For me, I suspect it began with Liam.  Liam was my former foundling dog who left us too soon, too suddenly, too recently.  But about a year before Liam departed, I took in a second foundling dog, Daphne.  And, right from the start, Liam was ever so generous toward Daphne with all his time and talents.  As well as with all that was given to him – his stuffies and chew toys, his bed, his Mom time, even his treats and food.

Both Liam and Daphne were fed morning and night in an area adjacent to the kitchen, just a few feet apart from each other.  Invariably, Liam would finish first, and then wander back into the kitchen or outside through the doggy door.  When Daphne finished, she would invariably follow in his footsteps.  But not before she checked out Liam’s bowl, too – gleaning for bits of leftovers and left-behinds.

And that’s when I noticed them – the bits and pieces that Liam was actually leaving purposely behind for her.  There was always a nugget or two remaining in his bowl – just for her to find and glean.

After his passing, I kept Liam’s bowl in its place.  A silent reminder of him, his spirit, his being.  And now, as I feed Daphne, I lift a small bit of food out of her bowl and place it into the bottom of his.  “For absence friends,” I tell her softly as she watches me.  And then she eats her meal and cleans her bowl.  And then she turns to Liam’s bowl to eat the bit left in his memory.  “For absent friends.”

Perhaps because of this small ritual, I have begun pondering “for absent friends” in other ways as well.  Sometimes (at this time of year) it may be at Red Kettles.  Often it’s at blessing boxes and free libraries and food banks and animal rescues.  Sometimes it’s a bit left at cash registers for folks in line behind me or into the hands of strangers on the street.  Sometimes it’s simply at bird feeders and under bushes and tree roots where things burrow away from the cold.  “For absent friends,” I whisper to them and myself.

I suspect it has become a sort of mantra for me now, a maxim, a trigger phrase or flashback – a reminder to be mindful in giving.  And I recall a statement from Tolstoy:  “My piece of bread only belongs to me when I know that everyone else has a share, and that no one starves while I eat.”  And there is the image of Liam and his pieces of kibble left for Daphne.  And I am reminded to do my tiny bit with my own pieces of bread.

In the larger scheme of things, in the greater context of giving – especially in this greatest season of giving – we are instructed by an ancient (St. Augustine) philosophy to take stock of all that we have received through the grace of God, and to decide not “how much should I give,” but to decide instead “how much should I keep for myself.” How much should I keep of these gifts – my substance, my wealth, my life – as I give away the rest to those who may need it more than I.

Liam, in his instinctive animal wisdom, ate what he needed and left the rest for his friend.  And it never mattered how much:  a mouthful or a morsel.  I suspect I should do no less.

Perhaps it’s represented in our cookies for Santa and carrots for reindeer; it’s the coins in collection baskets and caring packages and hospitality for strangers; it’s food for sisters and brothers to glean for themselves and it’s kibble and kindness put out for all.  In the end, it’s really “for absent friends” in every sense of those words, in every season.  No matter the size of the bowl or the portion within it.

I suspect I learned most of this about generosity and the philosophy of “for absent friends” from the habits and heart of a beloved dog named Liam.  He was a very wise dog.