We are getting ready to hop into the car and have a little holiday. Our summer has been quite interesting because plans have changed a number of times, but with only one day delay and coming home one day early, we are “blowing this popsicle stand.” (Don’t know where that saying comes from but I like saying it).

So there are things that need to be done; clean out the garbage cans, strip the beds, put food in the tank for George. This is a whole new aspect in our life – tending to the well being of a pet.

I grew up on a farm so there were animals; cows, often chickens and ducks, barn cats, and always a dog. Our dogs were our pets, but they were cattle dogs, so they were never allowed in the house, and though they were loveable and we mourned when they died, their care wasn’t necessarily a big issue. It was just part being on the farm.

When we established our household, I stood firm that I didn’t want the responsibility of a pet. Now a city dweller, my view of pets is that they are like children that never grow independent. And with allergies looming it’s ugly head in our household, I had a good foundation to form this stand (yes I know about non-allergic pets, but….). But this June the 10^th a friend who didn’t know the rules of our house brought our daughter a gold fish for her birthday. Actually our daughter wasn’t even home at the time, so I was forced to graciously accept the gift, and help set up the little bowl with its fancy stones and plastic accessories and to retain the receipt should the fish die of natural causes within 30 days (we could then get the money back – probably only for the gold fish, not worth the trip to the pet store.) Later that night when our daughter and boyfriend came home, surprised to see the whole set up, she named him George (after the CBC personality George Stroumboulopoulos – I do see a resemblance in the eyes!) and that is where the care of George kind of took a halt on my daughter’s part. Yes, she might feed him in passing, or talk to him if she is eating breakfast at the counter, but the one time that she changed his water she just about freaked out. So I have taken up the task of tending to George, and now my mornings wouldn’t be the same without him meeting me with his gulpy little face pushed up to the side of the bowl mouthing “feed me, feed me!” So each morning I give him his ration. Off and on through the day I throw in an extra pellet and he seems to say, “You are the best” as he swims around the little plastic accessories that decorate his bowl.

As I think about the joy that George has brought into our kitchen, my question is “Am I a “George” in God’s eyes?” Do I bring joy to Him when I push my gulpy face towards Him and say “Feed me, feed me!” Is my prayer of thanksgiving to Him, “You are the best!” reflected in the rest of my day?

Don’t tell anyone, but I am glad that George is in our household. He isn’t super demanding, and 3 day fish food is the greatest invention, though I think I can almost admit that I will look forward to seeing him when we return. I secretly enjoy tending to him because I know he needs me, unlike the children who we have reared up to be reasonably independent. And now each time I do something for George, my silent prayer will be, “Dear Father, I want to be your George. Feed me and take care of me.” Oh, oh, I hear the luggage going out into the car, time to run.

P.K.