Here's a video clip I saw today that really got to me. When we were little, we all learned that we're not supposed to judge a book by its cover, and that we really should hold onto our dreams. This brings both lessons home in a powerful way. I pray you enjoy this as much as I did.
Susan Boyle
Monday, April 13, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
This Is Not Your Room
Do you remember Turner and Hooch? Okay, we already know that I'm a sucker for movies about dogs, and this one was no exception. But there is one scene from that movie that really hit me last night. Or maybe it was that God hit me with that scene.
In the movie, Tom Hanks plays Turner, a neat-freak police chief in a small coastal town. His life is very well ordered, his suits always immaculate, his house free of dust. Then he brings Hooch home. Hooch is a mastiff, a big, thundering hulk of a dog who drools some kind of thick slime, and who messes up pretty much everything. But he has witnessed his master's murder. Hanks has to bring this drool machine home with him for safe-keeping.
The scene I remember has Turner taking Hooch through his house, and in each room he says, "This is not your room," or "This is also not your room." Then he locks Hooch in a little foyer or mud room and goes off to bed. Hooch, of course, proceeds to destroy the mud room and break free into the rest of the house where he wreaks havoc.
It hit me last night that we treat the Holy Spirit this way. The first Celtic Christians liked to call the Holy Spirit the "Wild Goose" because he came and went as he pleased and did as he pleased. There was no telling when the Wild Goose would show up or what he would do. They delighted in that name for the Spirit, in his unpredictability.
We, on the other hand, are a bunch of little Turners. We want the Spirit with us. Or at least, we feel we ought to have him with us (much like Turner in the movie). I mean, he's part of the package deal, isn't he? But once we bring him into our lives, we tend to drag him around our hearts and tell him, "This is not your room." We're unsure what he'll do. We don't really know what to make of him. In the end, we are so consumed with understanding the Spirit that we don't allow him into most of our lives. He's left in that back room, the little one where he can't do much damage.
We tell people we've invited the Spirit into our lives, but when we go to the office we tell him, "This is not your room." When we sit down at the computer and surf we say, "This is not your room." When we go into the kitchen for that snack we really don't need we say "This is also not your room." We don't want the mess. We don't want the unpredictability. We don't want our little world disturbed from its routine.
The sad, yet funny thing is that the Spirit is so powerful. He's a little like Hooch in that respect. The dog had the muscle to break through doors and chew furniture into matchsticks. And the Spirit has the muscle to break down our barriers and turn our strongest fears into faith, our most pervasive sins into obedience. But, unlike Hooch, he wants the invitation. He bides his time, waiting until we ask him to come in. When we do, it's usually because we've already made a mess of the place. We have nowhere else to turn.
Ask yourself: what would be the difference in your life if you gave the Spirit permission to enter all your rooms? To say, "Wild Goose, go where you want. Do what you will."
In the movie, Tom Hanks plays Turner, a neat-freak police chief in a small coastal town. His life is very well ordered, his suits always immaculate, his house free of dust. Then he brings Hooch home. Hooch is a mastiff, a big, thundering hulk of a dog who drools some kind of thick slime, and who messes up pretty much everything. But he has witnessed his master's murder. Hanks has to bring this drool machine home with him for safe-keeping.
The scene I remember has Turner taking Hooch through his house, and in each room he says, "This is not your room," or "This is also not your room." Then he locks Hooch in a little foyer or mud room and goes off to bed. Hooch, of course, proceeds to destroy the mud room and break free into the rest of the house where he wreaks havoc.
It hit me last night that we treat the Holy Spirit this way. The first Celtic Christians liked to call the Holy Spirit the "Wild Goose" because he came and went as he pleased and did as he pleased. There was no telling when the Wild Goose would show up or what he would do. They delighted in that name for the Spirit, in his unpredictability.
We, on the other hand, are a bunch of little Turners. We want the Spirit with us. Or at least, we feel we ought to have him with us (much like Turner in the movie). I mean, he's part of the package deal, isn't he? But once we bring him into our lives, we tend to drag him around our hearts and tell him, "This is not your room." We're unsure what he'll do. We don't really know what to make of him. In the end, we are so consumed with understanding the Spirit that we don't allow him into most of our lives. He's left in that back room, the little one where he can't do much damage.
We tell people we've invited the Spirit into our lives, but when we go to the office we tell him, "This is not your room." When we sit down at the computer and surf we say, "This is not your room." When we go into the kitchen for that snack we really don't need we say "This is also not your room." We don't want the mess. We don't want the unpredictability. We don't want our little world disturbed from its routine.
