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Saint Rigobert was archbishop of Reims, France. During a conflict between Charles Martel and some of his enemies, Rigobert refused to open the gates of the city to him for refuge. The saint claimed neutrality for the safety of the city. Unsure of which side would prevail in the conflict, Rigobert didn’t want to anger the other side if Martel lost. The gates stayed closed. This explanation did not sit well with Charles the Hammer. After his victory Martel exiled the archbishop from Reims.
Eventually the archbishop settled in a nearby village. When on one occasion he had been given a live goose to take home for his dinner, Rigobert put the bird in the arms of a servant-boy accompanying him. Along the way, as Rigobert was reciting the divine office, the bird broke free and flew away. The boy deeply grieved this mishap, but Rigobert comforted him, urging him to trust in God. ![goose[1]](http://greencanticle.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/03/goose1.jpg "goose[1]")
When Rigobert resumed his prayers, the goose flew back to them. Thereafter, the archbishop kept the goose as a pet. The goose would walk with him to a church, where, as the tame bird patiently waited for him, he celebrated Mass at an altar dedicated to the Virgin Mary.
Saint Rigobert died in 745 AD. His feast day is celebrated on January 4th.
Saint Aventine of Troyes, France (c. 538)
Aventine, of Bourges, France, was schooled in the spiritual life by the bishop of Troyes, Saint Loup. Loup’s episcopoal suceessor, Saint Camelianus, selected Aventine to be Troyes’ steward and almoner, in charge of the cathedral’s possessions and the distribution of alms.
Having served the Church thus with humility, purity and charity, Aventine thereafter obtained permission to withdraw into the woods to live as a hermit. He had a particular fondness for animals, never wanting to kill any of the forest creatures except when necessary.
Whenever he found any tiny fish in a pitcher of water drawn from a nearby brook by a monk who assisted him, he made a point of placing the fish unharmed back into the stream.
When on one occasion a deer pursued by hunters rushed into the cave that served as Aventine’s hermitage, Aventine protected the frightened animal by closing the door in order to hide it from the hunters until they had passed.
He habitually feed the small birds of the forest that flocked onto his fingers as he offered them a handful of crumbs. 
St. Corentin lived as a hermit in the French village of Plomodiern, near Cornouaille (Quimper), in Brittany in the 7th or 8th century.
It is said that in a spring near Corentin’s hermitage there lived a remarkable fish that provided the hermit with daily nourishment. Each day, St. Corentin was able to slice off a piece of the flesh of the fish without harming the creature. He would then return the fish to the spring, where its missing flesh would grow back, making the fish whole again.
This marvel continued for several years. On one occasion, St. Corentin was obligated to provide a meal for a ruler named Grallon and his entire retinue after they became lost while hunting. The single piece of flesh that the hermit took from the fish miraculously multiplied in the frying pan, satisfying the hunger of the entire hunting party.
Unfortunately, one royal attendant out of curiousity poked the fish with a knife, wounding it. St. Corentin healed the wound, and then commanded the fish to swim away permanently, lest it be harmed by anyone else.
St. Corentin became the first bishop of Cornouaille. For centuries, his feast day has been commemorated on December 12th.
Was that the day the fish first fed him; or the day when St. Corentin sent him away to keep him from harm?
St. Adamnan, the biographer of St. Columba, recorded an encounter with the Loch Ness Monster in 565 A.D. 
St. Columba was on his way to visit with the Pictish king in Inverness, came upon some Picts burying the remains of one of their people. They told Columba that the poor man had been bitten and mauled to death by a water monster.
The dead man’s boat lay on the other side of the water. Columba ordered one of his followers to swim across and retrieve the boat.
One of his companions, Lugneus Mocumin, stripped down to his tunic and plunged into the water.
The monster saw him swimming, and having tasted blood, broke the surface of the water and made for him. Everyone who was watching was horrified, and hid their eyes in terror.
In the words of St. Adaman: “The monster suddenly rushed out and giving an awful roar, darted after him with its mouth wide open, as the man swam in the middle of the stream.”
St. Columba raised his hand, made the sign of the Cross and “commanded the ferocious monster saying, ‘Thou shalt go no further, nor touch the man; go back with all speed.’ Then at the voice of the saint, the monster was terrified, and feld more quickly than if it had been pulled back with ropes.”
