I like dogs. I really do.

To my eyes, they exhibit the epitome of unconditional love through eyes, tail wags, and wiggling bottoms whenever their masters come into view.

I’m dogless at present, although hoping to soon remedy the situation, and Masu was the name of my latest canine. He was named after the corner diner in Honolulu.

Without an ounce of fat at 71 pounds, Masu is a Shar-Pei/Black Lab mix with a heart of gold. With Shar-Pei blood, Masu takes his instinctive owner-protective hormones seriously and has no qualms about scaring the deuce out of unknowns who might present a threat to me or others in the immediate family.

He’s a barker who scares many with bull rushes to their feet, but never has bitten a soul.

Arch enemies of Masu were two dogs regularly walked by a neighbor to the south who doubled as my pastor. With our common church far away in the second largest city in the state, we always could tell if pastor was walking his dogs down our side of the street; which he did regularly. Fortunately for all, a tall fence separated my dogs from the pastors’, and that cacophony only would abate when pastor and dogs walked away down the South Hill.

Quite possibly, Masu was smarter than I was because a small rift between that pastor and myself continued to fester until I had to walk away and worship elsewhere.

Which was cool because it was at the latter, much larger church where I met the lady who would become my wife.

Another dog I had, Masu’s sidekick, was named Joy. A miniature Australian Shepherd named because of emotions this timid female radiates freely, Joy came into our lives after surviving on a Native American dump heap for one month. The estimated one-month calculation came courtesy of the veterinarian who chopped off a front leg. After being shot by a gun, Joy’s leg calcified for about a month, said the vet, before she was corralled, arrived in our lives, then was taken for medical treatment.

Although extremely shy, likely because of the harsh nature of her younger days, Joy darts freely in the sunshine – always quicker than Masu and always with a smile – and warms hearts with her outer and inner beauty.

And yet, although I like dogs, like we humans they regularly are products of their environment and can be led astray when their masters treat them neither with respect nor compassion.

I would counter Barbra Streisand’s pronouncement that “dogs are real good people” with the observation, “Dogs have purer motives than most people.” As I look into canine eyes, view tail wags, and smile at wiggling bottoms, any thoughts of potential subterfuge from them are erased.

I see the hundreds of dogs riding in the backs of pickups in Wallowa County and ponder their purposes and care. Many, I’d guess, are trained farm dogs that do the things trained farm dogs do while others might be companion dogs. Maybe some dudes get off on abusing, swearing at, and kicking their dogs. But even that won’t work as planned. Battered dogs, like many battered women, remain loyal no matter what. One difference might be that many battered women live in confusing worlds of misplaced love, a lack of respect, and loyalty to an ideal, while most dogs, like Christ, radiate unconditional love to all persons no matter the cost.

The parallels between dog and man are many … with abject compassion being a common denominator man can improve upon.

Jabberwock II columnist Rocky Wilson is a reporter for the Chieftain.