9:30 am Good Friday Morning 2002
Lynda, my soul mate, is walking Gypsy, our dog, communing with Nature along the paved paths that snake through the Urban Wilderness behind our house. After much "sole" searching for suitable spring footwear - boots too big, runners too light- I have declined to join them. Instead, I eat breakfast while reading a Maclean's Magazine article titled "Living The Faith". I learn that "Tikkun Olam" is the ancient obligation of every Jewish person to participate in the healing of the world. I hear the news on CBC radio announcing that the Israeli tanks are lined up on the border ready to attack the Palestinians. I recall the CNN news last night reporting that the Pope should retire and that one of the Senior Cardinals of the Catholic Church is being accused of sexual improprieties. Lynda and Gypsy burst in the door with exuberance, the dog barking for the obligatory return home treat and Lynda announcing that she has seen a cardinal, a rare sight up here in Northern Ontario - and heard it calling its signatory, "Birdee Birdee Birdee" (We have seen and heard cardinals before during our shopping pilgrimages to "The Mecca of Money" - Toronto).
I cynically comment that if she's seen the cardinal maybe the pope was nearby. She replies that she did not see the pope but did see the poop, dog poop that is, a sure sign of spring. I ask Lynda if our cat, Carly (actually, Carly is not "our" cat, she just eats and sleeps at our house when she's not at the neighbours) followed them on the path as she sometimes does, miraculously appearing from behind some tree or bush. Lynda replies that Carly may have been behind them for part of the time but disappeared before the journey's end.
This banter formed the genesis of the following dissertation.
The Not So Good Friday Homily: The Passion of The Pets
Yeah! We are walking along the path by the river with the veggie- loving Terri-Poo, Gypsy "Iscarryit" - so called because she must be carried over puddles because she is afraid to walk on water. Gypsy looks up to us as her supreme masters, but we know in our hearts that she would surely betray our commands for a few pieces of tomato. In the Park, we hear on high, a cardinal, singing its lofty song of territorial domination. And low, we come upon the poop, its stench will be upon our soles until we change our shoes. A cry rings out in the forest, a primal scream all creatures must instinctively respond to. We turn to heed the call of Pompous Carly Cat, a god in her own mind to whom we should obey. Gypsy, ignoring Carly, barks to betray the presence of the cardinal high in a poplar tree. Carly looks to the heavens and spies the fowl covered in red. To Carly, killing the cardinal this day would truly be a goood Friday. Miraculously, the cardinal escapes death and rises up in the sky to join the rest of its flock. Carly washes her paws dismissing the significance of a close encounter with the cardinal.
On this Good Friday, we commemorate our cardinal event by performing the ritual of visiting the donut shrine of dead Tom's coffee shop to partake of the consummation of coffee and wafer thin oatmeal raisin cookies and marvel at the "Rising of the dough". Verily I say to you, the fact that dead Tom's is serving customers on this Pretty Good Friday restores our faith in capitalism.
