It is not a coincidence that the words Dog and God are related. Much has been made of this reversal of letters. All manner of philosophers, who would stand proud atop the knowledge that God is dead, have played, have called God a cur, a lesser being fit to wallow in the stench of dead fish. The philosophers are wrong, of course. If I know anything tonight, tonight when I'm alone, when I'm trolling the depths of an ocean of depression where oxygen must be fought for, I know that God is alive. I know that while I'm bleeding internally, this God bleeds with me. I know this because, half drunken with beer and lack of sleep, I fell to the floor. I fell, not on accident, but because I had no where else to go. I fell on soft carpet, a cowardly fall. I closed my eyes, just expecting to fall asleep. Instead, I began to hear sniffles. I began to feel the wet lap of a tongue on my salty cheek. I felt fur, a cold wet nose. I didn't have to look up. I knew my dog, Lego, had walked up to me and begun to do the thing which comes most naturally to him: to love. He bathed me in his kisses. Kisses full of saliva. Kisses I would normally be revolted to receive. But this night each one was a quiet sentence containing the word I needed to hear most: Love. Love, lego said. Love love love love, as many loves as his little tongue was able to impart. I realized that animals, like all of God's creation, are manifestations of some aspect of God. God is creation. And tonight, Lego was God to me.