A Kitty of the White Blaze Story
From time to time, here at Chesterton Radio, we will set aside the mysteries and midnight candlelight for something smaller — and perhaps just as important.
These are stories about Kitty — a large black dog with a white blaze on his nose — who does not know very much about theology, but knows quite a lot about love.
Tonight’s story begins at the dinner table.
Kitty Learns to Pray
Kitty did not know what prayer meant.
But he knew when everyone suddenly became quiet.
Kitty was a very large dog.
He was black as midnight, except for a soft white patch on his tummy that looked like he had forgotten to button his coat. And down the middle of his nose, running up his forehead, was a white streak shaped almost exactly like a candle flame.
The girls said that meant something.
Grown-ups usually said it meant he had rolled in paint.
Kitty did not know which was correct.
He only knew that when the girls laughed, the house felt warm.
Every evening, just before supper, something mysterious happened.
The family would gather around the table. Chairs would scrape. Glasses would clink. The smell of dinner would float in the air like a promise. And then—
Everything would stop.
Mr. Harwood would fold his hands and say, “Let us pray.”
And suddenly, everyone became very still.
Kitty did not understand why food should make people freeze. Food usually made people move faster.
The first time it happened, he thought something was wrong.
The second time, he thought perhaps it was a game.
By the third time, he had decided it must be important.
That week, Clara and Anne had been teaching Kitty a new trick.
When they said “Speak,” Kitty would bark.
When they said “Sit,” Kitty would sit.
When they said “Stay,” Kitty would stay (though not for very long).
And one afternoon, Clara had a magnificent idea.
“Let’s teach him to pray,” she whispered.
They stood in the yard with Kitty, who was always eager to learn anything that might result in praise or biscuits.
“Pray,” Clara said firmly.
Kitty blinked.
“Speak,” Anne whispered helpfully.
Kitty barked.
“Good! Pray!” Clara repeated.
Kitty barked again.
The girls clapped. Kitty wagged. It seemed perfectly clear that he had mastered theology.
That evening, when Mr. Harwood said, “Let us pray,” Clara could not resist.
“Pray,” she whispered under her breath.
Kitty barked.
Everyone jumped.
Mrs. Harwood dropped her fork. Mr. Harwood opened one eye.
Clara burst into giggles.
“It’s a trick!” Anne announced proudly. “He prays!”
Mr. Harwood tried to look stern but failed.
“Well,” he said, “that’s… enthusiastic.”
From that day on, whenever the word “pray” was spoken, Kitty would bark solemnly, as if he were contributing something important.
The girls thought it was wonderful.
The grown-ups thought it was amusing.
Kitty thought it was serious.
Because he had begun to notice something.
When the family prayed, their voices changed.
They became softer. Slower. More careful.
Even Mr. Harwood, who spoke briskly about everything else, spoke gently when he prayed.
And Mrs. Harwood’s face, which was often busy with thinking, became peaceful.
Kitty did not understand the words.
But he understood the tone.
It was the tone people used when they meant something.
So one evening, when the family forgot to whisper the command, something unusual happened.
Mr. Harwood said, “Let us pray.”
No one prompted Kitty.
No one nudged him.
But Kitty sat down.
He lifted his head.
And he gave his little solemn murmur — not quite a bark, not quite a growl — more like someone trying to speak a language he didn’t yet know.
The room became very quiet.
Even Clara stopped smiling.
After “Amen,” Kitty gave one short bark and sat very still, watching everyone with bright, golden eyes.
Mrs. Harwood looked at him thoughtfully.
“He did that on his own,” she said.
Anne nodded slowly.
“He was listening.”
The next evening, the same thing happened.
And the next.
Soon, it was no longer a trick.
It became a habit.
Kitty would sit whenever the family grew quiet. He would murmur gently. And when “Amen” came, he would give his little bark, like a bell closing the moment.
Something else began to change too.
The family prayed more carefully.
No one rushed.
No one whispered jokes.
Mr. Harwood stopped glancing at his watch.
Anne stopped peeking at the potatoes.
It felt — though no one quite said it aloud — as if Kitty expected them to mean it.
One night, just as they were about to eat, the doorbell rang.
When Mr. Harwood returned, his face was serious.
“Mr. Hollis’s wife is very ill,” he said quietly.
The room changed.
Clara reached for her sister’s hand.
Mr. Harwood folded his hands slowly.
“Let us pray.”
No one whispered a command.
Kitty sat down immediately.
He did not bark loudly this time.
He made a softer sound, almost a sigh.
The family prayed longer than usual.
And when they said “Amen,” Kitty did not bark sharply.
He leaned his head gently against Clara’s knee.
The room felt still and warm and sad all at once.
After supper, Anne sat beside Kitty on the rug.
“Do you know what prayer is?” she asked him softly.
Kitty blinked.
He did not know what prayer was.
But he knew that when people grew quiet together, something important was happening.
He knew that stillness meant love.
So he was still too.
Downstairs, in the dim lamplight, Kitty lay curled on his rug.
The house was quiet.
No one had said the word.
But Kitty listened anyway.
Kitty did not understand the words.
But he understood the quiet.
🐾 The Children’s Corner
This has been a story from Kitty of the White Blaze — about a dog who tries very hard to love well.
From time to time, more Kitty stories will appear here, whenever the house grows quiet enough to hear them.
Until then,
May there be a little stillness at your table tonight.