Maundy Thursday

Kirby's no Catholic, at least he doesn't believe the Pope's infallible. Infallibility's for me, the one he counts on for treats under the table when no one is looking, or he trails me into his mistress's laundry room, where doggy perks are stored along with "Tide, Free & Gentle, plastic containers of color safe bleach destined for the King Size clean-machines as good as any Laundromat on planet earth. In the church of my persuasion, Thursday of Holy Week is when parishioners, called for duty, come forward on cue to sit on folding chairs before God and the world, while a priest, kneeling in his grandiose garments washes their feet in the old way, (a bar of soap, "Dial" maybe, "Don't you wish everybody did!", a basin of water, a towel or three) as our Blessed Lord demonstrated on his way to the tree. Barefoot at bedtime, sleeping over with those I love most, Kirby, senior citizen of our family dog-dom, granted privileged access to the end of my bed, takes sacramental care of the object of his affections. My left foot carefully washed, special attention to the toes, (no thorns on this rose), are hors d'oeuvres he does not sample in his ample love.