The sad, yet funny thing is that the Spirit is so powerful. He's a little like Hooch in that respect. The dog had the muscle to break through doors and chew furniture into matchsticks. And the Spirit has the muscle to break down our barriers and turn our strongest fears into faith, our most pervasive sins into obedience. But, unlike Hooch, he wants the invitation. He bides his time, waiting until we ask him to come in. When we do, it's usually because we've already made a mess of the place. We have nowhere else to turn.
Ask yourself: what would be the difference in your life if you gave the Spirit permission to enter all your rooms? To say, "Wild Goose, go where you want. Do what you will."
Friday, April 3, 2009
Frodo
All right, I’ll admit it: I’m a Frodo wannabe.
I know. Some of you are thinking, “The seventies were too good to you, weren’t they?” Others are thinking, “Frodo? Why Frodo? Why don’t you want to be Superman, or the president, or Jesus?” Still others of you who have been under a rock your whole lives are thinking, “Who’s Frodo?”
For you rock-dwellers, Frodo is the hobbit who, in J. R. R. Tolkein’s Lord of the Rings, inherits the One Ring from his uncle Bilbo and agrees to take it to the Cracks of Doom to destroy it, thus saving Middle Earth from the evil dominion of Sauron. Got it?
Okay, now maybe I can explain. Frodo is my hero. He’s not strong. He’s not tall (probably 3-foot-nothing). He’s not powerful, influential, or famous. He’s not dashing. He doesn’t get the girl.
So, what’s to like about him?
Just this: in spite of all the things he isn’t, he still takes upon himself the most important, most deadly, most adventurous, most outrageous task ever known in fiction. Knowing that he is not likely to survive or even to succeed, he still stands up in the Council of Elrond, and says, “I will take the ring to Mordor, though I do not know the way.”
In giving Frodo the task of bringing down Sauron, Tolkein turns the world on its head. The small and insignificant becomes the hero. The meek and mild go where the mighty fear to tread. But, of course, Tolkein didn’t originate this kind of thinking. He got it from the source. He got it from the Word of God.
Look at your Bible and see how God turns the world upside down. How many times does he champion the underdog? How many times does he use the small and insignificant to overthrow the mighty?
Here’s a start:
And then there is Jesus, the creator of the universe, he of the triune god, who becomes an infant, grows to manhood, and dies a horrible death on a cross. Defeating Satan for all time, achieving victory through surrender, making sinners into children of God—how's that for standing the world on its head.
That's why Frodo is my hero. He's a small (pun intended) reflection of Jesus.
As we are all intended to be.
I know. Some of you are thinking, “The seventies were too good to you, weren’t they?” Others are thinking, “Frodo? Why Frodo? Why don’t you want to be Superman, or the president, or Jesus?” Still others of you who have been under a rock your whole lives are thinking, “Who’s Frodo?”
For you rock-dwellers, Frodo is the hobbit who, in J. R. R. Tolkein’s Lord of the Rings, inherits the One Ring from his uncle Bilbo and agrees to take it to the Cracks of Doom to destroy it, thus saving Middle Earth from the evil dominion of Sauron. Got it?
Okay, now maybe I can explain. Frodo is my hero. He’s not strong. He’s not tall (probably 3-foot-nothing). He’s not powerful, influential, or famous. He’s not dashing. He doesn’t get the girl.
So, what’s to like about him?
Just this: in spite of all the things he isn’t, he still takes upon himself the most important, most deadly, most adventurous, most outrageous task ever known in fiction. Knowing that he is not likely to survive or even to succeed, he still stands up in the Council of Elrond, and says, “I will take the ring to Mordor, though I do not know the way.”
In giving Frodo the task of bringing down Sauron, Tolkein turns the world on its head. The small and insignificant becomes the hero. The meek and mild go where the mighty fear to tread. But, of course, Tolkein didn’t originate this kind of thinking. He got it from the source. He got it from the Word of God.
Look at your Bible and see how God turns the world upside down. How many times does he champion the underdog? How many times does he use the small and insignificant to overthrow the mighty?
Here’s a start:
- Abram was a childless wanderer, and God made of him a great nation.
Jacob was a cheat and a momma’s boy, yet God made him father of the 12 tribes of Israel. - Joseph was a slave and a prisoner, from a family of shepherds. God made him second in command of Egypt, the greatest nation on earth.
- Moses was a murderer and a refugee with a speech impediment. God used him to free his people.