“According to Bernadette, the apparition asked for a church to be built, and today a vast basilica rises above the shrine, visible testimony to the wealth and power of the institutional Church.”
“Yet the spiritual life of Lourdes is focused on the grotto and its surroundings beneath the basilica, and this topography acts as a metaphor for the relationship between the religious institution and the powerful undercurrent of faith that it can never fully control.” 
“The rocks around the grotto have been worn smooth by the touch of millions of hands, and there is a sense of something visceral, pagan even, about the way in which Catholic devotions and prayers melt and mingle with the…mystery of a God both veiled and revealed in earth, wind and fire, in rocky wildernesses and the untameable persistence of nature in the face of all our civilizing and controlling impulses.”
“Surely, an incarnational faith is one which situates itself in such a space of encounter between the sublime and the ridiculous – between the inscrutable majesty of God, and the often foolish muddle of our human emotions.” 
From “An Immense Maternal Presence,” an article by Tina Beattie in the September 13, 2008 edition of The Tablet.
Today is the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi. It is a day when old and young bring their pets to church to be blessed. 
My old parish in Brooklyn got the usual (dogs, cats, hamsters, parakeets) and also the unusual. Someone once brought a wounded toad they found on their street. Someone else brought their boa constrictor. A boy came with his pet tarantula. A toddler brought his teddy bear. The best was a praying mantis–very appropriate for a Catholic event.
“St. Francis was a lover of nature and animals,” said Fr. Moses Campo, a priest at the Immaculate Conception Church in Queens, New York. “The blessing of the animals has been a practice of the Catholic Church for hundreds of years.”
This rite can sometimes provided unintended comedy. “When I went to bless the horse with holy water, he jumped up and got scared,” said NYPD chaplain Msgr. David Cassato. “He thought I was going to hit him. Some of the police dogs start barking at the other dogs. It’s always funny.”
The Blessing of Pets usually goes like this: “Blessed are you, Lord God, maker of all living creatures. You called forth the fish in the sea, birds in the air and animals on land. You inspired St. Francis to call all of them his brothers and sisters. We ask you to bless this pet. By the power of your love, enable it to live according to your plan. May we always praise you for all your beauty in creation. Blessed are you, Lord our God, in all your creatures! Amen.”
A Dominican friar, Etienne de Bourbon, was sent as an inquisitor to Sandrans, a small village north of Lyon. He relates his findings in the work, De Supersticione. It was published in 1240 A.D.
One of the sections is called De Adoratione Guinefortis Canis, or, On the Worship of the Dog Guinefort. It relates the tale of the brave and loyal greyhound, Guinefort, or saves his master’s son from a snake who attempted to get into his crib. 
Guinefort defended the baby and tossed the snake across the room. The snake bit the dog, and there was blood all over the dog’s head and nursery floor. The mother and the wet nurse came in to find the bloody scene. They screamed, bringing the knight in with sword drawn, who killed the dog.
Finding the baby safe and sleeping peacefully, they looked around for an explanation for all the blood. They discovered the snake dead and torn to pieces.
Realizing what really happened, and what they had done, the knight and women were filled with remorse and inconsolable regret. The dog was buried in a well, and his grave covered high with stones. Trees were planted around the site in the manner of a sacred grove.
The manor was abandoned by the family and the estate became wild land.
“The local peasants,” relates de Bourbon’s account, “hearing of the dog’s conduct and of how it had been killed, although innocent, and for a deed which it might have expected praise, visited the place, honored the dog as a martyr, prayed to it..” when their children were sick or needed help.
Infuriated to find “St. Guinefort” was a dog, the friar preached against his veneration. “We had the dead dog disinterred, and the sacred wood cut down and burnt, along with the remains of the dog.”
The tragic story seems to end there, but the French film The Sorceress (Le Moine et la Sorciere, 1987), written by Boston College medievalist Pamela Berger and directed by Suzanne Schiffmann gives it a new twist. 
The premise of the movie is this: in a town near Lyons village people venerate Saint Guinefort, a greyhound who once saved a child from a deadly snake. When a Dominican friar repesenting the Church’s inquisition comes to town, he is outraged by what he sees as a mockery of the Christian institution of sainthood.
