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.
Monday, March 16, 2009
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.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Marley and Me, and Our Dogs Three
Watching Marley and Me this week turned my thoughts to the dogs I've had over the years. It is a great movie, by the way, as much about marriage and family as it is about a crazy dog.
I think you could classify me as a dog lover. Okay, a dog nut. We didn't have a lot of pets when I was a boy. My dad wasn't all that big on pets. There was Tex, a Brittany Spaniel who ate dad's green tomatoes. Then we had a Dachshund named Doxie for a year or so. (My mother's name was Dixie, but Doxie's name didn't bother her, except when my father—using mom's middle name—called the dog Doxie Marie.) We had another Dachshund named Cindy who had back problems and had to be put down. And we had Snoopy, a Lab-Pointer mix we had when I was 11 who was my favorite. She had a habit of pointing—at airplanes flying overhead. She also had a habit of barking and of chewing up things. Like trash cans. Dad found her a new home. I was heartbroken.
I didn't have another dog until I was in college. While still living in the dorm, I managed to talk Shan, my fiancé (now wife), into letting me keep a dog at her duplex. Sheba was a black Labrador who had been raised without much human contact until she was six months old. She absolutely adored me, and liked Shan pretty well. When Shan and I sat together, Sheba would wedge her way in between us and lay her head on my shoulder. The day after our wedding, we came back to the duplex to get some things. Sheba had escaped from the back yard (she was a prodigious digger). I left Shan inside to pack, and went out with the car to look for her. It was early in the morning, and few people were out. I found her a few blocks from the house, and opened the car door so she could get in. This was the car we'd had at the wedding, the one that was still decorated with streamers and balloons, with "Just Married" painted on it. Sheba sat right next to me in the car with her head on my shoulder. We passed a man out watering his yard who gaped at us, surely thinking, "That is the ugliest bride I've ever seen."
We had Sheba for many years, along with Lady, the Sheltie that Shan had when we met. Sheba was the best mother I've ever seen. She had false pregnancies several times, and she took care of Lady's pups and the cat's kittens.
When Lady died, Sheba pined for her. (We all did. Shan was nearly hysterical.) Sheba had seen Lady when I laid her in the front yard, and cried piteously. She wouldn’t eat for days. Shan finally got her to eat by putting bacon grease on her food, and when she stopped a few weeks later, Sheba ran to the stove to show her where the bacon grease was.
With Sheba we had several Shelties (we've almost always had a Sheltie), including one male named Scamp who managed to open a locked door in between them and knock Sheba up. They were really cute puppies (all ten of them), who later grew up into strange looking black dogs. At that time we lived in a mobile home, and couldn't leave the dogs outside during the day. Every day when we got home, Sheba would meet us at the door, wagging furiously, and we'd play a game of "Find the Puppies." For some reason, perhaps to keep them away from the cat, she would hide puppies all over the house. One even fell down into an open heater vent and was stuck in the duct work. Getting a blind puppy out of a heater duct was an experience not to be missed, unless you had something more fun to do, like exploratory surgery. Without anesthesia.
We've had lots of doggy adventures over the years. I'll write more about them at another time. At the moment, though, we have three dogs, Chewbacca, Snickers, and Murphy. You might have guessed that the rest of the family is just as dog crazy as I am.
Snickers is our obligatory Sheltie. I bought her for my wife four years ago. She is an incredibly smart and fast dog, and my daughter Rachel trains her for agility trials. You know, where the dogs jump over bars, weave through poles, run through tunnels, etc. It's great fun to watch, and Snickers is very fast—when she pays attention. She's also a beautiful dog, and obsesses over a ball or toy, or anything she can chase.
