Mr. Biddle awoke with a song in his heart.

While feeding a hearty breakfast of sliced turkey and Swiss cheese to his three little dachshunds—Milton, the fat one, Tommy, the bad one, and Danny, the baby—he sang the song out loud, sounding just like Jimmy Durante:

"Fairy tales can come true
They can happen to you
If you're young at heart ...
And if you should survive
To at least sixty-five,
Look at all you'll derive
Out of being alive!"

The song was written long ago by Carolyn Leigh and Johnny Richards and is adapted here by Mr. Biddle without permission from anybody. But why should anyone seek permission for singing a cappella to dogs?

That would be nonsense, thought Mr. Biddle.

In any case, with such a song in his heart it wasn't long before Mr. Biddle began thinking about life, which led to his thinking about God, which, inevitably, led to his thinking about his baby sister, one's of God's appointed spokespeople.

Let's figure this out.

If Mr. Biddle is 65, then his baby sister, who's six years younger, must be 59, depending on the month in which each was born. In any event, she has always been the baby sister of three boys, among whom Mr. Biddle is the middle child, although obviously a child no longer.

When the children's parents died at an early age through the twin horrors of lingering cancer and sudden suicide, Mr. Biddle's baby sister was the one the boys turned to, a maternal role she has accepted ever since.

Today she is a devout Christian, while her brothers live in varying degrees of doubt ranging from, "No way," to "Possibly," to "I sure hope so."

Mr. Biddle's baby sister is resolute in her beliefs, attends church twice a week, fills in for the preacher when asked, and is suspected by Mr. Biddle to be slightly judgmental of certain others.

Nevertheless, Mr. Biddle loves his baby sister deeply. Mr. Biddle has no mother, no wife, and no girlfriend. His baby sister has no children. Her husband is even older than Mr. Biddle and every bit as disabled.

Sometimes, Mr. Biddle, who depends greatly on a modest federal fixed income, receives the equivalent of money from his baby sister: a gift card for Wal-mart. A package of catalog-advertised gourmet food. A useful kitchen device. A pair of socks. She also sends him daily e-mails—frequently Bible verses—and detailed descriptions of life on the farm, with photographs attached.

All are appreciated.

God will provide, Mr. Biddle's maternal grandmother preached until at last she was called home to her maker at the age of 99.

Mr. Biddle knows that his baby sister would prefer that without question he'd accept Jesus Christ as his Lord, Redeemer, and Savior, that he'd abandon his fondness for Tennessee whiskey and give up daily habits that include hand-rolled Honduran cigars.

But not yet.

At Mr. Biddle's age, such is a Shakespearean end "devoutly to be wished." But Mr. Biddle is as set in his ways as his baby sister is in hers.

On those occasional mornings when Mr. Biddle wakes up in tears, having dreamed of the errors and shameful decisions of his lengthy past, his baby sister is the one he turns to.

Sometimes Mr. Biddle's baby sister responds with, "Pull yourself together." At other times she'll say, "Straighten yourself out." Once in a blue moon she tells him, "I know you've had a bad day, but tomorrow will be better. It all comes to you from God for a reason."

As has been established, Mr. Biddle has three dogs. Milton, Tommy, and Danny share a townhouse with him in the city. They mean the world to him.

Mr. Biddle's baby sister, who lives in the country, has, like all country people, countless dogs, cats, chickens, hummingbirds, rabbits, opossums, armadillos, raccoons, and snakes.

Mr. Biddle is required to pay an annual fee to the city for the presence of his third dog, Danny. Mr. Biddle's baby sister simply throws food scraps out the side door. As long as there's enough food, there's no need to count.

Of course, there have been times when Mr. Biddle's baby sister has spent a month's pay on veterinary care. Either you accept your assignment from God or you don't.

Many times, Mr. Biddle has faced the same expense and responded for the same reason. Once you accept any of God's creatures as your personal responsibility, there is no turning back.

Mr. Biddle wishes his older brother believed in God.

He wishes his younger brother trusted in God.

He wishes that he, himself, could conquer his pangs of disbelief. But at age 65, Mr. Biddle had lived too long and seen too much. Doubt will always be part of the package.

Mainly Mr. Biddle was concerned about the details, as practiced by mankind. So many of them defied logic. Take Noah, for example. Mr. Biddle knew a thing or two about animals, and for an old man to cram them all together on a hand-built ark seemed impossible.

But Mr. Biddle knew that here was a category of thought in which logic has no place. It is all about faith.

Perhaps, he thought, God is not in the details. Perhaps he's more the Big Picture.

Turning to his dogs, Mr. Biddle said, "I believe. Help my unbelief."

Tommy, the one known as the bad one, licked Mr. Biddle's face. Milton, the fat one, crawled into Mr. Biddle's lap. Danny, the baby, nuzzled Mr. Biddle's neck.

Dogs know.

When Mr. Biddle went to the hospital for high-risk surgery, he had two equal but conflicting goals. One: To wake up on a different planet, such as a planet with four suns and a multitude of moons, so he'd know immediately that he'd arrived at a better place. The other: To return home to his three little dachshunds as quickly as possible.

The first wish didn't work out. Mr. Biddle awoke on a familiar earth surrounded by familiar beige houses and looping, overlapping interstate highways.

The second required that Mr. Biddle play a game, whose rules he understood. Namely, act like you're feeling fine even when you aren't.

Every time there was a shift change at the nurses' station, Mr. Biddle would shuffle past with his walker and fetch himself a cup of coffee, stopping to greet the nurses and share a joke he'd just made up. The nurses recorded this in his daily log.

When the surgeon's nurse practitioner dropped in to ask how he was feeling, he'd answer, "Great! This was easier than I expected!" Then he'd flirt with her, a pretty newlywed.

Again, this was all written down.

Sometimes an aide would offer to bring him coffee.

"Nonsense," he'd answer. "I'll go get one for each of us."

They told him before the surgery that he'd be in the hospital for a week. He was out in three days, in excruciating pain, barely able to walk, but smiling all the way.

Soon he was home in bed with his three little dogs, just where he wanted to be. Mr. Biddle's baby sister was proud of his apparently miraculous recovery.

"Thank you, God," he said aloud, as he sipped his whisky and puffed on a cigar.

Mr. Biddle was a believer after all.

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