- The nation of Israel was a clan of 70 people. They became a nation of slaves. God freed them and made them the chosen people who would make his name known throughout the world, and through whom the Messiah would come.
- David was the youngest son of an obscure shepherd. God gave him victory over Goliath and made him a great conqueror.
And then there is Jesus, the creator of the universe, he of the triune god, who becomes an infant, grows to manhood, and dies a horrible death on a cross. Defeating Satan for all time, achieving victory through surrender, making sinners into children of God—how's that for standing the world on its head.
That's why Frodo is my hero. He's a small (pun intended) reflection of Jesus.
As we are all intended to be.
Monday, March 16, 2009
The Hardest Victory
If you have children, and if you live long enough, there comes a time when they draw more strength and get more enjoyment from their friends than they get from you, no matter how good a mother or father you have been. We went through this with our two sons, and now we're in the middle of it with our daughter, Rachel.
Rachel has been ill for more than the past two weeks. She's actually been a bit under the weather for several months, but we and the doctors have been attributing it to allergies, and we searched for the right allergy medication for her. But recently it has become worse. She coughs a lot, has a sore throat, and doesn't want to eat because it hurts and it doesn't taste like food to her. She has missed most of the past two weeks of school, and she has been totally uncommunicative, tired, and run down. We have had her tested for mono, had sinus, throat, chest, and esophagus x-rays, and we've had her at doctors several times. No change. (Please pray for her, if you would.)
Yesterday, though, she wanted very badly to go to church, and we let her go. She didn’t seem to have anything contagious, and she desperately wanted to get out of the house and go someplace other than to a doctor's office. I saw her after church, talking with her friends.
That's right—talking. She hasn't said more than twenty words a day to us for the past two weeks. But she was talking. A few minutes later, one of her friends asked if she could go home with their family for dinner, and we could pick her up later after a missions meeting. I agreed, because she seemed far happier than she had in quite a while.
When I picked her up, not only was she talking, but she was smiling. And—glory of glories—she actually talked to me in the car on the way home, and she laughed and smiled more during the evening.
It hit me then that she was getting from her friends what Shan and I couldn't give her.
That's something of a blow to a father (or mother). This is the child we have brought into the world. We have fed her, clothed her, loved her, taught her, and cared for her like no other person could have. I would literally give my life for her, and I know Shan would, too. Yet now she is more energized, and more uplifted by several hours with her friends, some of whom she hasn't known for more than a couple of years.
And yet . . .
Isn't this what we've been working toward? Isn't the goal of parenting to raise up a child who can leave our home, become an adult, develop strong relationships, make his or her own way in the world? In other words, isn't this a victory?
We've all seen kids who don't grow up, or who seem to be taking far too long to do so. It's a sad thing, something we don't wish on anyone. They are stunted people, spiritually or mentally immature. They don't live up to their potential.
But when our children do grow away from us, it is a bittersweet thing. Sometimes, especially when we're just getting used to it, the bitter far outweighs the sweet.
Rachel is an outstanding young woman. She has chosen the best of friends. They are all great kids. What's more, their parents are a great influence on Rachel. I could not choose better folks to be in her life. Yet it's sad for us to fade into the background. We have been the biggest part of her life for a long time, and now our part is dwindling. Maybe it is because of the job we've done raising her. I have to remind myself of that.
And . . .
One day another change occurs. The young man or young woman who was your child comes back to you . . . as your friend. They never cease to be your children. But they grow into something more than that.
I look forward to that day.
Rachel has been ill for more than the past two weeks. She's actually been a bit under the weather for several months, but we and the doctors have been attributing it to allergies, and we searched for the right allergy medication for her. But recently it has become worse. She coughs a lot, has a sore throat, and doesn't want to eat because it hurts and it doesn't taste like food to her. She has missed most of the past two weeks of school, and she has been totally uncommunicative, tired, and run down. We have had her tested for mono, had sinus, throat, chest, and esophagus x-rays, and we've had her at doctors several times. No change. (Please pray for her, if you would.)
Yesterday, though, she wanted very badly to go to church, and we let her go. She didn’t seem to have anything contagious, and she desperately wanted to get out of the house and go someplace other than to a doctor's office. I saw her after church, talking with her friends.
That's right—talking. She hasn't said more than twenty words a day to us for the past two weeks. But she was talking. A few minutes later, one of her friends asked if she could go home with their family for dinner, and we could pick her up later after a missions meeting. I agreed, because she seemed far happier than she had in quite a while.