The friar destroys the grave of the holy dog and cuts down a tree nearby that the townsfolk believe to have healing powers. Later, however, he comes to regret his actions. As sort of a compromise with the villagers, the friar builds a chapel on the site of the sacred tree, and reinvents Saint Guinefort as a man-saint with a dog companion.
The shrine of Saint Guinefort continued to be visited for another 700 years, through the 1940s. Perhaps it still exists.
A native of Wales, Carantoc is said to have become a monk at an early age. For a time, he lived in Ireland, preaching the faith there.
In his missionary labors, he was accompanied by a white dove that the people took to be an angel in visible form. This gentle creature remained with Carantoc after he returned to his native Wales. When Carantoc attempted to settle in a cave, the dove indicated by fluttering back and forth that it wanted to lead him elsewhere.
Carantoc followed the bird through the forest to a place of level ground, where the dove settled down. The monk chose this spot to build a church, a place later known as Llangrannog.
He subsequently established a monastery at a place called Cernach, governing it as abbot. Carantoc also traveled to Brittany. 
A legend connects Carantoc with King Arthur, claiming that the abbot subdued a large serpent by throwing his stole around its neck. He then led the vanquished beast to the court of King Arthur, where it freed it after commanding it to never harm people and livestock again.
Celtic Christians valued the natural environment for its own sake. They valued times of quiet in solitary and often wild places, where they could read Scripture, meditate and pray.
Because they lived close to the natural environment, it is not surprising that Celtic Christians discovered the immanence of God. Their poetry often echoes those Psalms which speak of God in nature (Ps. 19, 89, 98) suggesting a similar spiritual process at work.
The following extract of a poem in the Celtic psaltery is attributed to St. Columba in Iona:
“Delightful it is to stand on the peak of a rock, in the bosom of the isle, gazing on the face of the sea.
I hear the heaving waves chanting a tune to God in heaven; I see their glittering surf.
I see the golden beaches, their sands sparkling; I hear the joyous shrieks of the swooping gulls.
I hear the waves breaking, crashing on the rocks, like thunder in heaven. I see the mighty whales…
Contrition fills my heart as I hear the sea; it chants my sins, sins too numerous to confess.
Let me bless almighty God, whose power extends over the sea and land, whose angels watch over all.
Let me study sacred books to calm my soul; I pray for peace, kneeling at heaven’s gates.
Let me do my daily work, gathering seaweed, catching fish, giving food to the poor.”
From the various annals of Ireland, including the Annals of Ulster and the Annals of the Four Masters, come reports of the capture of mermaids in the years 558, 571, 887 and 1118. Of these, the most famous tale is that of Liban, daughter of Eochaidh, who was spared when the flooding of Lough Neagh drowned her family around 90 A.D.
The mermaid, Liban, who was caught in 558 A.D. claimed this unusual past. She lived for a year beneath the waves with her little dog. She grew lonely, and prayed to God that she might be turned into a salmon and swim around with the shoals of fish. 
God granted her prayer to give her the tail of a salmon, but from the navel upwards she retained the shape of a woman. Her dog was turned into an otter, and the two swam around together for over 300 years. Over that time, Ireland had become Christian.
One day, St. Comgall, Bishop of Bangor, dispatched one of his clergy, Beoc, to Rome to consult Pope Gregory about some matters of order and rule. As they sailed they were accompanied by a very sweet voice singing from under the water. It was so sweet that Beoc thought it must be an angel’s voice.
At that Liban spoke from under the water and said, “It is I who am singing. I am no angel, but Liban, daughter of Eochaid, and for 300 years I have been swimming the seas, and I implore you to meet me, with the holy men of Bangor, at Iver Ollarba. I pray you tell St. Comgall what I have said, and let them all come with nets and boats to draw me out of the sea.” In another version of the encounter, Beoc is so charmed by her singing that he asked her to be buried in the same coffin with him upon her demise.
So men came with boats and nets and captured her. Three men laid claim to her: Beoc, St. Comgall, and the man who lifted her out of the sea. Following custom, the villagers let God decide where she was to be. Liban was put in a water-filled currach drawn by oxen. The oxen stopped at the church of Beoc.
Liban was given the choice to die immediately and go to heaven, or live as long as she had lived in the sea and then go to heaven. She preferred to die immediately, so Comgall baptised her “Muirgen” (or Murgen) meaning “born of the sea” or “daughter of the sea.”
As a result of several miracles associated with her, she became known as St. Murgen.
