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.
Saint Erasmus has long been associated with the natural phenomenon known as “St. Elmo’s Fire,” a bluish glow of light generated by the electrical field of thunderstorms, and frequently observed on the masts and riggings of ships (and in modern times - aircraft.)
The mariners of Naples were the first to see this light as the outward sign of the intercessory protection of Saint Erasmus, and hence the name, “Saint Elmo’s Fire,” Elmo being a shortened, derivative version of the name Erasmus.
Saint Erasmus was a bishop of Formiae, Italy, who met a particularly grusome end during the persecutions of Emperor Diocletian. He was martryred by being disembowelled about 303.
The manner of his death led to him being named the patron saint of sailors. According to The Golden Legend, his stomach was slit open and his intestines wound around a windlass. This legend may have developed from an icon that showed him with a windlass, signifying his patronage of sailors.
It’s ironic how death and its artistic rendering combined to make a saint.
I took this photo of St. Kevin at Our Lady of Knock Shrine in Ireland when I visited in early April 2008. Somehow, the setting of just-budding trees was perfect for the saint who was reputed to stand still until a nest of birds had hatched in his hand.
Seamus Heaney, Ireland’s great poet, wrote a poem about it - St. Kevin and the Blackbird:
”Kevin feels the warm eggs, the small breast, the tucked
Neat head and claws and, finding himself linked
Into the network of eternal life
Is moved to pity; now he must hold his hand
Like a branch out in the rain and sun for weeks
Until the young are hatched and fledged and flown.”
St. Kevin has a lot of animal stories attached to his legend: the boar that came to him for protection against hunters; healing the pet goose of the King of Glendalough; the otter that brought him a salmon for dinner every night; and having a doe and then a she-wolf wet nurse Faelan, the infant son of King Colman of the Faelain. The king blamed evil spirits for the deaths of his other children, but the one entrusted to the saint and the animals grew up healthy and strong.
The great connection of ancient Irish saints to nature, their wondrous relationships with the earth and its creatures and the miracles they inspire, is part of Celtic Christianity. It is also a part of their time, when people lived close to the land and relied on it for sustenance and spirituality.
By the same token, today’s saints and blessed individuals generally seem to be cityfolk primarily interested in politics. Their lack of connection by grace or inspiration with animals and the natural world is indicative of just how much connection to creation Catholicism has lost.
The works and life of Br. Thomas Merton, Sr. Dorothy Strang and the strong commitment by Pope Benedict to environmental protection are hopeful signs for Catholic environmentalists to take heart we may be experiencing a renaissance in creation-centered spirituality.
This month I went with 24 other members of my parish on a week’s pilgrimage, “Ireland - Faith & History.” We generally followed in the footsteps of St. Patrick, a patron saint of Ireland. This former slave fled and then returned to bring Christianity to the fabled isle. He was captured by raiders sent by one of my ancestors, Niall of the Nine Hostages.
Their second patron saint, in whose steps we criss-crossed, is St. Brigid. She was the daughter of a Christian slave and an Irish chieftain. Brigid defied her father by refusing to marry, and instead trooped off with a pack of female friends to live together as a religious community. By accident (or not) she was reputedly ordained as a bishop. St. Brigid is associated with fire and milk - no doubt from her time spent in fosterage with a druid priestess.
Both Patrick and Brigid are associated with holy wells. We had Mass at one of them - Tobernalt Well - near Sligo. This hillside site is just off a small road into the woods. Over time this site has become a sacred grove, with banks of votive candles flickering on the pathways above the well. The effect is enchanting; a blend of natural and Christian divine energy.
The healing stone in the center of the grove has been used as an altar for centuries; perhaps millenniums. It is located just below the well itself. It has a depression at one end where you can rest your back for back pain. On top of the stone are four indentations, said to have been left by St. Patrick’s fingers. If you rest your fingers there, some of the saint’s power is transferred to you.
I walked down the several steps into the well and dipped my hand in the water to bless myself. A clear, pure stream rushes from the source. There is a tradition that the well contains a sacred trout. I believe it - the water is cold enough to support trout.
Fr. Tom began the Mass by reminding us the site was used by Catholics to practice their faith in secret when the area was under the domination of protestant overlords. We need to remember the persecution they endured, their struggle and sacrifice, and never take the practice of our faith for granted. Today, this means standing firm instead of worrying that in some circles our faith might be considered a bit…uncool. (You actually attend Mass? Really?)
I love having Mass outdoors. Sensing the presence of God in all the elements, I fully understand why the Greeks had their temples open to the sky.
