for shelter

and a bucket to catch the rain.

The poor animal's life is limited

to the infrequent, indifferent visit

and the food scraps that come with it.

He learns to shit at the end

of the chain's circumference

to avoid stepping in it all day;

when the bucket is dry

he eats grass for its moisture.

His fur freezes to the ground

at night in the winter,

and he pulls it out snoutfuls of it

in the summer to get at all the fleas.

It makes me so angry,

but animals are property, and he is not mine

so I have to walk on by.

My sister was silent through it all

as I spoke with disgust,

my hands making punctuation marks in the air.

When I was spent she quietly told me

the unsaved is like that dog.

He is chained by sin

in lonely, far flung isolation.

The only things in his tiny circle

is the tiny box of his leaky beliefs

and a bucket of hope and dreams.

He may have family and friends,

but who is willing to step through the mine field

of the filthy waste of his life

and risk being bitten, or worse?

Instead, they toss him scraps

of their affection.

When the sky is empty and no hope can be found,

he chews on the grass of memories

to stay alive.

Sometimes the world can be harsh:

bitterly cold in the nights of his despair,

freezing him to wherever he lies,

or like fleas, digging into him incessantly,

nearly driving him crazy.

And here we are,

freed by the Blood and living in Grace by Faith.

We pass by him in his misery.

We shake our heads and cluck our tongues,

unwilling to free him with the truth of the Gospel

because he belongs to Satan.

She finished in silence and I felt shame

like a needle into my soul.

The analogies can go on forever

but I would rather we get up from this story

and start roaming the neighborhood

in search of the hopeless.