Murphy is my daughter's dog. He was last year's Christmas present for Rachel. We'd lost my son's beagle, Pippin, in the summer, and all Rachel wanted for Christmas was another dog. When a 15-year-old girl shuns all the iPods, CDs, clothes, and other stuff you offer, you know she is really set on that one thing. When she opened the box that held a little stuffed dog and a certificate good for one dog of her choice (some restrictions apply), she burst into tears. A few weeks later we had Murphy, a cross between a Sheltie and a . . . well, who knows? He's black and tan like some dachshunds, but his long legs seem to belie that ancestry. He's a real character, who always, always grabs a toy to show everyone when he comes into the house, running around wagging his whole body like a canine sidewinder. He is also a very game little dog, and pesters Snickers and Chewbacca constantly.
I've saved Chewbacca (Chewie) for last, because we thought we'd lost him recently. He's a Chesapeake Bay Retriever, a hardy breed known for jumping into icy water to retrieve ducks and geese. Light tan in color, with a wavy coat, Chewie has never hunted anything (to my chagrin), but is a big, goofy kid. He makes more vocal sounds than any dog I've ever owned, including my previous Chessie. He loves to curl up in my recliner, as you can see.
I think you could classify me as a dog lover. Okay, a dog nut. We didn't have a lot of pets when I was a boy. My dad wasn't all that big on pets. There was Tex, a Brittany Spaniel who ate dad's green tomatoes. Then we had a Dachshund named Doxie for a year or so. (My mother's name was Dixie, but Doxie's name didn't bother her, except when my father—using mom's middle name—called the dog Doxie Marie.) We had another Dachshund named Cindy who had back problems and had to be put down. And we had Snoopy, a Lab-Pointer mix we had when I was 11 who was my favorite. She had a habit of pointing—at airplanes flying overhead. She also had a habit of barking and of chewing up things. Like trash cans. Dad found her a new home. I was heartbroken.
I didn't have another dog until I was in college. While still living in the dorm, I managed to talk Shan, my fiancé (now wife), into letting me keep a dog at her duplex. Sheba was a black Labrador who had been raised without much human contact until she was six months old. She absolutely adored me, and liked Shan pretty well. When Shan and I sat together, Sheba would wedge her way in between us and lay her head on my shoulder. The day after our wedding, we came back to the duplex to get some things. Sheba had escaped from the back yard (she was a prodigious digger). I left Shan inside to pack, and went out with the car to look for her. It was early in the morning, and few people were out. I found her a few blocks from the house, and opened the car door so she could get in. This was the car we'd had at the wedding, the one that was still decorated with streamers and balloons, with "Just Married" painted on it. Sheba sat right next to me in the car with her head on my shoulder. We passed a man out watering his yard who gaped at us, surely thinking, "That is the ugliest bride I've ever seen."
We had Sheba for many years, along with Lady, the Sheltie that Shan had when we met. Sheba was the best mother I've ever seen. She had false pregnancies several times, and she took care of Lady's pups and the cat's kittens.
When Lady died, Sheba pined for her. (We all did. Shan was nearly hysterical.) Sheba had seen Lady when I laid her in the front yard, and cried piteously. She wouldn’t eat for days. Shan finally got her to eat by putting bacon grease on her food, and when she stopped a few weeks later, Sheba ran to the stove to show her where the bacon grease was.
With Sheba we had several Shelties (we've almost always had a Sheltie), including one male named Scamp who managed to open a locked door in between them and knock Sheba up. They were really cute puppies (all ten of them), who later grew up into strange looking black dogs. At that time we lived in a mobile home, and couldn't leave the dogs outside during the day. Every day when we got home, Sheba would meet us at the door, wagging furiously, and we'd play a game of "Find the Puppies." For some reason, perhaps to keep them away from the cat, she would hide puppies all over the house. One even fell down into an open heater vent and was stuck in the duct work. Getting a blind puppy out of a heater duct was an experience not to be missed, unless you had something more fun to do, like exploratory surgery. Without anesthesia.
We've had lots of doggy adventures over the years. I'll write more about them at another time. At the moment, though, we have three dogs, Chewbacca, Snickers, and Murphy. You might have guessed that the rest of the family is just as dog crazy as I am.