When I picked her up, not only was she talking, but she was smiling. And—glory of glories—she actually talked to me in the car on the way home, and she laughed and smiled more during the evening.
It hit me then that she was getting from her friends what Shan and I couldn't give her.
That's something of a blow to a father (or mother). This is the child we have brought into the world. We have fed her, clothed her, loved her, taught her, and cared for her like no other person could have. I would literally give my life for her, and I know Shan would, too. Yet now she is more energized, and more uplifted by several hours with her friends, some of whom she hasn't known for more than a couple of years.
And yet . . .
Isn't this what we've been working toward? Isn't the goal of parenting to raise up a child who can leave our home, become an adult, develop strong relationships, make his or her own way in the world? In other words, isn't this a victory?
We've all seen kids who don't grow up, or who seem to be taking far too long to do so. It's a sad thing, something we don't wish on anyone. They are stunted people, spiritually or mentally immature. They don't live up to their potential.
But when our children do grow away from us, it is a bittersweet thing. Sometimes, especially when we're just getting used to it, the bitter far outweighs the sweet.
Rachel is an outstanding young woman. She has chosen the best of friends. They are all great kids. What's more, their parents are a great influence on Rachel. I could not choose better folks to be in her life. Yet it's sad for us to fade into the background. We have been the biggest part of her life for a long time, and now our part is dwindling. Maybe it is because of the job we've done raising her. I have to remind myself of that.
And . . .
One day another change occurs. The young man or young woman who was your child comes back to you . . . as your friend. They never cease to be your children. But they grow into something more than that.
I look forward to that day.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Man Enough
All right, I’ve had it. I’m sick and tired of the way Jesus is portrayed in art, fiction, and even theology. You know exactly what I mean. All the classical paintings that make Jesus looking like an asthmatic surfer. The pale, frail, almost skeletal Jesus. And popular “Christian art” is even worse. The Jesus surrounded by cute, fluffy lambs and smiling, 20th century children. (Ever notice how many of those kids are blonde?) The Precious Moments Jesus. I’ve heard of Jesus meek and mild, but this is Jesus bland and insipid.
Blech! Does that Jesus impress you as the kind of man who threatened the authorities enough that they crucified him? Is that the same Jesus as the one who told the Laodicean church, “I am about to spit you out of my mouth” because they were “lukewarm—neither hot nor cold”? (Rev. 3:16)
Let’s get something straight. Jesus was a man among men. His disciples, with the exception of Matthew, were men who worked with their hands. He himself had the rough, work-hardened hands of a stonemason. Yes, you heard that right. Jesus was not a carpenter, at least not in our understanding of the word. The word used to describe his and Joseph’s trade was “tekton”, meaning builder. The European translators saw that and thought of European houses and decided he was a carpenter. But even a quick look at Israel of Jesus’ day will show you that people built out of stone. Wood was rare and two-by-fours couldn’t be picked up at Lowe’s or Home Depot. Jesus learned stonemasonry from Joseph. He quarried, selected, shaped and set stone. That kind of gives a new meaning to thought that we are “living stones”, doesn’t it? (I Pet. 2:5)
At any rate, Jesus wasn’t some pale, wan ascetic who looked as if he would fall over in a strong wind. He worked out of doors, with his hands, in a rough, hard trade. He walked everywhere he went, on hard, dusty roads. He was a man respected by other men. He inspired loyalty, and even fear.
Yes, fear. Look at what happens in John 18 when the soldiers, officials, chief priests, and Pharisees came with “torches, lanterns, and weapons” to arrest him.
Jesus, knowing all that was going to happen to him, went out and asked them, "Who is it you want?"
"Jesus of Nazareth," they replied.
"I am he," Jesus said. (And Judas the traitor was standing there with them.) When Jesus said, "I am he," they drew back and fell to the ground. (John 18:4-6)
There they all were, a whole crowd of them, including soldiers with weapons. Yet when Jesus speaks, they draw back and fall down.
Tell me that’s not a mighty man!
The next time someone tells you Jesus is not manly enough . . .ask them if they have the guts to let someone pound spikes in their hands and feet.
