When I wake up, there is a full face of a cat on my chest, staring at me with an expression of calm accusation. Waiting by the bedroom door is Luna, the black shorthair who, at my first twitch, begins to yowl, quietly yet repeatedly, the food mantra, until the Fancy Feasts is finally in the two bowls. Midway between Bruno's brain-piercing stare and Luna's peremptory yowl, a pair of bony forepaws stomp upon my chest, a set of teeth monopolize my field of vision, and Gus gives me the full lick, chin to hairline.

Fine, but from then on Gus takes a different path. Rather than come downstairs, he stays at the foot of the bed, watching over my mate, Beverlee. Apparently, as long as she is a helpless, recumbent female, Gus sees it as his duty to watch over her. This role of guardianship, of protecting one and encouraging one and cheering one on when one is low -- isn't this what we commonly think of as that of an angel?

My cousin heads the classics department of a major university. One of her sons had an allergic reaction in which he lapsed into shock and nearly died -- did die for a few seconds. In the wee hours of the a.m., my cousin and her fully recovered son returned home -- only to find the dog, previously healthy, dead. As a classics scholar, Bonnie could not avoid the Roman belief that under certain circumstances a dog will sacrifice itself for a family member. They kept the dog's bed undisturbed for years on the off-chance that he was still around.

Balderdash, you say? I salute your scepticism. We live in a rational, empirical age. Yet faith-healings do occur. Psychics do foretell. And dogs do pull people from fires.

There are several owner-dog relationships. One is the pooch-as-furniture, the furry creature in the family photograph. Some owners see their dogs as extensions of their fascinating personalities; others regard their dogs as appliances, genetically designed to protect their property. After a year's association with Gus, after dozens of canine encounters in parks, sidewalks and the ferry lineup, it appears to me that many owners regard their pet as an approximation of an angel: an emissary from a more benign universe, offering hope, suggesting that there might be a heaven.

Mind you, the Bible takes a distinctly unangelic view of pooches. Jezebel was thrown to the dogs, who tucked in until nothing was left but the palm of her hand. St. Paul expressed the Biblical view best with the immortal lawn-line "Beware of dogs" (Philippians 3:2).

Angels exist in the Bible as what the ancients term "fifth business": beings who deliver blessings (lick, lick), warnings (woof, woof) and commands (grrr!). In fact angel derives from the Greek word for messenger. Messages? Gus delivers such messages to me every day. A long walk is good for you. Take time to play. Appreciate the here and now. Nothing like a scratch on the belly.

I mentioned all this to my friend Scott, who once played bass with the Pointed Sticks. He promptly recalled an acoustic blues jam in which 10 players took solo turns -- including, to everyone's surprise, Nootka the border collie. When her turn came, Nootka would howl for the requisite 16 bars, precisely in tune, and then stop, giving the floor to the next player.

Do people make this stuff up? Was it coincidence that cousin Bonnie's dog died that night? That Nootka howled in tune? Or were they acting as messengers -- telling us connections go further than we think; that music transcends not just languages but species as well?

Gus may be possibly be an angel, but the cats are a different matter. Buddhists, perhaps.

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