The Communion of Saints felt real under the canopy of trees. We stood with all the people who ever came to this sacred place to worship. Several local people who had come to the well joined our group at Mass. They included an elderly man who pushed his wife in a wheelchair up the stony path; a mother holding a baby and chasing a youngster who delighted in skipping around the shrine; a middle-aged woman and her dog, and two young men who knelt to light candles.
After Mass was over I followed the stream to see if I could see the sacred trout. I didn’t find it, but I’m sure it was there, waving its tail slowly in some shadow.
Was a vision of nature responsible for the conversion of the Gentiles?
Acts 11:1-18 - the Reading for Monday, April 14.
The Apostles and the brothers who were in Judea heard the Gentiles too had accepted the word of God. So when Peter went up to Jerusalem the circumcised believers confronted him saying, “You entered the house of uncircumcised people and ate with them.”
Peter began and explained it to them step by step, saying, “I was at prayer in the city of Joppa when in a trance I had a vision, something resembling a large sheet coming down, lowered from the sky by its four corners, and it came to me. Looking intently into it, I observed and saw the four-legged animals of the earth, the wild beasts, the reptiles, and the birds of the sky.”
“I also heard a voice say to me, ‘Get up, Peter. Slaughter and eat.’ But I said, ‘Certainly not, sir, because nothing profane or unclean has ever entered my mouth.’
“But a second time a voice from heaven answered, ‘What God has made clean, you are not to call profane.’”
The man who became Saint Modhomhnoc (or Modomnoc) came from the royal line of Ui Neill of Ulster.
He wanted to be a priest and so he left Ireland and went to be educated under the great Saint David at Mynyw (Menevia, now Saint David’s) Monastery in Wales. All those who resided in the community were expected to share in the manual work as well as the study and worship; Modomnoc was given charge of the bees and he loved it. He cared for them tenderly, keeping them in straw skeps in a special sheltered corner of the garden, where he planted the kinds of flowers bees loved best.
Every time they swarmed, he captured the swarm very gently and lovingly and set up yet another hive. He talked to the bees as he worked among them and they buzzed around his head in clouds. It was if they were responding to his soothing words.
His years of study ended, and Modomnoc had to return to Ireland to begin his priestly ministry. While he was glad to be returning home, he knew he would miss his bees. On the day of his departure, he said good-bye to the Abbott, the monks, and his fellow students. Then he went down to the garden to bid his little friends farewell.
They came out in answer to his voice and never was there such a buzzing and excitment among the rows of hives. The monks stood a distance watching the commotion in wonder. “You’d think the bees knew,” they said. “You’d think they knew that Modomnoc was going away.”
Modomnoc resolutely turned and went down and boarded the ship. When they were about three miles from shore, Modomnoc saw what looked like a little black cloud in the sky in the direction of the Welsh coast. He watched it curiously as as it came closer, he saw to his amazement that it was a swarm of bees. It was a giantic swarm - all the bees from the monastery hives followed him out to sea!
Twice Modomnoc had the boat turn back and brought the bees back to their garden. On the third time his boat set sail Modomnoc prayed ferverently that the bees would stay in their pleasant garden rather than risk their lives at sea. But, for the third time, he saw the black cloud rise over the coast of Wales. This time, the boat did not turn back. Resigned to the will of God and the persistence of his faithful friends, he coaxed the swarm into a sheltered corner of the boat. There, much to the relief of the sailors, they quietly remained throughout the voyage.
When Modomnoc landed in Ireland, he set up a church at a place called Bremore, near Balbriggan, in County Dublin, and there he established the bees in a happy garden just like the one they had in Wales. The place is known to this day as “the Church of the Beekeeper.”
My thanks to Catholic Ireland and Irish Culture and Customs for this lovely story.
The Feast of St. Anthony the Abbott, the patron saint of the animal kingdom, is celebrated on the Sunday closest to January 17th. The ceremony celebrates and gives appreciation for the services provided to the human race by the animal kingdom.
St. Anthony lived in Egypt in the 3rd century A.D. In addition to being one of the inspirational leaders of monasticism, he has long been associated with the caring for and healing of animals.
His particular concern for their well-being stems from curing a pig of ergotism, a disease associated by eating bad grain. For this reason, St. Anthony is often depicted accompanied by a pig.
On the Feast of St. Anthony of Abad, both livestock and domestic animals are brought to St. Peter’s Square to be blessed, and to other churches in Rome’s historical center. In 19th century Rome, the Esquiline area still proliferated with sheep, cows, horses, chickens and other livestock that were led by herders to the churches to be blessed.
San Giovanni dei Fiorentini, St. Phillip Neri’s former parish, has long welcomed dogs since the saint permitted them to be present at Mass in order to encourage their owners to attend the liturgy. On the Feast of St. Anthony, the four-legged congregation was blessed along with their human family members.