Blech! Does that Jesus impress you as the kind of man who threatened the authorities enough that they crucified him? Is that the same Jesus as the one who told the Laodicean church, “I am about to spit you out of my mouth” because they were “lukewarm—neither hot nor cold”? (Rev. 3:16)
Let’s get something straight. Jesus was a man among men. His disciples, with the exception of Matthew, were men who worked with their hands. He himself had the rough, work-hardened hands of a stonemason. Yes, you heard that right. Jesus was not a carpenter, at least not in our understanding of the word. The word used to describe his and Joseph’s trade was “tekton”, meaning builder. The European translators saw that and thought of European houses and decided he was a carpenter. But even a quick look at Israel of Jesus’ day will show you that people built out of stone. Wood was rare and two-by-fours couldn’t be picked up at Lowe’s or Home Depot. Jesus learned stonemasonry from Joseph. He quarried, selected, shaped and set stone. That kind of gives a new meaning to thought that we are “living stones”, doesn’t it? (I Pet. 2:5)
At any rate, Jesus wasn’t some pale, wan ascetic who looked as if he would fall over in a strong wind. He worked out of doors, with his hands, in a rough, hard trade. He walked everywhere he went, on hard, dusty roads. He was a man respected by other men. He inspired loyalty, and even fear.
Yes, fear. Look at what happens in John 18 when the soldiers, officials, chief priests, and Pharisees came with “torches, lanterns, and weapons” to arrest him.
Jesus, knowing all that was going to happen to him, went out and asked them, "Who is it you want?"
"Jesus of Nazareth," they replied.
"I am he," Jesus said. (And Judas the traitor was standing there with them.) When Jesus said, "I am he," they drew back and fell to the ground. (John 18:4-6)
There they all were, a whole crowd of them, including soldiers with weapons. Yet when Jesus speaks, they draw back and fall down.
Tell me that’s not a mighty man!
The next time someone tells you Jesus is not manly enough . . .ask them if they have the guts to let someone pound spikes in their hands and feet.
Bad Blogging
Okay, so I'm a bad blogger. I never have kept a diary, my journal writing has been very spotty, and I'm new at this blogging thing. I tend to think more in terms of articles than in blogs, but I promise I'll post something (besides this) soon.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Paco's Tale
Not Paco's tail. Although Paco's tail was a spectacle to behold and a danger for anything on the coffee table.
Paco was our first Chessie, and perhaps the best dog I've ever owned. I'd never had a Chesapeake Bay Retriever before, and after Sheba died I looked for another Lab. I found one, too, a beautiful 6-month-old chocolate Lab we named Packy. She was incredibly loving, sweet, and loyal. My oldest boy, Brian, was about four when we got her, and he fell head-over-heels in love with her.
The problem was, she wouldn't retrieve. I had wanted a hunting dog for quite some time, and Packy would instantly drop anything the moment she saw me or anyone else. In time I learned the story, and why she was still at the breeders at six months of age. She had been bought by some people who raised show chickens. So when she showed her breeding and picked up a chicken, they scolded and swatted her. She developed a complex about carrying anything.
I took Packy out to a man I knew who trained dogs, to see if he could do anything with her. He had a cage of live pigeons he used for training, and Packy wouldn't even pick up a tied pigeon. He felt like there was little hope for her as a hunting dog, and said, "I have some 5-week old pups that will retrieve better than that." Sure enough, he let out several of his Chessie pups, and those pups fought each other to drag a pigeon back to me. I knew right then I wanted one of those pups.
It took some persuading, but eventually we got the breeder to take Packy back, after reminding her that she hadn't bothered to disclose the dog's past. And three weeks later we brought home Paco.
About that same time we brought home Duncan, our second-born. He and Paco grew up together, although Paco put on weight faster than Duncan did. By the time he was full grown, Paco weighed 120 pounds. It took Duncan many years to reach that mark.
From the start, Paco was fascinated with water, and with retrieving. I tossed a rolled up sock for him in the hall and he never tired of pouncing on it and bringing it back to me. He was very soft-mouthed, and never fought me for the ball, or toy, or stick.
When he was seven months old, I took him out to west Texas, where Shan's parents live. I hunted pheasants there every year at Christmas, and I took Paco out into the field, expecting to start working him a bit. He immediately knew what to do. He got one whiff of those wild birds, and he was quartering in front of me, no more than 20 yards out, nose to the ground, following scent trails. When we came to a frozen over pond, he jumped in, broke the ice, and swam around as if this was something he did every day. In truth he was born to it. Water was his environment.
At the lake he made the most spectacular water entries off the dock, leaping out and splashing down with absolute abandon. We used to tie a rope to a retrieving dummy and let him pull the kids around in the water like a little tugboat. When we went out skiing we had to lock him up or he would chew through his lead and follow the boat. In the back yard he dug a nice hole under the spot where the air conditioner condensate dripped. There he could lay in the water to his heart's content. I managed to break him of that by putting out a kiddie pool in the summer.