Snickers is our obligatory Sheltie. I bought her for my wife four years ago. She is an incredibly smart and fast dog, and my daughter Rachel trains her for agility trials. You know, where the dogs jump over bars, weave through poles, run through tunnels, etc. It's great fun to watch, and Snickers is very fast—when she pays attention. She's also a beautiful dog, and obsesses over a ball or toy, or anything she can chase.
Murphy is my daughter's dog. He was last year's Christmas present for Rachel. We'd lost my son's beagle, Pippin, in the summer, and all Rachel wanted for Christmas was another dog. When a 15-year-old girl shuns all the iPods, CDs, clothes, and other stuff you offer, you know she is really set on that one thing. When she opened the box that held a little stuffed dog and a certificate good for one dog of her choice (some restrictions apply), she burst into tears. A few weeks later we had Murphy, a cross between a Sheltie and a . . . well, who knows? He's black and tan like some dachshunds, but his long legs seem to belie that ancestry. He's a real character, who always, always grabs a toy to show everyone when he comes into the house, running around wagging his whole body like a canine sidewinder. He is also a very game little dog, and pesters Snickers and Chewbacca constantly.
I've saved Chewbacca (Chewie) for last, because we thought we'd lost him recently. He's a Chesapeake Bay Retriever, a hardy breed known for jumping into icy water to retrieve ducks and geese. Light tan in color, with a wavy coat, Chewie has never hunted anything (to my chagrin), but is a big, goofy kid. He makes more vocal sounds than any dog I've ever owned, including my previous Chessie. He loves to curl up in my recliner, as you can see.
A couple of weeks ago, we noticed that he was listless and throwing up. Shan made an appointment at the vet and left him inside to run some errands. When she returned there was blood all over the floor. She called me and we got him into the vet immediately, where they did x-rays and blood tests, and kept him overnight. He was one sick pup. The x-rays showed nothing, and the blood tests gave no indication of what was sickening him. We brought him home and when I let him out, he passed a huge stream of nothing but blood. He wouldn't eat at all. On Saturday he lay in the floor all day, not moving. At one point I thought he'd died because he was completely unresponsive, and his breathing was so shallow and slow. I sat and held his head, bawling. After a while I called Shan to let her know I thought he was going, and sent out a prayer request to a bunch of folks asking for his healing. Really, I was asking for my own sake.
Those of you who don't have dogs may not understand the love we give to our dogs and how much we get from them. I'm not one of those people who equate animals with humans. There is a difference. But dogs seem to reflect and magnify the love we give them. I sometimes wonder if that isn't the reason God gives them to us. I think they teach us a little bit about how we should reflect God's love.
People prayed for Chewie, and for us. And he just got well. Nobody knows why. By Saturday night he ate a little. By Sunday he was getting up and walking around. By that evening he was eating everything we gave him and asking for more. (He asks very loudly, with a kind of a cross between a growl and a howl. In fact, it sounds a great deal like Chewbacca did in Star Wars.) In another day he was running laps around the back yard for no particular reason. Maybe it just felt good to feel good.
That's all for now. Maybe I'll relate the story of the needle next time . . .
Those of you who don't have dogs may not understand the love we give to our dogs and how much we get from them. I'm not one of those people who equate animals with humans. There is a difference. But dogs seem to reflect and magnify the love we give them. I sometimes wonder if that isn't the reason God gives them to us. I think they teach us a little bit about how we should reflect God's love.
People prayed for Chewie, and for us. And he just got well. Nobody knows why. By Saturday night he ate a little. By Sunday he was getting up and walking around. By that evening he was eating everything we gave him and asking for more. (He asks very loudly, with a kind of a cross between a growl and a howl. In fact, it sounds a great deal like Chewbacca did in Star Wars.) In another day he was running laps around the back yard for no particular reason. Maybe it just felt good to feel good.
That's all for now. Maybe I'll relate the story of the needle next time . . .
