Walk with Dogs: The Story of a Dog

He was a Christmas puppy, kept secret at a sister’s house until Santa could place him under their tree.

They lived in a house that The Counting Mutant grew up in. The Mutant’s Father had two boys. His Mother had two boys. They got married and had him. All told, five boys. This family of boys moved into a newish house of three bedrooms. It did not take long before the Father decided to make the house fit his family. Plans drawn, boys helped and grew up in that house. At the neighborhood swimming pool, life long friendships were forged. Four older brothers grew up and left the nest.

That left a Dad, a Mom and a boy.

Not needing a house to fit five boys, the parents decided to move into a house that fit their family. The house was sold to another family.

That family grew up in that molded house. Those Parents moved and one Son stayed to fill it with his own family. This man’s wife was my sister’s friend.

That Christmas puppy was a Dachshund. Not a toy, or a mini, but a Standard sized Dachshund. His natural instincts were strong. Bred to hunt badgers in their den, the breed is tenacious, intelligent, sensitive and funny.

This puppy lived in a house a Father built. That The Counting Mutant spent his childhood in.

All of his natural behaviors-living in a house in a family filled with toddlers-became too much to handle. The family asked my sister if she would like him. She said yes. This Dachshund puppy, now a year old dog, joined two Australian Shepherds. This adventurous pack of three romped, went on long walks. The Shepherds would return to the call of their master like good herding dogs. The Dachshund focused on the hunt and not hearing his master’s call, would track his prey until found, then wait. The Dachshund would jump on beds and snuggle little ones, guarding their dreams.

And in another house filled with toddlers, the Dachshund didn’t fit. He didn’t take correction well. Was hard to control on long walks and struggled with house training. It was time for him to find a new home.

We had just said goodbye to a Labrador we fostered for a few years while another sister was in the armed forces. Our quiet house missed a snuggle buddy. We happily accepted this quirky Dachshund and called him Roscoe.

This Dachshund who spent puppy years in a house The Counting Mutant grew up in. They were soul mates.

Built like a mini Schwarzenegger, Roscoe would bounce up and down the stairs. Leap the recliner in a single bound. Happily snuggle with a book reader. He loved to sing “Happy Birthday.” The daily mile or two walk was the highpoint of his day. Older kids in our house made the house training issues a simple fix.

 All of this jumping had a price. Dachshunds are prone to back problems because they are structured as a regularly sized dog on itty bitty legs. Chiropractic added two years to his life. At age 11 it was a hernia that pushed him over the edge.

Head sagging, and asking to go home, Roscoe’s walk became his chore instead of a joy. Sleeping more and playing less became his routine. Last night for a final Happy Birthday chorus we learned he couldn't even do that. On the first note, his song became howls of pain and we all knew: it was time to say goodbye. Keeping him would be selfish.

This morning we said goodbye to our friend. The Counting Mutant said goodbye to a common history and memory. We are relieved he is at peace and bouncing somewhere in wild, open fields. Hunting to his heart’s content and pleasing his Master.

Mommy Nugget: Flying the Coop

Kids.

Are they a gift?

Some call them a curse. A Mother’s saying is, “I hope you have a child just like yourself.”

Men are told they have daughters if they were unkind to girls in their teens-Karma.

Each time I held my new born child and felt the wonder of the moment I was aware of the weight. The power to influence this little person to change the world, or destroy it. Every word, action or intent will leave a fingerprint on their soul.

Filled with terror, I would get away within the first few weeks to cry out for help from the Divine. God knew this child. Within the secret place of my womb Divine Love knit together DNA, cells, synapses, muscles and skin. He knew the number of their days.

And… I was responsible. Would I give them roots and wings or a millstone around their neck? At the end of my days, standing at that beautiful throne, I would need to give an accounting of what I said or did.

God and I came to an understanding: I was a steward.

These little people were only moving through my life. I did not own them. Their visit would only last 18 years at least. After that, the relationship would become more of a mentoring than authoritative. I needed to remember that. God had a plan and a path for them. It probably would not agree with my visions of grandeur. God deposited talents and a calling into their heart. I realized that my job was to teach them how to hear that Still Small Voice and follow it.

The truth is, my voice will only carry them so far. Once they are out of earshot, the will be listening to something: a teacher, peers, their own grand schemes…

The terror assuaged, I focused on the end game. I was not raising children. I was raising adults. Personal responsibility, compassion and respect would motivate all of the rules and disciplines that were carried out.

When tattling occurred, we held court. The accuser and accused each had an opportunity to state their case. Then both would examine their part and judgment levied.