At home, Paco was a joy and a force of nature. He minded me very well. The rest of the family were a different matter. He was pretty good about minding Shan. Duncan and Brian grew up with Paco, and managed to control him some of the time. I can still see Duncan when he was about two, standing in front of Paco with a ball. Paco's eyes never left the ball. Duncan threw it, and Paco knocked Duncan flat to get it, then brought it back to him. They both loved it.
We had a Sheltie at the time named Piper. We pretty much always had a Sheltie. When Piper came in heat, Paco quit eating. We kept them separated, but he would sit at the back door and howl, crooning to his Love Goddess. He dropped 10 or 15 pounds each time she was in season. That was the only time I had difficulty with him, because he was so consumed with lust. Thank God they never got together.
In the field, Paco never lost a bird that I shot. He would plunge into lake beds full of thumb-thick willows that would have stalled a tank, and come out the side with the bird. And he always brought every bird to me, no matter who shot it. Other hunters would call him, and he'd steadfastly ignore them, bringing it straight to me. Good Paco!
Once, we were hunting a brushy ditch next to a vineyard. The grapevines were fairly new, and you could see for half mile under the arbors. One of the men winged a pheasant, which hit the ground running, heading through the arbors. Paco took off in a dead run, inscribing a great arc. He caught the bird about two hundred yards away, and they disappeared in a cloud of dust. Then he came trotting back, holding the bird and delivering it to my hand.
At that same spot, the landowner had planted pine trees in sunken 5-gallon buckets, to eventually grow a windbreak. As he was passing the buckets, Paco suddenly stopped, cocked his head, and plunged his nose down into one, wagging his tail in circles. When I got him pulled back, I parted the needles to see a mouse who had fallen in. Paco had heard or scented him. He didn't hurt the mouse, and I think he just wanted to play with it.
When Duncan was about 18 months old, he had a bit of a cold, so I stayed home with him on Sunday while Shan and Brian went to church. After a while I heard Paco barking and went to investigate. I couldn't see him through the patio door, but did notice a rabbit hopping along the fence. Oh, no! The neighbor behind us had rabbits, and apparently one had jumped into our yard. I quickly went to get Paco before he saw it and killed it. Before I got to him, though, I saw that he had another rabbit, and was barking at the neighbor's dog over it. Too late! But Paco gently picked up the rabbit and brought it to me. It was completely unharmed, but limp with fear and wet with dog spit. Paco was immensely proud of himself. After putting him in the garage I caught the other bunny, then looked for something to carry them in to take them back to my neighbor. The only thing I could find was an ice chest, so I popped both bunnies in it and Duncan and I delivered them back safe to our neighbor. I also advised him to move his firewood away from the fence. For about a year after that, Duncan assumed that any ice chest was a rabbit hutch, and he'd run up to open them, calling, "Bunny?"
There's so much more to tell about Paco. The time he stole a plum and spit out the cleaned pit within about a second. The time he licked up a spilled drop of Nyquil, then growled and barked and shook his head at the taste. The time he belly-crawled across the back yard, stalking a grackle in the honeysuckle vines. As he aged, he got to the point that nobody but me mattered to him. He never counter-surfed when I was around, but I'd leave the room and he'd walk over and start eating off someone's plate. It didn't count if I didn't see it.
He changed in other ways, too. He began to be stiff in his hindquarters, and I had started giving him aspirin on the vet's recommendation. Paco always viewed a trip to the vet as a holidy. He was happy to see everyone, especially when they gave him tasty chewable vitamins. And he never flinched at injections. He always took his medicine happily, licking aspirin up off the floor and chewing the nasty, bitter stuff. Which was amazing because he didn't chew other food, just slurped it down as quickly as possible. He still wanted to hunt, and cried if I left him. But his age was telling on him, and he'd sometimes get hung up in heavy cover and cry for me to come help him.
The last time I took him pheasant hunting, we went to a small tract about an acre in size. We started out as usual, with him trotting happily in front of me, quartering back and forth, nose to the ground. We didn't find any birds, and before we were halfway around the place, Paco had fallen back and was following me, panting heavily. He just didn't have it anymore. And he couldn't get into the van on his own. I had to lift him in.