Monday, December 29, 2008
My Christmas Story
On Christmas Eve, my kids and I went hunting. We were at my father-in-law's house outside Plainview, and we traditionally go pheasant and rabbit hunting at some time during our Christmas stay. This year it was me along with all three of my children—my 25- and 21-year-old sons Brian and Duncan, and my 16-year-old daughter Rachel.
It was really a lovely day, with mild temperatures, blue skies, and—rare for West Texas—light winds. We had a list of dry lakes, milo fields, and brushy areas to visit, and set out in mid-morning to hunt the first one.
We saw no birds there, although both Rachel and Brian saw rabbits. (We're still waiting for Rachel to get her first bird, or her first cottontail.) It was incredibly dusty and dry. Not much rain this year. At the next place, it was the same story. And the next. In fact, we saw no roosters that day, only a couple of hens (not legal to shoot), and a couple of rabbits. That was it. Yet in spite of our lack of game, it was a wonderful day. Rachel, after tromping through brush that came up past her elbows, enduring scratches from sticker burrs, yelled out, "This is so much fun!" And we all agreed.
What did it? What made it such a great day? Partly it was just being outdoors, walking in a land where you can see for miles, and knowing that all of this great sweep of earth and sky is just a small piece of God's good earth. Partly it was the anticipation that at any moment a rooster might flush cackling into the sky, or a rabbit might dash out of the brush at your feet. Hunting gives you a heightened awareness that brings everything into focus in a way that nothing else does.
But mostly it was just being together, enjoying each other's company, talking, laughing, loving.
I am blessed by my children. They are all bright, articulate, funny, and healthy. They poke fun at each other constantly (sometimes a little too constantly), and enjoy the verbal thrust and parry of conversation. They are so different, yet so alike. And, oh, how I love to spend time with them.
When they were younger, we made short hunting forays, and we always enjoyed the time. Each of them was a bird dog before becoming a hunter. Yet they tired more easily of the hunting than I did, and I spent a lot of time hunting on my own with just Paco, my Chesapeake Bay Retriever. Paco is long gone now, and we all miss him. I loved hunting with him. I cannot remember a single bird he failed to bring back, if I did my job and brought it down. There is a special joy in bird hunting with a good dog, and Paco was one of the best. But I wouldn't trade one moment of our hunt this Christmas Eve for all the time I spent with Paco, much as I loved him. I often wish I had spent less time hunting with Paco, and more time with my kids when they were small. But such wishes are pointless. We possess the time we have now, and that time is precious.
I love our Christmases. They are always spent with my wife Shan's family, which has become my family over the years. Usually we have lots of cousins, uncles, and aunts around on at least one day. Those days are okay, and I know they are precious to Shan, who grew up with all those cousins and such. But the best times for me are when we are with just the immediate family. The kids are always eager to open their presents, of course, but over the years they have become even more eager to give presents to others. And there is all the other time we spend together; playing ping pong, watching movies and ball games, looking at old pictures, and our family specialty: our cut-throat card games. We play a game called Liverpool Rummy, and in the midst of the hard competition, we laugh almost constantly.
In times past I used to resent that Christmas didn't go the way I wanted. Shan and I sometimes argued over the amount of gifts we gave to the kids. They are the only grandkids, and Christmas was a big deal for their grandparents. I sometimes resented the fact that Christmas was never at our house (barring one year), and that we didn't establish our own traditions like the ones we had when I was growing up. Over the years, God has taught me to love the traditions we have. I tease that "Santa can't find our house," but in reality I've come to take a kind of joy in that. And I know that I'm blessed to have Shan's family. We are not a perfect family, by any means. We all have warts and flaws and foibles. We disagree, and feelings are sometimes hurt. Yet in spite of it all, everyone looks forward to our Christmas time together. It is the highlight of our year. I thank God for that. I pray it will continue. And when Shan and I are the grandparents, I pray our kids and grandkids always want to be with us at Christmas.
May all your Christmases be equally loving and joyous.
It was really a lovely day, with mild temperatures, blue skies, and—rare for West Texas—light winds. We had a list of dry lakes, milo fields, and brushy areas to visit, and set out in mid-morning to hunt the first one.
