Linus knows that the wild dogs of life are as likely to snatch his hand as the chunk of ham he offers the shivering mongrel. But the complexity at work in his brain suggests to him that the most base and vulgar creature needs care and companionship.
If not he, then who?
Haughtiness is absent in Linus. His actions are reactions. Impulsion is driven by this deeply entrenched value. This is the quality of sainthood. Mere mortals can be motivated to charitable deeds and good works by substantial tax credit or monuments named in their honor. Nice guy actions are currency in the open market of public relations.
Linus doesn't need good karma. Karma hasn't worked, as a principle, for him-- ever. Only Mother Theresa had more good karma stored in the cloud. Neither of them were showered with brilliant blasts of good things. Both of them found good in the wretched, wicked things of life. Both of them believed that mere actuality qualified one to be the recipient of kindness and sincere company.
Linus makes friends of enemies because Linus neither covets what another has nor has any cause to slander. Nor does Linus hold on to anything any one would want to take by force. Linus has no nemesis. He is only surrounded by those who are convinced he is hiding some icon...some token...some charm that wards away anger and chaos; pettiness and contention. Maybe it's that baby blue blanket...
They try. They try with clever schemes and ninja beagles. They try with parental authority and peer pressure. Linus, they are sure, would be nothing without his blanket...his Orthodox icon...his Lutheran cross...his Catholic rosary...his religious-like crutch. Deprived of his blanket surely Linus will be mortal like us...able to bleed; and bleeding to feel pain; and in feeling pain to strike back...bite back against his enemies and those who take advantage of his good nature and good intentions.
But Linus does not bite.
Linus pities.
Linus cries for the both the bleeding hand and the shivering dog who has taken the ham and run.
Linus: friend to the friendless, will be at the gate tomorrow with a piece of ham in his bandaged hand.
An autumn gust blasts as Lucy shouts something inside the house. As both die down, Linus shivers. His expectant eyes narrow, focusing on the litter strewn alley, and the flash of fur that stops and meets his stare. Confused, it tilts its head to one side. Stupid round headed boy, it thinks. So gullible.
For some, it is hard to understand humility and kindness. They can be looking right at it and still be incapable of making sense of what they see. It would seem that the more "perfect" something is, the more difficult it becomes to see it for what it is.
How well do you trust your mind to correctly interpret what is so clear and obvious right in front of you?
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