Print Issue: August 22, 2002

A Tale Of Hope

By Lorraine V. Murray, Special To The Bulletin

"Faith, hope and charity," I remember chanting obediently as a child, responding to a catechism question about virtues. The nuns delved into elaborate detail about faith and charity, but barely skimmed the surface of hope.

If I were teaching a catechism class today, I'd bypass the dry dictionary definitions of hope. Instead, I'd tell the kids the story of Otto and Dexter.

Otto is a widower in his 70s who lives alone in a small house on a cul-de-sac in my neighborhood. His yard has a few spindly trees and rose bushes that blaze into gaudy jewels each spring.

I know very little about Otto. His back is bent and he walks with difficulty, evidently suffering from arthritis. I see him at Mass sometimes, sitting at the back of the church, his rosary beads pouring from his hands.

When I first met Otto about 10 years ago, a small, golden-furred dog trotted alongside him. When I bent down to pet her, she wiggled in ecstasy while her beaming owner told me she was a Corgi and her name was Becky.

Whenever I'd see the twosome out walking, the routine was the same. Otto and I would exchange pleasantries about the weather, while Becky waited patiently. When it was her turn for attention, I'd bend down and scratch her ears while she wagged her tail so hard that she nearly flipped over.

One day I spotted the old man walking alone, without a leash in his hands. When I inquired about Becky, he gripped his cane and choked up. He told me the dog had died suddenly and that his grief over the death had nearly killed him.

"I ended up in the hospital," he said hoarsely.

After that, whenever I saw Otto walking along without his companion, I would inquire about his health and he would assure me he was doing fine.

But a light was missing from his eyes.

Before too long, I was out walking and saw Otto rounding the bend holding a leash once again. Tethered to the leash was a reddish-brown Corgi. When I stopped to admire the animal, Otto proudly introduced me to Dexter, whom he'd adopted from a rescue center.

I quickly noticed that Dexter lacked Becky's feisty personality. Although the dog's tail had been wagging as he walked along, when I bent down to greet him, the poor animal cringed, as if bracing himself for a blow.

"I think someone beat him when he was a puppy," Otto said, shaking his head sadly. He confided that he was worried because the dog's appetite was lagging.

The next time I saw Otto and Dexter, Otto reported that the dog was eating heartily. When I praised Dexter for his newfound appetite, he perked up his ears as if he understood me, but when I stroked his head, the poor animal cowered.

Otto knows very little about me. He sees me making the rounds of the neighborhood regularly, and knows which house is mine, but he isn't aware that I was diagnosed with cancer two years ago.

And he doesn't know that I was swept into a maelstrom of despair.

"What's the point?" I'd wonder, as I surveyed the vitamins I'd taken religiously for so many years.

"What's the point?" I'd wonder when friends assured me they were praying that my next doctor's visit would show no signs of the dreaded recurrence.

I was afraid to hope. I figured that by keeping my expectations low I'd spare myself the agony of disappointment if my condition suddenly worsened.

Then one day recently, I was glancing out the window and saw Otto and Dexter and suddenly felt a sea change in my soul. Watching Dexter straining at the leash and Otto squinting into the sun, I wondered what might have happened if Otto had fallen into a pit of despair after Becky's death.

I imagined myself in Otto's place saying, "I'm not getting another dog. I'm too old to put myself through that kind of heartache again."

And then I envisioned Dexter still waiting in a holding pen at the rescue center.

Even though the memory of the terrible things done to Dexter remain deeply rooted in his heart, I believe Otto's devotion will heal the wounds. In some small way, the miracle already is happening.

When I saw Otto and Dexter the other evening, I bent down to pet the dog's furry head and I am sure I detected the slightest flicker in his tail.

I think I would tell the children in the catechism class that hope rescued Otto and hope is redeeming Dexter. And I would also tell the children about my hope. That the love of Otto and Dexter for each other ultimately will redeem me.

Lorraine Murray is the author of "Grace Notes," available at the Emory Commons Chapter 11 and Cokesbury Bookstores. This article is reprinted with permission from America magazine.