We saw no birds there, although both Rachel and Brian saw rabbits. (We're still waiting for Rachel to get her first bird, or her first cottontail.) It was incredibly dusty and dry. Not much rain this year. At the next place, it was the same story. And the next. In fact, we saw no roosters that day, only a couple of hens (not legal to shoot), and a couple of rabbits. That was it. Yet in spite of our lack of game, it was a wonderful day. Rachel, after tromping through brush that came up past her elbows, enduring scratches from sticker burrs, yelled out, "This is so much fun!" And we all agreed.
What did it? What made it such a great day? Partly it was just being outdoors, walking in a land where you can see for miles, and knowing that all of this great sweep of earth and sky is just a small piece of God's good earth. Partly it was the anticipation that at any moment a rooster might flush cackling into the sky, or a rabbit might dash out of the brush at your feet. Hunting gives you a heightened awareness that brings everything into focus in a way that nothing else does.
But mostly it was just being together, enjoying each other's company, talking, laughing, loving.
I am blessed by my children. They are all bright, articulate, funny, and healthy. They poke fun at each other constantly (sometimes a little too constantly), and enjoy the verbal thrust and parry of conversation. They are so different, yet so alike. And, oh, how I love to spend time with them.
When they were younger, we made short hunting forays, and we always enjoyed the time. Each of them was a bird dog before becoming a hunter. Yet they tired more easily of the hunting than I did, and I spent a lot of time hunting on my own with just Paco, my Chesapeake Bay Retriever. Paco is long gone now, and we all miss him. I loved hunting with him. I cannot remember a single bird he failed to bring back, if I did my job and brought it down. There is a special joy in bird hunting with a good dog, and Paco was one of the best. But I wouldn't trade one moment of our hunt this Christmas Eve for all the time I spent with Paco, much as I loved him. I often wish I had spent less time hunting with Paco, and more time with my kids when they were small. But such wishes are pointless. We possess the time we have now, and that time is precious.
I love our Christmases. They are always spent with my wife Shan's family, which has become my family over the years. Usually we have lots of cousins, uncles, and aunts around on at least one day. Those days are okay, and I know they are precious to Shan, who grew up with all those cousins and such. But the best times for me are when we are with just the immediate family. The kids are always eager to open their presents, of course, but over the years they have become even more eager to give presents to others. And there is all the other time we spend together; playing ping pong, watching movies and ball games, looking at old pictures, and our family specialty: our cut-throat card games. We play a game called Liverpool Rummy, and in the midst of the hard competition, we laugh almost constantly.
In times past I used to resent that Christmas didn't go the way I wanted. Shan and I sometimes argued over the amount of gifts we gave to the kids. They are the only grandkids, and Christmas was a big deal for their grandparents. I sometimes resented the fact that Christmas was never at our house (barring one year), and that we didn't establish our own traditions like the ones we had when I was growing up. Over the years, God has taught me to love the traditions we have. I tease that "Santa can't find our house," but in reality I've come to take a kind of joy in that. And I know that I'm blessed to have Shan's family. We are not a perfect family, by any means. We all have warts and flaws and foibles. We disagree, and feelings are sometimes hurt. Yet in spite of it all, everyone looks forward to our Christmas time together. It is the highlight of our year. I thank God for that. I pray it will continue. And when Shan and I are the grandparents, I pray our kids and grandkids always want to be with us at Christmas.
May all your Christmases be equally loving and joyous.
Welcome
Welcome to Dust Covered. The title comes from a rabbinical concept. A disciple of a rabbi, called a talmid is said to be "covered in the dust of the rabbi's feet." My rabbi is Jesus of Nazareth. It is my goal to be covered in his dust.
This blog will be about my spiritual walk, my family, my work in men's ministry, and occasionally about whatever else I want to write.
This blog will be about my spiritual walk, my family, my work in men's ministry, and occasionally about whatever else I want to write.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