The end was near, I knew. And there would be no more pheasant hunting. That fall I took him with me to a friend's place on Lake Granbury to hunt some doves. Paco immediately went to the water and swam around happily. But when it came time to get out, he couldn't climb the steps. He collapsed on the edge with his back end still in the water. And it seemed as if his head was misshapen. It was. A dog's head is mostly muscle, and the muscle had atrophied in moments. Crying, I helped him up the steps and into the van. I immediately rushed him to the vet, but we both knew his end had come.
On the table, I stroked his head and told him what a good dog he was. He thumped his tail as I said his name. And then it was over.
I'll never have another dog like Paco. He was a natural hunter, a wonderful companion, sometimes a big pain, and always a delight. We invest so much of ourselves into our dogs, and they return every bit of it many times over. Paco challenged us with his constant need for care, and he tried our patience with his mess, his smell, his moonlight serenades, his sheer dogginess. He sat quietly by me when I was sick or soul-weary. He danced with me when I was happy, he always met me at the door, he loved and protected my wife and kids, he ran through brush and swam through ice to bring me a bird. I've had other dogs since, wonderful dogs. But I still miss him.
Paco was our first Chessie, and perhaps the best dog I've ever owned. I'd never had a Chesapeake Bay Retriever before, and after Sheba died I looked for another Lab. I found one, too, a beautiful 6-month-old chocolate Lab we named Packy. She was incredibly loving, sweet, and loyal. My oldest boy, Brian, was about four when we got her, and he fell head-over-heels in love with her.
The problem was, she wouldn't retrieve. I had wanted a hunting dog for quite some time, and Packy would instantly drop anything the moment she saw me or anyone else. In time I learned the story, and why she was still at the breeders at six months of age. She had been bought by some people who raised show chickens. So when she showed her breeding and picked up a chicken, they scolded and swatted her. She developed a complex about carrying anything.
I took Packy out to a man I knew who trained dogs, to see if he could do anything with her. He had a cage of live pigeons he used for training, and Packy wouldn't even pick up a tied pigeon. He felt like there was little hope for her as a hunting dog, and said, "I have some 5-week old pups that will retrieve better than that." Sure enough, he let out several of his Chessie pups, and those pups fought each other to drag a pigeon back to me. I knew right then I wanted one of those pups.
It took some persuading, but eventually we got the breeder to take Packy back, after reminding her that she hadn't bothered to disclose the dog's past. And three weeks later we brought home Paco.
About that same time we brought home Duncan, our second-born. He and Paco grew up together, although Paco put on weight faster than Duncan did. By the time he was full grown, Paco weighed 120 pounds. It took Duncan many years to reach that mark.
From the start, Paco was fascinated with water, and with retrieving. I tossed a rolled up sock for him in the hall and he never tired of pouncing on it and bringing it back to me. He was very soft-mouthed, and never fought me for the ball, or toy, or stick.
When he was seven months old, I took him out to west Texas, where Shan's parents live. I hunted pheasants there every year at Christmas, and I took Paco out into the field, expecting to start working him a bit. He immediately knew what to do. He got one whiff of those wild birds, and he was quartering in front of me, no more than 20 yards out, nose to the ground, following scent trails. When we came to a frozen over pond, he jumped in, broke the ice, and swam around as if this was something he did every day. In truth he was born to it. Water was his environment.
At the lake he made the most spectacular water entries off the dock, leaping out and splashing down with absolute abandon. We used to tie a rope to a retrieving dummy and let him pull the kids around in the water like a little tugboat. When we went out skiing we had to lock him up or he would chew through his lead and follow the boat. In the back yard he dug a nice hole under the spot where the air conditioner condensate dripped. There he could lay in the water to his heart's content. I managed to break him of that by putting out a kiddie pool in the summer.
At home, Paco was a joy and a force of nature. He minded me very well. The rest of the family were a different matter. He was pretty good about minding Shan. Duncan and Brian grew up with Paco, and managed to control him some of the time. I can still see Duncan when he was about two, standing in front of Paco with a ball. Paco's eyes never left the ball. Duncan threw it, and Paco knocked Duncan flat to get it, then brought it back to him. They both loved it.
We had a Sheltie at the time named Piper. We pretty much always had a Sheltie. When Piper came in heat, Paco quit eating. We kept them separated, but he would sit at the back door and howl, crooning to his Love Goddess. He dropped 10 or 15 pounds each time she was in season. That was the only time I had difficulty with him, because he was so consumed with lust. Thank God they never got together.
