When did world and weather shift, that we walk friends about in fur? On scrabbled coast where Jeffers pined and Mission clay soaked native blood, I am on Easter Sunday in the back pew of Wayfarers’ church, simpled green and white. Hear Father Norm bless all, as my blonde dog stretches under hymnals and the plate, with eyes forgiving human egoists who say God needs no pets in heaven. Norm sermons that life-firsters of today would eagerly pluck Jesus off … Read on…