Personal property was held with the utmost respect. Sharing was not demanded from the authority, it was given. If BoyA broke BoyZ’s toy then it was replaced by BoyA with his own money or effort to earn the money.

Friendship and equality were heavily enforced. BoyA, BoyZ and GirlyK were best friends. That friendship came first, above everyone else, because someday The Mutant and I would be gone and they would need each other.

 

Today as I consider BoyA-a high school graduate and beginning his next move- and BoyZ-a high school senior-I feel peace. I am not sad because I like who they are. I have few regrets because I savored every moment I had with them.

They were God’s greatest gift of tangible redemption to me.

Snowmiser, Heatmiser and Scrooge

This was originally posted on December 23, 2010

Photo taken by paulabflat

Christmas. It is not about the shopping. It is not about the gifts. It is not about the decorations. I understand the meaning logically and traditionally: God became flesh in the form of Baby Jesus who grew up and died for my mistakes: the fulfillment of Biblical prophecies.  For many, Christmas does not have spiritual significance. It is simply a time of giving, participating in charities or changing the house decorations.  

My early childhood was spent with my Dad in the Air Force.  These Christmases were celebrated in the land of Snowmiser.  

Photo taken by jzlomek

New Mexico; a sprinkling of snow frosted the lawns and the sidewalks were lined with Luminarias.  The simplicity of a brown lunch bag weighted with sand and security for the lit candle placed inside was breathtaking.  My Mom told me it was to remind us of the path Mary and Joseph took to find a place to stay in Bethlehem.   

My Dad was transferred to Utah. We lived near Grandparents. Snow billowed everywhere. Snow people set up residences in their front and back yards where they would live undisturbed until spring.  These Grandparents were affectionate, and honest.  Their home was filled with light, laughter and magic. They were not perfect, but a deep feeling of love flavored the air.  Santa magically brought presents and no matter where we were, he somehow knew where I was. I was never lost to him.  It was my first glimpse of how God saw me.  Santa was the image of a loving heavenly being that somehow knew everything about me and everywhere I was.  He was the image of God was made concrete.

When we transitioned into civilian life and moved to California, the land of Heatmiser.  

The California winters I grew up with were gloomy grey skies that last for days. The air was colder than any Utah blizzard I would walk to school in. That chill settled deep into my bones and wouldn’t go away until the first unforgiving blast of summer sun. 

Photo taken by coopah

These California grandparents were the cranky kind. Their house had no natural light. They spoke to me only when necessary. Christmases in their house matched Mad Hatter’s tea parties. The cherry on top was my parents’ crisis of conscience. They didn't want to lie to us anymore.

There was no Santa.

I had already kind of figured it out at my sage age of 9. None the less, the magic of Christmas was lost for a while. I wondered if God had forgotten me. I knew he was real, but did he care for me? 

Then…My Dad was out of work. My parents sat us down and prepared us for the worst. There would probably be no presents under the tree. 

Christmas morning dawned. I resolved myself to be thankful for anything. The four of us walked the hallway to the Christmas tree. Then the unimaginable…

Photo taken by phaewilk

PRESENTS UNDER THE TREE!!

That morning Santa was real. He gave me a Mandy doll. She was beautiful, perfect and completely unexpected. He was not a jolly, white bearded fat man. He was God. Written on my heart in a tangible way was a reality of the Divine. He cared for me enough to give me something.  I every time I looked at that doll I was reminded that miracles still happen. I knew God was real and from that moment on, I clung to him. He loved me. He saw me wherever I was. He extended to me grace and forgiveness. He was my true Santa. 

Years later, I faced a lean Christmas with my children. We curled up to watch “A Christmas Carol.”  I realized my attitude about Christmas was similar to Scrooge’s.

I had forgotten the miracle. 

I watched Scrooge on his knees begging for another Christmas from the Ghost of Christmas Future and I saw myself. His promises to give the gift of friendship, help where he could, grace and blessings to his fellow man became my own. His promised to keep the Spirit of Christmas all year round did not come natural for him. It would be a deliberate action; fueled by memories of joy from Fezziwig’s counting house; he left behind the sorrows of being left alone at school.

Photo taken by anon

I discovered a box deep within myself filled with sorrows of Christmas past. Like Scrooge, I decided to put away the sorrows and hold tight to Christmas’ spirit of giving. It isn’t the Christmas Pasts that defines Christmas. It is the Christmas Present. These gifts should not be limited to a day, but are to be present in each moment of my life.