In the field, Paco never lost a bird that I shot. He would plunge into lake beds full of thumb-thick willows that would have stalled a tank, and come out the side with the bird. And he always brought every bird to me, no matter who shot it. Other hunters would call him, and he'd steadfastly ignore them, bringing it straight to me. Good Paco!
Once, we were hunting a brushy ditch next to a vineyard. The grapevines were fairly new, and you could see for half mile under the arbors. One of the men winged a pheasant, which hit the ground running, heading through the arbors. Paco took off in a dead run, inscribing a great arc. He caught the bird about two hundred yards away, and they disappeared in a cloud of dust. Then he came trotting back, holding the bird and delivering it to my hand.
At that same spot, the landowner had planted pine trees in sunken 5-gallon buckets, to eventually grow a windbreak. As he was passing the buckets, Paco suddenly stopped, cocked his head, and plunged his nose down into one, wagging his tail in circles. When I got him pulled back, I parted the needles to see a mouse who had fallen in. Paco had heard or scented him. He didn't hurt the mouse, and I think he just wanted to play with it.
When Duncan was about 18 months old, he had a bit of a cold, so I stayed home with him on Sunday while Shan and Brian went to church. After a while I heard Paco barking and went to investigate. I couldn't see him through the patio door, but did notice a rabbit hopping along the fence. Oh, no! The neighbor behind us had rabbits, and apparently one had jumped into our yard. I quickly went to get Paco before he saw it and killed it. Before I got to him, though, I saw that he had another rabbit, and was barking at the neighbor's dog over it. Too late! But Paco gently picked up the rabbit and brought it to me. It was completely unharmed, but limp with fear and wet with dog spit. Paco was immensely proud of himself. After putting him in the garage I caught the other bunny, then looked for something to carry them in to take them back to my neighbor. The only thing I could find was an ice chest, so I popped both bunnies in it and Duncan and I delivered them back safe to our neighbor. I also advised him to move his firewood away from the fence. For about a year after that, Duncan assumed that any ice chest was a rabbit hutch, and he'd run up to open them, calling, "Bunny?"
There's so much more to tell about Paco. The time he stole a plum and spit out the cleaned pit within about a second. The time he licked up a spilled drop of Nyquil, then growled and barked and shook his head at the taste. The time he belly-crawled across the back yard, stalking a grackle in the honeysuckle vines. As he aged, he got to the point that nobody but me mattered to him. He never counter-surfed when I was around, but I'd leave the room and he'd walk over and start eating off someone's plate. It didn't count if I didn't see it.
He changed in other ways, too. He began to be stiff in his hindquarters, and I had started giving him aspirin on the vet's recommendation. Paco always viewed a trip to the vet as a holidy. He was happy to see everyone, especially when they gave him tasty chewable vitamins. And he never flinched at injections. He always took his medicine happily, licking aspirin up off the floor and chewing the nasty, bitter stuff. Which was amazing because he didn't chew other food, just slurped it down as quickly as possible. He still wanted to hunt, and cried if I left him. But his age was telling on him, and he'd sometimes get hung up in heavy cover and cry for me to come help him.
The last time I took him pheasant hunting, we went to a small tract about an acre in size. We started out as usual, with him trotting happily in front of me, quartering back and forth, nose to the ground. We didn't find any birds, and before we were halfway around the place, Paco had fallen back and was following me, panting heavily. He just didn't have it anymore. And he couldn't get into the van on his own. I had to lift him in.
The end was near, I knew. And there would be no more pheasant hunting. That fall I took him with me to a friend's place on Lake Granbury to hunt some doves. Paco immediately went to the water and swam around happily. But when it came time to get out, he couldn't climb the steps. He collapsed on the edge with his back end still in the water. And it seemed as if his head was misshapen. It was. A dog's head is mostly muscle, and the muscle had atrophied in moments. Crying, I helped him up the steps and into the van. I immediately rushed him to the vet, but we both knew his end had come.
On the table, I stroked his head and told him what a good dog he was. He thumped his tail as I said his name. And then it was over.
I'll never have another dog like Paco. He was a natural hunter, a wonderful companion, sometimes a big pain, and always a delight. We invest so much of ourselves into our dogs, and they return every bit of it many times over. Paco challenged us with his constant need for care, and he tried our patience with his mess, his smell, his moonlight serenades, his sheer dogginess. He sat quietly by me when I was sick or soul-weary. He danced with me when I was happy, he always met me at the door, he loved and protected my wife and kids, he ran through brush and swam through ice to bring me a bird. I've had other dogs since, wonderful dogs. But I still miss him.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
