Reflective Tuesday.

I've been holding anger in my heart for a couple of days.

On Saturday, a neighbor of mine told me all about the latest neighborhood scandal, and I listened with horror and disgust.

A grouchy, middle-aged man (we'll call him Pete), who lives a few houses down from me, recently hit and killed another neighbor's dog (we'll call them Adam and Jen). Pete was obviously speeding when he hit the dog, which, I'll grant it, shouldn't have been in the road. The dog flew several yards before hitting the pavement. But his response was appalling. He stopped, got out of the car, and said, "How's the dog?" When Jen answered, frantically, "Not good, I think she's dying," Pete got back in his beat-up car and drove away without another word.

A week or so later, Pete went to Adam and Jen's house and knocked on their door. He told Adam that their dog had caused damage to his headlights, and if they didn't pay the bill, he'd take them to court.

Of course, the neighbors who know about this are outraged, and I admit that I've been outraged, too. I've been putting myself in Adam and Jen's shoes - what if that had been Bo? How could I have kept myself from taking a bat to his car the moment he killed my dog, let alone when he threatened to sue me? And then I put myself in Pete's shoes - what if I had been the one to hit the dog? How could the proper response not be apologies and guilt, even if the dog was in the street where she shouldn't have been?

I'm so much better than him.

Pete's a dog owner, too, I kept thinking. He should have more empathy. And every time I walked by his house, I felt myself seething.

I told this story to my mom yesterday. She, too, was appalled. But then she made a good point.

"How sad," she said. "But you know, we usually feel sorry for a dog who's been beaten or neglected and becomes mean or aggressive. We're much harsher toward the way people act."

She was right, and that stuck with me. Along with the fact that holding pent-up anger in my heart was doing nothing good, I was not thinking like Jesus.

Remember the story of Zacchaeus? (Yes, I totally had to Google how to spell that.) He stole from anyone and everyone. But Jesus had mercy on him.

You might say, "But humans aren't dogs." True, true. But like dogs, we rely on instinct and emotion when we act. Like dogs, we're flawed. We're capable of much greater things... but also capable of much greater evil. We're also, compared to a perfect God, pretty stupid.

Maybe Pete, as a child, was beaten or neglected. Maybe he had to work in a job that stripped him of compassion or empathy. Those things don't excuse his behavior, but they would explain it. And they would give us reason to pity him.

Christ would have compassion on Pete. But I only felt judgment and anger.

My mom's comment really impacted me. People like Pete are often a product of their past. Without the redeeming blood of Christ, how can he overcome it? Truly, there, but for the grace of God, go I.

Things to think about on this Reflective Tuesday.

Three things.

I learned three things about Bo this weekend.

1. I learned that my dog - Brian's "vicious pitbull" - is truly, without a doubt, an absolute wuss.

Bo and I met his arch nemesis on the way home from the lake. Bo is always on the lookout for Big Boy, the neighborhood cat, but rarely does he get an opportunity to meet him face to face. But right then, behind a blue pickup, we could both see Big Boy before the big, black cat spotted us. Bo raced ahead to confront the beast once and for all, and I ran behind him, anxious to see what might happen. I had my doubts about Bo's courage in the face of such danger.

I heard a hissing noise and a loud whimper before I circled the pickup and saw the two pets. Big Boy was massively puffed, a great black furball standing stock still in the grass. Bo was a healthy three or four feet away, tail between his legs, looking sideways at the cat. Bo began running in a jolting circle around Big Boy, who stood his ground, and each time Bo moved, the dog let out a high-pitched, anguished whine.

I was doubled over laughing at my dog. I'd never seen him so frightened in his life, but he couldn't tear himself away from the cat. He maintained his distance, still trying to work up the courage to approach Big Boy, but with each move, he yelped as though he was being beaten. For a few more seconds I stood there in tears, then said, "Come on, Bo. Let's leave Big Boy alone." Bo finally followed me home, but his head hung low and his normally buoyant tail stayed between his legs. He remained so edgy that when I opened the mailbox, he jumped. Once inside, I told Brian about Bo's encounter, and it almost seemed as though our dog knew he should be embarrassed.

(By the way, I don't hate cats. I wouldn't have let Bo near Big Boy if I hadn't known that my dog (who still possesses his testicles, in fact) would have been on the losing end of the encounter.)

2. The next thing I learned about Bo is that he is, contrary to all of my boasting and pride, one of those dogs.

I'm too disappointed for many words right now. If dogs could understand lectures, Bo would have been duly ashamed when we came home from church. As it is, he probably won't understand why he winds up in the basement during our outings. Sigh.

3. Finally, I learned that Bo and I share a longing.

He wants a baby, too.

Or at least, he longs to decorate the nursery of his dreams.